Don't Put the Dim Sum Cart Before the Year of the Horse

An acquiescence to a good cup of tea had my dear brother and I exhausting every joint we had ever cased in Waterloo, having spent small fortunes on the cherriest of teas we ever had the pleasure of letting our good lips touch. Rarely do we ever see reason to leave our homes anymore, and today was no particular exception. But worn and eventually kind of hungry, I lobbied for a spot that caught my eye about a month ago, and if you dear readers know me, the things in the back of my mind always seem to get precedence. And if tea was a gratuity, we’d no reason to say no, and every reason to absolve any guilt for spending. But to be honest, today, between us two prodigal eaters, we barely spent a dime. Which is why I may like Empire Restaurant just a tiny bit more. That, and it has a really commanding, legendary, Kung Fu kind of name, to me anyway. Of course, it is Chinese, and of course, it’s located in that little oasis of Chinese food, Waterloo’s powerful little university plaza. Why restaurants haven’t uncut each other in price, I’ll never know. Then again, I’m not an economist, but by this point in history, Chinese food seems a farce in Waterloo. It’s mainland, it’s everywhere.

The draw to Empire was simple curiosity, and its surprise was a humble dim sum menu with arbitrary rising prices based on the alleged size of the foodstuffs. But hey, who cares, right? It has as healthy a menu as any other place, fried rice with shrimp and lunch meat, noodles, chow mein, ribs, steamed buns, egg tarts (pricier than I like), and on and on and on. I’m so complacent at this point, I’ve little concern if places like these ever last, because others will just take their place. 

The food isn’t bad, no; but it offers nothing different from anywhere else, really. It did have a residually decorated space, bare and neglected, which I always note as a good sincere sign of Chinese restaurant tourism. I can’t respect anyone that tries too hard when it comes to atmosphere, I’m only there to eat after all. Tables and chairs are all I ever need. 

We made for a small choosing, some coconut red bean pudding, sticky rice in lotus leaf, and some steamed pork buns, accompanied by a piping hot kettle of satisfying and complementary tea. So hot it heated our cups through. So hot we were playing a game to see who could hold onto his cheap porcelain longer.

Our pudding was simple, savoury, and sweet. Jellied coconut milk covered hardy sweetly boiled red beans, an otherwise satisfying choice, especially on a hot day- or so I imagine. Our steamed sticky rice wasn’t particularly dazzling. In fact, the pork stuffed centres' savouriness were a little off-putting for me, which I couldn’t for the life of me understand; and random hard-boiled egg yolk really did nothing for the rice texturally, except had my dear brother wondering what the hell the yellow stuff was. Alas. Still, we had to love that aromatic, nutty, lotus leaf wrapped rice. 

Lastly, our humble pork buns were a strange little sop of grub with no complexity, just two bizarre clashing flavours: barbecue pork with sweet bun, and a hint of what I thought was reminiscent of cinnamon. But we weren’t holding fine dining against the Empire, we were too busy oohing and aahing at wooden buckets rimmed with gold plastic rings and bowled with other curious stir-fry dishes. If I had any mind, I would have asked the locals what they were eating, but something told me my Whiteness would have scared them.

Yup, we had a little bit of everything: mystery, dim sum, tea. Today, we were easy to please, especially since we didn’t come expecting to put the cart before the horse.

ANY PAYMENT

Tweet

Dragon Meat in Heaven

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tue: Closed

Fri-Sun: 12pm-10pm

ANY PAYMENT

Tweet

Poor Ol' Fuji-San

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

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

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

ANY PAYMENT

Tweet

The White Whale

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

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

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



N2J 2W7

519-208-8989

Hours: For now, whenever it feels like it.

Any Payment

Tweet

In This Corner . . .

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

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

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

LUCHADOR GOURMET STREATERY
Twitter: @kwLUCHADOR

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

Ramen?

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

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

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

Watami Sushi & Sake Bar

15 King St N  

Waterloo, ON

N2J 2W6 (519) 747-1100

Sundays 1pm until the ramen runs out

Tweet

Reliable

I’d spent the later part of a sick day turning over in my mind what I could do to get over the poorer judgments of overdrinking on St. Patrick’s day, and all I could think about was not going into any pub at all. Avoiding every kind of solid food, supping on nothing but a single bowl of soup broth, graval, and bay leaf tea. But deadlines are deadlines, and even if mine isn’t an iron stomach, I still had to go out there and eat. 

