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

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Please Wake the Captain

If by chance you find yourself environed by a wilderness of big box stores and country, your stomach sojourned in a sea devoid of worthwhile culinary delights, the captain of The Boat: Fish and Chips will be more than happy to throw you an onion ring the size of a lifesaver, saving not only your stomach, but maybe even your faith in good treasured food, even if it’s fare as feeble as fish and chips.
And there may be no bodies of water in sight, and The Boat might stick out more than the lighthouse beside it that advertises The Boat’s existence, but when you try the fare, you may be inspired to cast yourself out to sea, lest your stomach tow you that way.

Don’t worry, I’m not getting soft. Even your dear gastronomer was suspicious of the boat with sailor silhouette, wooden seagulls, and multiple open signs, stranded in the lot of an antique shop. But the novelty of the thing was enough to see if its food was true, especially on a bizarrely warm winter morning in February.

I made my way to the stern and noted the ordering window: shut, dark, and dim. The only thing to grab the attention of the figure manning the kitchen was a buzzer and a crude, but tenderly written, sign courteously asking customers to wake the captain when they were ready to order. I, on the other hand, was lucky enough to have been spotted eying the posted menu by the captain himself.
Aside from a roadhouse literally manifesting nautical kitsch, the menu did a good job of maintaining the same seaside theme, keeping in mind the typical canned drinks and odd menu option of a POGO. A branded corn-dog that some of us may be familiar with. That’s as much as the menu strays from its genre, I think. But that’s a small fault. Otherwise, it’s a Maritimer’s dream. Simple, straightforward, to the point. Enough meal options to satisfy any passerby, and so little that they all fit on the back of the place’s business card. That was more than enough for me. But if that isn’t waveless enough for you, the prices will be enough to make you drift happily out to sea. So affordable, it’s a wonder this boat stays afloat, but I’m definitely not complaining. The food is well worth it and the price makes it seem too good to be true. For a slash fund of 8 (tax included) dollars I was happily spoiled with fries that flooded out of a box, stuffed with a fillet of battered haddock, coleslaw, and the captain’s own humble dessert of the day: a sinful medallion of deep fried chocolate. And just in case that wasn’t enough to satisfy me, I did myself the service of ordering an equally large box of 5 dollar onion rings, displayed to me like a wedding proposal, but big enough to be worn like bracelets. A 13 dollar meal that could easily satisfy two seafaring people.

My batter had just enough salt, was light like a cloud with a crispy silver lining. It cracked and shattered as I chopped my fork into it, my lemon wedge’s juice rolled right off its golden concentration, and the haddock, though moist, still managed to have a smooth and feathery, yet toothy bite.

My deep, purple hued fries were rich and meaty. The bits of skin left on their edges gave them not only an earthy reserve, but a deep charred undertow. I would have liked them crispier, but when packed like they were in a box, it’s hard to avoid any sweats. Not to worry though, dear readers, the Captain had a solution for that. Charred right under the burner in the oven at 350 degrees- and I’ll be damned if it didn’t work. I’m still astounded by the cook’s trade secret.
My coleslaw was a mere affection. The artificial processed stuff we come across at so many other eateries (though I have to admit, a guilty pleasure). However, that said, there was too much right going on to really feel wronged.

My onions, fried in a batter of pepper and dill were nothing out of the ordinary, but certainly done appropriately: the crisp batter was balanced by the natural sweetness of the onions, which, I might add, didn’t pull apart like the chewy strings that make the fare so off-putting. The captain certainly runs a tight ship.
And my chocolate fritter? I’m at a loss for something that was so satisfying. A waffled texture and a thick chewy centre (not runny) with a nice cinnamon note that had me wondering how it was done, and how much more decadent it could be, as blue collar as it was. Love at first bite? I think so. That said, let The Boat’s Sirenic foods call you out. Don’t be fools and leave it stranded.