I did whatever I could to meet a happy compromise; go on internet forums, ask around for places that wouldn’t have me gagging, wondering what, if anything, I could put in my spent stomach, until Joey offered me the evident answer: soup. It was a fantastic idea. The problem was, or so the internet food community told me, that no place anywhere offered soup as a meal all its own, unless of course you considered pho. I did. But from that, an even further, foreign convention: Chinese soup. I really didn’t entertain it any further than that, however. In fact, I had Joey and I driving around and scoping out as many places as we could before I surrendered to the thought of eating at a place that lay underground, without a sign, and built on a foundation of having you boil your own food in soup broth. Yes, I was so hard pressed to find a place that I disdainfully decided to go to a place I had been avoiding for months. A place I would have avoided for a lifetime if not for my bad judgment that led me to looking for the hair of the dog. A place I know is the reincarnation of a place I chewed out years ago. But, as Joey optimistically said, ‘maybe it’d be better this time.’

Mushu All-You-Can-Eat Hot Pot had me at a moral impasse. I’d known what it had been, and had a good idea of what it still was. Its filled dining hall meant nothing to me the nights I passed by, but the residuals of a hangover and the urge for something soupy had me ready and willing to entertain its hidden bearings, or the ragtag crew of youngsters trying to run a hotpot restaurant without a sign.
I had no qualms with the plastic leaves wrapped around exposed pipes for decoration, the Mediterranean floor tiling, the cold temperature of the room. I was surprised by the prohibition of tea. Anything remotely close to being offered was hot water. But no tea. I couldn’t even buy it. Was Musha a cash grab? A cost cutter? Either way, I would have to come to terms with the experience of feeling like a Mongol in the dessert. But hey, what was lacked in hospitality was made up for in hot pot. I suppose.

It was an interesting menu. You could pay for complicated broths, or choose from the ones they offer for free. Pay for a little all-you-can-eat, or a lot, depending on the ingredients- anyway, I’ve never any scruples about denying myself seafood, especially if it saves me five dollars. And if you really read the menu close enough, you can get some interesting additions for free. The print’s small, but they’re there. There was even a sauce cart, so you could make your own little dipping concoction; and if you didn’t have any ideas, there was a courteous plaque on the wall giving you recipe suggestions. It was actually pretty intriguing.

A spicy Szechuan and savoury pork broth were our two options, with a whole slew of options ready to be lurched: taro, yam, cabbage, curd, chicken, beef, noodles, sausage, and fungus- our favourite.

Hot pot, it seems, no matter where you get it, is never a true misadventure, especially when you essentially cook for yourself, and pay people to shop for you. That said, there are things you’d probably never know to get yourself. Or, if you’re really raw, know where to get. We were dazzled by a sweet nameless sausage, boiled in our spicy Szechuan sauce, immortalizing the convention of Chinese cuisine’s sweet, salty, savoury, spicy philosophy. And when those bits of chili and barley coated the inside of curled sheets of tofu curd- let me tell you- I was glad my lack of discretion and jaded attitude had me settling on Musha after all.

Musha (Xu Yuan Xuan) All-You-Can-Eat-Hot Pot
Unit 5 2 king street north
Waterloo, ON,
n2j 2w7

(519) 722-3612

Mon-Sun 1030am-1130pm
 
Any payment

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

Weezee Cooks: Tamarind Fried Chicken

Some years back on a late, cold January night, after I told the louts I worked with to go home, and re-cleaned a supposedly clean kitchen, my old Thai employers approached me in the wee hours of the morning: ‘Weezee,’ they said, ‘Our friends are coming here tonite- could you cook for us?’ It being 1 am, and me loving my job more than anything, I gave a jubilant, ‘Yes.’ Uncle told me what they wanted, and also told me to fry some chicken wings. Easy enough. Still, in my early years of cooking, I did a whole lot of doubting. I had no idea how to make good deep fried chicken wings, besides throw them in the fryer. That was more or less it. Uncle, on the other hand, showed me how he liked them. How he wanted the batter, and how he wanted them fried. Ever since, I’ve tenderly made them the same, unorthodox way. It was a good night. Late, but happy- and some Thai doctor, no matter how many times I said no, stuffed a 50 in my pocket for doing such a good job.

Some odd seven months ago, I went out to eat with my mother at a familiar Thai-Vietnamese restaurant and ordered tamarind chicken wings. A combination I had never, up until that late moment in culinary life, heard off. They were good: sweet, tangy, tart. I liked them a lot. So much so, I bet my mom I could make the same thing, maybe even better. And, as is my mother’s job to prevent her son’s ego from getting too big, she called my bluff. After that, we more or less forgot about the whole thing. That was, at least until last night, when I was bumming around one of three fridges and found a pack of chicken wings frozen and ready to ruin. But I say ruin with total temerity. Consider it a cool kind of valley speak, ‘ruin’ meaning: elevating to a level of pure radical. The trillest tamarind chicken wings in all the land. Here for me, and here for all of you. The ingredients are easy, the process a tad time consuming if you aren’t privileged enough to own a wok stove. But if you have the patience, you can, like my real uncle says, cook no problem.

Serves 3 (or 1 hungry bro)

Ingredients
12 chicken wings (y’know? The ones you get in club packs? They’re like 2 inches long)
¼ cup tamarind concentrate
¼ honey
1 clove of garlic (minced)
1 tablespoon of fish sauce
½ cup flour
1 teaspoon of pepper
1 teaspoon of chicken stock powder (I know, right?)

Enough vegetable oil and a wok to deep fry the suckers.

Lime and spring onion to garnish.

Directions

Generally, I like to fill a wok with oil and keep it on low heat so I won’t have to wait as long later to make it hot enough to fry in; when I’m closer to cooking, I change the temperature to medium high heat. Anyway, I reckon if I’m doing stuff in the meantime, I may as well be productive. Chicken wing woking takes a lot of timing and speed, after all. Also, I like to let my chicken wings sit out and reach room temperature. This ensures even cooking when fried.

Mix the dry ingredients together. Take your wings and throw them in. If they’re a little wet, even better. What makes uncle’s batter so phenomenal is that it’s tacky, doughy, and gummy. No dusting wings in flour here. That said, take your chicken wings, and mix them as much as you can in the flour. Be tough, try and get the flour wet from the wings. If the wings are covered and not sticky, but dusted, you’re missing the mark. That said, you can just dust them too. You’ll just have a lighter batter. But a good, tacky batter- not a wet one used for fixings like tempura or onion wings- enables the sauce to stick to the wings even more effectively.

After a thorough mashing, put the wings aside.

In a bowl, mix the garlic, honey, tamarind concentrate, and fish sauce. Easy peasy. Set it aside.

Check the wok’s temperature (or whatever pot you care to deep fry in- just so long as the wings are completely submerged). If you have a candy thermometer, even better. If not, just drop a piece of gummy batter in and see if it floats to the surface. If it does, you’re ready. But before that, make sure you have somewhere to set the cooked wings. I like paper towel over a wire rack. Next, gently place the wings in the oil. Don’t crowd whatever pot for the sake of not cooling the oil too much. Fry 'em. 


Wings will usually sink to the bottom and anchor up. When they’re closer to being finished, they’ll puff up and float a little. To be on the safe side, let them fry another 30 seconds after that, making sure they reach a deep golden brown. Use a spider or slotted spoon to move them around and fish them out of the hot oil. Place them on the paper towel and cook the rest.

Unless you have a second wok, this next part can be tricky. When all the wings are done cooking, drain the wok of all oil into a pot- I don’t care where you get it- but move fast. Wash the wok, and thoroughly dry it. Unfortunately, none of us have the luxury of a wok stove with a hose overhead, and a wirey brush we can use to quickly rinse it with (those were my salad days).

When it’s clean, put it back on the heat and heat it to the highest setting. Conventional stoves don’t even begin to match the heat of the wok, so you never have to worry about burning a thing. What you do have to worry about is losing all that heat quickly; that’s why it’s important to stir-fry quickly and have everything at hand. If you don’t have a wok, you can just as easily use a pan.