THE BOAT: FISH AND CHIPS
805 King Street North
Waterloo, ON
(NO NUMBER)

THURS-SUN 11AM- 7PM 

CASH ONLY

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The Food of Our Forefathers

We all hold on to summer in different ways. I can’t recite a sappy list, because I don’t really know what other people do to pay homage to the sappiest of seasons, and to be brutally honest, I’ve no ritual myself. I’ve been sojourned in this city my entire life, and at the end of every summer I find myself piously stuck to working whatever job I have without making plans to travel or camp or cottage. So this morning as I rose, late as usual, and partial to the idea of going out for Korean I thought to myself, how in the world could I honor the readers that give my meanderings through food land the once over, especially when they find themselves back in the cool, sweaty grip of fall, creeping a couple weeks away? What was cliché and summery? Sappy, yet aestival? (That also means summery.)

Hamburgers.

That was my answer. I pride myself on my own gastronomic sense- how I can write about food and make it culturally poignant, and not only an issue of mere eating for the sake of saving money and filling stomachs? If you find yourself starting school and saddened by that fact, yearning for the previous months you spent not going to school know that this review is here for you. Let it warm the cockles of your summertime heart (there’s a phrase I’ll use again). I’ll even join in the nostalgic fun.

When I was a young adherent of the Dane Cook of martial arts (that’s Karate, for those of you unfamiliar with the way of the fist), it was a ritual of my father and I after every class, every Saturday morning to visit Sonny’s Drive-In: a hamburger joint. Now, I don’t think my father brought me because he really thought long and hard about how much I’d love hamburgers. I think it was just a way for him to visit the owner (whom I’ve come to know as Sonny, though that name is no part of his identity at all), one of his many friends in the food business. If I had any memory of the place it was of my strange attachment to the nameless arcade I would always play. If memory serves, I operated as some big, hyper-masculine shirtless blonde man wrestling tigers in a coliseum. I never got further than that. But I played it. Every weekend. After every class I more or less got a whooping in.

That was some twenty years ago. Now, as an old man, and anonymous, and without my father, I found myself venturing there, thinking about how good the hamburgers must be, because the otherwise outmoded lot that is Sonny’s Drive-In is still getting business to this day. I know this because I’ve always been around, passing it by, observing.

Although I didn’t expect the place to change in the least, I at least expected someone there to happily greet me. That is how I biasly constructed the memory of my past. So, if anything changed, it may have been Sonny’s disposition, because he was still there, working hard and serving customers, older than ever; now in the company of a faceless employee working the fryers and decked out in a white uniform reminiscent of Americana’s hamburger shop past. Yes, everything was the same. The steel counter, the sneeze guard glass where you’d choose the toppings for whatever hamburger or hot dog you wanted to eat, the red tile, the glowing menu board where clip-on letters and numbers were used to spell out items and their prices, even the chocolate shake machine was still running, albeit eerily. The arcades were different though, and the ceiling too: brown painted faux wood floorboards now lay overhead.

There’s nowhere to sit in the place, only a legless table attached to the glass wall that looks out onto the modern world where one can stand and eat, and maybe cry over the fact that they can’t be part of a more nostalgic, genuine, naïve time when Marty McFly got his mom to fall in love with him.

Whatever.

For me, Sonny’s was a scary place. I’ve never been more intimidated ordering a hamburger and fries and soda in archaic cup. Though customers were coming and going, ordering food and telling me I wouldn’t be sorry, I could tell I was getting on the helps’ nerve critically looking over a menu that ran the gamut from hamburger to hot dog to fish and chips to scallops and fries (probably the most intriguing choice on the menu). And you’d be hard pressed to really find any kind of deal or combination plate like the ones that accompany most burger joints. You just pick and choose from the menu and whatever the cost is, the cost is. Still, it was a little cheaper than most conventional places. And with that, I placed my order, and took Sonny’s taking my dirty money and handling my burger thereafter as a sign not of poor standards, but of his tender regress to a safer time in our forefathers’ history when food sanitation wasn’t a big deal.

Again. Whatever.