To test the wok’s sizzle, drop a bit of the sauce in the pan. If it sizzles furiously and you’re afraid it’s too hot and will burn and evaporate and become gummy fast, you’re ready. Drop all the sauce in, immediately after that, all the chicken wings. Coat whatever way you can. Toss the wok, flip with a slotted spoon, just coat those things and let them caramelize. If you can char them, congratulations: you have one hot wok. This step takes you no more than a minute. If you want a wet sauce, use less wok time. If a dryer sauce, more.

Plate, garnish with a lime wedge and slivered green onions, and enjoy. Sweet, salty, tart. Fantastic. Who needs any Ben Thanh?  

Love,

Weezee

Tweet

Coming Home

You’d think that the bowl of congee would otherwise be my White Whale. Well, guess again, that’s the Chinese bakery, but that’s another culinary critter altogether. It was the kid from Hong Kong though, and his ‘earth-to’ over a bowl of congee that made me really fall in love with everything Chinese food. Go further back, and it was that same Hong Kong kid and a chalky cup of Hong Kong tea that woke me up to a whole other world of culinary sentience. Ever since, I’ve been obsessed with a cuisine I’ve no doubt mastered in another life, and have been trying to return to in this one.

Happy Valley’s Congee & Bar’s lights were a marvel when I first saw them glowing and abandoned months ago in that poor plaza that burned down in 2010. Since its opening a month or two ago, I’ve wondered why it hasn’t been crammed with homesick out of town kids looking for a little simulacrum of the eating houses they miss in Hong Kong, Richmond Hill, Markham, wherever. It certainly was an egg in my beer, reminding me of all the pilgrimages I’ve taken to the culinary suburbs of Canada’s Rose Capital just for some sludgy tea and deep fried devils. It was almost too good to be true. Too good in fact, that the cynic in me was disqualifying it before even eating there; not getting my hopes up, thinking that what it had was already here, thinking it couldn’t last too long, despite its namesake in Hong Kong. I’ve watched enough police dramas and rom-coms to know better anyway. Still, something in my heart of hearts nagged me to pay homage to that emulsified porridge of fat and white rice that inspired my gastronomic vocation, if not career. So I’m paying my dues to the dish, and the dining hall of clinical Chinese cosmopolitanism that houses it. I’m talking wooden booths, flood lights, television screens, hearths, sleek browns and blacks coupled with plastic cookware and the homeliest Cantonese food I’ve come to know and love in my limited adventures of eating.

Happy Valley’s a remarkable place; of course, its menu’s a pastiche of Chinese soul food, and dim sum, but it also operates as a substitute to the banal bars and the typical fare we expect to eat when we go to them. Happy Valley’s a fantastic change of pace for these parts. If I’m not giddy about the boldly inexpensive alcohol, I certainly am about the even cheaper snacks you can grab if you’re adventurous enough. Have you ever paired a Hong Kong Tea with a pint of beer? You can there. I know, because I did it. I’ll never need any whiskey espresso bar again; why would I when I can get a pint of crisp beer with oaty finish for 2.66 and a one dollar cup of the most on-the-mark Hong Kong tea I’ve ever had in town: malty in aroma, bitter and sweet in flavor, chalky and mouth coating in consistency. I saw my future as a retired expat reading the Hong Kong Economic Times: flip-flops, relaxed flower print shirt, comb-over. All this while taking turns between fanning myself, turning pages, and having a sip.

And that was just the start. Deep fried devils, chicken feet, sticky rice wrapped in lotus leaf, dumplings, barbecued pork steamed buns, condensed milk sandwiched between slices of toast, all on the cheap. It was a dream come true. So much so, I stayed after everyone left. If it really was a dream, I didn’t want to wake up. Our deep fried dough gleamed in the light, flakey, and chewy, the consistency was a treat all its own, better when dipped in my congee, bathing over every kind of ingredient: century eggs, meat, seafood, decked to the nines with white pepper and chili paste. The chicken feet, sweet and swimming in a garlic black bean sauce with a delightful caramel undernote- a fatty textural pleasure, especially when paired with beer. And the sticky rice, as expected, was embalmed by the vegetative earthiness of the leaves wrapped around it, aromatically reminiscent of tea. All the trinkets of meat and nuts made it that much more satisfying.  

The dumplings- named after Chiuchow city- were another chewy Epicureanism. Packaged with stuffings like pork, spring onions, and peanuts, the pungent overpowering aroma was a memory of my serendipitous culinary youth. The barbecued pork steamed buns too. All too familiar, the sweet, smoky savouriness was good to eat when the things were hot or cold. Happy Valley certainly had it all- for me at least: familiarity, food, congee. It was, like that kid from Hong Kong said years ago about a good bowl of congee, like coming home.

HAPPY VALLEY CONGEE & BAR
140 University Avenue W
Waterloo, ON N2L
(226) 647-8818
 
SUN-WED 1130 am-12am
THURS-SAT 1130am-130am
 
ANY PAYMENT

Tweet

The Fallout

Joey and I were looking for something a little novel and dangerous. It had been a while since our last hankering for anything South East Asian, and Mango King’s washed out, faded, regal sign and frosted windows seemed just divey enough to satiate all our unprincipled peptic passions. There we were, imagining our good time: dilapidated tables, peeling paint, stained ceilings, steam rising from the kitchen, clucking voices floating to our ears. Boy were we wrong. An unfortunately clean, conventional dining hall greeted us. Contrived decoration embellished the room with pastoral landscape paintings, sleek tables and chairs, lumbered trims, faux rock splash backs, a bar with an array of alcohol, a chandelier, and clashing multi-coloured buttercup light fixtures. The only danger may have been the commonplace spread that made it so inviting to so many gregarious eaters. Not Joey and I, though. We were looking for lunch on the cheap, and boy did we find it, with lunch specials that were even cheaper. That may be Mango King’s only selling point, because beyond its more than affordable pricings lay a menu burdened with a miscellany of Vietnamese, Thai, and Chinese cuisine. There was nothing really spectacular about any of it, except for maybe the crab meat fish maw soup, which is a fancy word for fish lungs (or bladder depending on how you look at it). But I’m saying this all too hermeneutically, with a little too much perspective. I’ll slow down. 

Lunch specials are always a good thing, because you’re usually spoiled with a huge portion and a little something else. Mango King is no exception. Mine was the beef pad thai with tom yum soup and spring roll. Having spent a good deal of my youth working in the Thai restaurant, I’ve come to expect a little sternness with shelling out a decent lunch combination, so I expected some finesse; and while my order was a visually appealing spread of nuclear orange noodles on an enormously satired white plate- perfect for the haute cuisine world, I couldn’t help but be grossly disappointed with my food.

The tom yum, a spiritless bowl of sweet, sour, salty soup any kid could make at home, stocked with four boring button mushrooms, half a cherry tomato and the stalks- not the leaves- of cilantro had me a little heartbroken, but half expecting it.

The spring roll, though nicely coloured with a crispy exterior, was a muck of gluey insides that I thought could have used a little more time in the fryer. And the dipping sauce, a mere syrup with vinegar, could have had a little more punch.

But the pad thai, the star of the dish, was the biggest disappointment. An unappealing glowing orange mound of piled noodles with unhelpful smatterings of peanuts and cilantro leaves contributed to the dish’s very bland flavour. What little taste that did exist slowly disappeared the more I ate, and the incensed aroma that plumed off of it reminded me of the mysterious smoky character we associate with all that Chinese-Canadian food. Still, all it did was turn me off. Any vibrant, bright taste elements I usually associated with Thai Viet cuisine weren’t there. Unfortunately, a place that now defines itself as Thai Viet Chinese cuisine can’t differentiate from the multitude of dishes it offers, which is a shame, because everything seemed to have tasted the same. 

I ordered an appetizer of chicken wings afterwards for the sake of experiment. They were nothing more than another commonplace dish of deep fried chicken wings with an obligatory serving of overly sweet chili sauce. Nothing magical, nothing new, stuff all too familiar. So much for novelty. So much for danger. 