So, a little standoffish, I went along the line, chose my toppings, had my items placed in a greasy paper bag and went outside to the weathered picnic tables, imprinted with the word ‘Sonny’s’ and carved hearts with monikers such as ‘Dave + Sarah’, and ‘F and A Forever.’ I could only imagine how hard my food would be to stomach.

Now, there are typical things to expect when eating a hamburger; charred, savoury meat paddies; soft, starch ridden buns. Usually, these generalizations are found with every plain paddy when eating out. I expected it with mine. However, there were some flavours I just couldn’t understand. Like a paddy that seemed a little sour, and pickles that were rubber, and all too squeaky. If not for these characteristics I may have very well said my hamburger was okay, but that there was nothing special about it. Still, in a city with so many places offering the good ground round, the only thing that may make Sonny’s burgers sellable might be patriotism and some notion that its hamburgers are somehow authentic, having earned their burgery place after so long.

The fries too were typical fare, though I admit better than the fast food chains we’re used to going to. Not scrawny and brittle in the least, but hardy and firm, crunchy if eaten immediately out of the fryer. But again, this is matched by so many. If there was one bit of serendipity about them it may have been the flecks of batter that managed to land in my box (runoff from the fingers of deep fried fish). This was something I thoroughly enjoyed, though unintended, obviously, by the cooks.

Maybe I was trying to recapture the past, or maybe I created the memory that my past was pretty dope, though I can’t for the life of me remember how stellar the food at Sonny’s was, and maybe there’s a reason for that. After all, twenty years ago, Sonny was a lot younger, and so was I. Perspective certainly may have been lacking. Now, I was a mere bald stranger. Certainly, I could have reminded him who I was, but why break an old man’s heart? More importantly, why break mine, especially if he didn’t care? For now, I’ll pretend Sonny is a man who loves the people he serves, not a man who can’t retire because his food shows no greater competitive value.

Sonny's Drive-In
(519) 884-1750
256 Weber St N Waterloo,
ON N2J 3H6

ANY PAYMENT

SUN-THURS 10 am – 1 am

FRI-SAT 10 am – 3 am

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Chippy Fishies

Now I admit, I've never had fish and chips. I have no nostalgic memories of driving to the coast of Canada, to back-woods, to whale watching conventions (like there's such a thing), all-the-while making short stops at quaint little stalls where one can gorge on fried clams or baked haddock or baked whatever. I consider myself, at self deprecating times, a rather diasporic eater. I like to eat; but wherever I go I never really amalgamate myself well into the dining atmosphere. People consider me a foodie fanboy. I know a lot about the food I eat, and like Tom Cruise ala Jerry McGuire, ala Tom Cruise crazy interviews on psychology: you guys don't even know the history of food, I do, I studied it! You don’t know what it's like to be ME out here for YOU? It is an up at dawn, pride swallowing siege that I can never fully tell you about!

Maybe, I should eat at more Italian places. Or maybe I should stop victimizing myself for the sake of propaganda, like some kid at G20 smashing windows for no apparent reason. Now I KNOW that wasn't too soon. I pay money, I get food. People aren't racist; I've never been kicked out of a restaurant. (Again though, I have been refused dishes based on my whiteness. I rebuke my previous statement.) Maybe if I wore a suit and tie and took a beautiful woman to a place with a room full of uglies I'd get a lot of stares, but why go through the effort of being something I'm not- which is poor, and hungry, and stupid with money when I'm hungry. After all, all I ever want to do is eat. This time, all I wanted to do was eat fish and chips, because A: I never had fish and chips before- that is, I never ordered fish and chips at a fish and chips restaurant (I always imagined in my mind they'd taste tangy and salty and crispy and like newspaper) and B: I was hoping- it was a long shot- I was hoping I'd run into the girl of my dreams- at an empty fish and chips restaurant, sprinkled with old people. It wasn't totally empty. Also, it was 3 in the afternoon. But it definitely felt like it was for old people. Wait, wait. That's too insensitive. The restaurant was geared more towards an older, family oriented demographic. Yellow walls, pastel coloured, fleur upholstered booths, faux wood grained tables and all around trims, IKEAesque paintings of flowers and meadows; did I mention the fake flowers? There was one bonzai tree. That was also fake. It was kinda cool though. I mean, I heard Koreans ran the place, bonzai plants are kind of Korean. Who am I kidding? I'm being totally insensitive again. I feel I can really salvage this word diarrhea by saying that the restaurant that is Fish and Chips- no wait... Golden Fish & Chips- the restaurant I am talking about- really applies smart business strategies when attempting to maintain a customer base and maintaining that same customer loyalty. Not only with good food, but with appealing (to old people) atmospheres. If I may justify this with a little academic referencing . . .