Mango King 
2480 Homer Watson Blvd 
Kitchener, ON 
N2P 2R5 

(519) 896-8188 

MON-THU 11:00am - 10:00pm 
FRI-SAT 11:00am - 11:00pm 
SUN 11:00am - 10:00pm 

ANY PAYMENT 

Tweet

Touch the Lion

I’d be remiss if during my days of culinary ethnography I didn’t at least once wax nostalgic about a place so dear to me if only because it was dear, at one point in time, to my dear Old Master. Yes, its eaters made it famous; there was a time when even Bolo Yeung himself would occupy its dining room with none-other than the Iron Fist. And there are still times when my dear brother and I visit, romancing the newspaper clippings proudly mounted on its lobby’s walls, honouring our Old Master, connecting us with him if only in the span of a lunch hour, and lamenting the fact that though we once did thousands of kicks under the moonlight as children, we don’t anymore. Life, huh? But no matter what it’s like, at least there’s food. 

Lai Lai Chinese Restaurant’s reputation obviously precedes it. And beyond its retrofitted, home exterior, beyond the stone lions guarding its doors, there’s good reason. To me, it lives as an extensive historical bricolage of the Chinese food offered in Kitchener-Waterloo for so long. Absorbed in a space of fish tanks, pastel pink walls, hanging dragons, a Buddhist library, and the passionate colours of Red China, there’s a dining room abuzz with familiar customers, some never tiring of typical Chinese Canadian fare, others always happy to have the most estranged eats. 

Lai Lai certainly has one of the most extensive menus I’ve seen too, and though I’m often jawing about how these dynamics can work against a place, Lai Lai’s has refused to pay it any mind for a long, long time. There are lunch specials, dinner menus, options that can take, so I’ve been told, up to half a day to prepare for the customer who so desires. Intense stuff.

To this day, we’re not yet that adventurous, but nothing stops us from a good communal ordering of the most sentimental food. Me, hoarding the most inexpensive bowl of braised beef noodle soup all to myself, and my company waiting on dumplings, fried eggplant in special sauce, and curried beef, ready, despite my own self-indulgence, to share every bit with me.

My soup was a joyful return to the warm spicey aromas I had spent years trying to cook all by my lonesome. Anise suffused in a sweet and savoury broth drowned soft noodles that entangled chewy cubes of stewed beef and crisp bok choy. Our fried eggplant carried the sweet and savoury motif with a little saltiness. Caramelized eggplant gave way in our mouths, crispiness juxtaposing the smooth pulp of the eggplant’s soft flesh. Our curried beef was a simple, familiar flavour of sambar powder stir-fried alongside crisp green bell peppers and onions. Lastly, our boiled dumplings were a chewy treat of roped wonton’s stewed in a savoury broth, exploding with pork and ginger, and accompanied by a vinegared dipping sauce of sesame oil and chili peppers.
But what we were and always are most excited about is Lai Lai’s special gelatin desserts; complimentary thimbles of gelatin flavoured with whatever the house could come up with: coconut, taro, red bean, the list goes on. They were as good as we remembered them, and Lai Lai’s still the paradise it always was in our minds.

Lai Lai's Chinese Restaurant
175 West Avenue
Kitchener, ON
Canada N2G 1R9
Tel:  (519) 579-3031


Monday & Sunday   11:30 am -  9:00 pm
Tuesday -Saturday  11:30 am - 10:00 pm
Holiday                   4:00 pm -  9:00 pm

Any payment

Tweet

Something Wicked This Way Comes?

The same Sogo Cuisine I ate at all those months ago, or a mere facsimile, riding the coat-tails of Chinese name superstitions? I hope, for Sogo's sake it is. Because when things get big, they very well may get bad, especially when they're placed in the University of Waterloo's plaza.

Tweet

The Silk Road

I feel pretty comfortable with all of you, dear readers. That’s why I was turning over in my mind telling you a story of culinary heartache. How a rich second generation Chinese girl from Beijing first introduced me to the food of mainland China, out-ate me, stole my heart, and how that kid from Hong Kong, in reckless panache-y Cyrano fashion, attempted to woo her for me, and the food-hole it all happened in. How we tried, and we failed, and how some fish brought us closer together. Yes, it would have been a romantic backdrop for one of my most treasured places, but a new place caught my eye instead, and if there’s anything food has taught me, it’s that I’ve loved women, but I’ve loved food more, and no heart can ever serve two masters.

Trivialities of aside, if you happen to be one of the privileged fuerdai occupying Laurelwood’s suburbs- buying homes, studying, missing the red land, and yearning for food (I can only imagine) both familiar and done extremely right, then why not give Bogda Restaurant a try? Don’t let its salutation of ‘Central Asia & Japanese Food’ fool you, I did that already. To be brutally honest, its 5 dollar student special attracted me, but its unfocussed, all encompassing menu had me expecting the most mundane culinary delights, like sushi and fried rice, and whatever else existed across the pan-asian menu. Luckily, any prosaic pap was off the menu today, and my company and I were given the choice of 3 things on the menu. Over and over again. But before you prejudge my presumably blind adoration of yet another place you assume I romanticize, only to find out it’s alright after you visit it, let me ask you, is there any place in this entire city that makes hand-pulled noodles? This is obviously rhetorical. Bogda is the only place. And its fusion food fare, ripe with Mongolian, Uyghur, even Turkish influences. If authenticity is a real thing, and we are to kid ourselves that it is, then Bogda is as close as Asian cuisine comes around here. Even if two or three items on the menu (two or three affordably stupefying items) are the only things made as fresh and from scratch as possible.



My heart burst when a plate of pulled noodles was placed between me and my company. I’d spent years searching, summers reading anthropological studies, long nights attempting to make something even remotely close, and here it was finally in front of me. Each exponentially long strand was chewy, buoyant, and fresh, territorialized with knolls like little hands that grabbed every bit of sauce they were soaked in- a true characteristic of fresh made noodles which dry quickly, and are controlled only by the most practiced hands. We ate round ones, ones that were broad and flat; every kind of fresh noodle Bogda’s matriach could create, we ate with jubilation.

Our first dish, ban mian: flat noodles, a paradoxically round udon, was paired with cuts of greens, cabbage, dry roasted chili peppers, Szechuan peppercorns, beef, and a small spirit of ginger all in an acidic savoury sauce that I likened to stewed tomatoes. It made our tongues tingle, moored us with the nutty, spicy elements of the chilis that dominated the sauce’s astringency, and upheaved itself with the citron flavours of the peppercorns and ginger.


Our next astonishing, and large, plate was a lamb stew nested in broad, flat noodles. It was one surprise after the other. Garnished with, of all risky things, fresh leeks, it was a close cousin of our first dish, accompanied this time with generous bits of garlic, cumin, dried chillis, Szechuan pepper, potatoes, and a meaty broth that each noodle playfully dived back into after escaping our chopsticks. The pieces of lamb were so tender I found myself chewing even the bones. The leeks’ pungency cut through any richness, something I never experienced before.


And if those noodles weren’t enough, we were offered a courtesy plate of even more, this time slathered in a simple sauce with slices of carrot, chili flakes, and greens. And though we may have had more than enough to eat, we made it our duty to try the lamb kabobs. Fragrant pieces of lamb welded to the steel skewers they were cooked on. Their earthiness was complimented by the spiciness of the cumin and chili, pearled by the moisture that oozed from each bit of flesh. Fatty at times, and if pulling hairs, a little dry, but good nonetheless. But what do such mild faux pas matter? I finally found the fresh noodles I spent a better part of 5 years looking for. Yes, dear readers, the road to heaven has been a steep one, but it has finally led me to Bogda Restaurant.

BOGDA RESTAURANT
645 Laurelwood Drive
Waterloo, ON
N2V 2W9
 
519-725-0885

Mon-fri 12pm-9pm
Sat 12pm-8pm
Sun- 1pm-8pm

Any payment

Tweet

100TH POST!!! CAMERON SEAFOOD RESTAURANT!!!

Its reputation is legendary; its food for the most ambitious of palettes (and wallets). It’s had reinventions, came from humble beginnings, and now boasts a wait time of at least half an hour on a Sunday morning, having cornered the market on dim sum in Kitchener-Waterloo after years of, I can only assume, hard work and culinary dedication. It’s been showboated as ‘fine’ Chinese food, but that may be a title that’s too beguiling; an absurdity in the genre of Chinese cuisine as far as this gastronomer is concerned, especially in a place that builds its identity and success on a dining spirit of loud, happy eating. Yes, there are eons of calm respite associated with the teashops that birthed the later tradition of dim sum, and maybe some days you can pretend you’re on a journey to seek out a gold-branded staff or compliant rod or whatever and come to this place for some reprieve, but the huzzah of voices and cosmopolitan space will make you realize that Cameron Chinese Seafood Restaurant isn’t that place. It is undeniably better. So, if and when you’re feeling a little regal, or a poor student willing to give all of your pennies for the pleasure of food that touches that culinary point of your heart, seek out Cameron Chinese Seafood Restaurant. It may not wish to remind you of its humble past, especially for new visitors, but I happily will, because when I was young and discovering food, Cameron Seafood, which I’ve visited only once in the last five years, was a tottering little restaurant with white thin metal siding and an exterior like a plywood lodge with plastic plants, a large mounted fish on the wall, and throwaway table cloths. Of course, I’m not the only one to remember this. Cameron seafood has a sea of devote followers that know the ropes: what to get, when to ask for tea, and how to order from a slip that has no prices displayed, only dishes. A practice that takes many Sunday mornings to master, unless you have the courage to ask what each item costs, of course. Whether you choose to lose face or not is up to you. After a long dim sum hiatus, I certainly didn’t.

The space made my own penurious person feel undeserving, what with its rich brown walls of alternating wood and mirror paneling, white tableware, emblazoned chopsticks, glass tablecloths, and crystal chandeliers hanging above. That’s right, like some fancy phoenix rising out of the ashes. No old creaky floors here. Not anymore. Alas.

Though I could appreciate the candor of a dining room that mimicked the fancy ones of big cities, at times I felt it was a little much, and that no matter what, the food’s messy attitude reminded me that no one can tame dim sum. Tea will over-pour, dumplings will slip through plastic chopsticks, soup will slurp, sauces will spill. I saw it happen all around me, and I started to miss those throwaway table clothes. Posh was done out by my pangs for a more humble past. But, at least the food didn’t change, and if it did, it was for the better.

On average, four items off the dim sum menu will cost you a good twenty dollars, and there’s a spending limit of at least ten dollars per person. Thus, if you have a big appetite, bring a big wallet; otherwise, drink a shake or something before hand, and get ready for some of the best Cantonese in the city.

My company and I, two humble cooks, bombarded our table with Chinese broccoli, steamed buns, deep fried shrimp dumplings and sesame balls.


Obviously, I will do the courtesy of describing each dish, but in this case, my words do little justice. The food should certainly be tasted beyond the page. I say this with earnest, because for the food to have been so satisfying in such a busy place is spectacular. The broccoli, a plate of soothing greens steamed to a crisp and drizzled with an oyster sauce that was mildly sweet reminded me of the culinary panic of cooking vegetables to submissive edibles of formless mush. It was at Cameron where they were saved, albeit a little salty at times because of the sauce.

The deep fried shrimp dumplings came hot. Impatient, I absentmindedly burned the roof of my mouth biting into a crunchy wonton cloud that came on presumably burnt, only to subside as something nutty and roasted due to the sesame oil dressed pieces of buoyant, juicy shrimp. Accompanying the dish was a redolent dipping sauce that I likened to a sweet red wine vinegar.

To balance our salty and savoury spread we chose two sweet dishes. Guilty pleasures if anything. Our smooth and airy steamed buns were filled with a lucent caramel coloured lotus paste, thick and clabbered with a flavour that brings the simplest comparison to mind: it was like biting into some kind of curiously steamed peanut butter sandwich.

We were most impressed with our fried sesame balls. Coated with sesame and laden with egg curd, each ball was a rich combination of crispy exterior and chewy interior, with a honeyed sweetness that permeated throughout. These treats could have easily stood without the curd, because it was the gluttonous shell that made eating each ball so entertaining, each one playfully sticking to our teeth. You read about things like these, but you only fully understand them when you try them out for yourself.

If I have one ache, it may only be the fact that customers are charged for a pot of tea so bland and generic that they’d be better off asking for a pot of hot water, or ‘white tea,’ so called by the poor, rural equivocating neighbours of China’s north. Otherwise, Cameron Seafood may be a place too ambitious to review, the food is that good. Either that, or I’ve been intimidated by everyone beguiling me to review it.
Cameron Seafood Restaurant
19 Cameron St. S., Kitchener
519-576-3030
Open 7 Days a Week 11:00am – 10:30pm.

ANY PAYMENT

Tweet