"Without offering these unique selling propositions based on the idea of culinary art many . . . businesses would cease to exist as viable concerns. . . . the art of presentation and overall packaging is one where the product (the restaurant) is imbued with a unique personality and identity . . . for it is not food alone that is important . . . but the complete dining concept which needs to reconcile artistic and business tensions" (Gillespie,Cailein H. "Gastrosophy and Entrepreneurial Fashion and Fiction," British Food Journal, 1994, 96, 10, 19-23).

That's why they pay me the big bucks!

	The general layout gave me the sudden urge to play BINGO.

I had dreams for Golden Fish & Chips. Or rather, dreams of Golden Fish & Chips. I imagined that behind those plastic curtains, they'd have tiled floors, cool, florescent lighting, stiff chairs, and tables with plastic mats and a swinging door that gave way to the kitchen, of which I could, as I always do, peer into, happily watching the cooks. Alas, that poor swinging door was in fact, plastic drapes, which I eerily watched just for one glimpse of the kitchen. Instead, I glimpsed the waitress- too many times. And either A: flattered her, or B: made her feel terribly uncomfortable. I opt for neither. She was pretty complacent. It was probably a psychological effect of the boring colour scheme. Her service was good though- and that's all I'll say about that. Oh, and that she was very nice when I, for whatever reason, could not discern baked from deep fried. There was a point where she had to open the menu for me like a child. And THAT is all I will say about that. Again, very nice. Very helpful.

	Ahoy, Matees!

So, for the first time in my life, at the tender age of 25, I ordered my first big boy meal of fish and chips. Salmon and chips actually, tenderly accompanied with a side of bland coleslaw (you too can imitate this treat by adding some plane boring mayonnaise and maybe salt and maybe sugar) some pre-packaged tartar sauce (too tangy for my wussy palette), and a cool can of coca cola- an unfortunate 1.50. The fish was good. I say that with as much 'meh' as is expected. Lightly battered, good, but nothing out of the ordinary, which should be considered as a win, assembled into one big chip. Indeed, I expected dainty fingers of little fishies that I could pick up and tuck snuggly in my mouth. I was forced to break that (good) flaky salmon up with a forked and knife. It was okay. I'm being picky is all. It's only aesthetics. Geez, listen to me. Only aesthetics? What's the point of eating out then? Honestly? Phhhhhhh. To be fair though, I received no fish nor any chips wrapped in newsprint, nor any kind of waxy paper- that was reserved for my company's fried clams, crispy on the outside, quite fishy and wet on the inside (maybe it was a bad day- maybe I hate clams- p.s., it was an appetizer and it was 7.49. Hey, whatever! Times are tough! BP man, BP. Killin' the oceans. And I DEFINITELY know that joke's not too soon). Instead, I got some ugly plate reminiscent of 70s dinnerware any friggin' hipster would eat the F* up! damn hipsters . . .

The chips, English slang (i.e., pertaining to those who live in jolly old England) for French fries- slang for potatoes cut into wedges and deep fried (i.e., not pertaining to those who live in fathead, Foucault loving France)- were the favourite part of my meal. Maybe because I biked all over town beforehand, fixed a flat tire, skipped out on breakfast, and needed some heavy carbohydrates to prevent me from going into some kind of shock; but now I'm just being really defeatist. I really liked the fries. I especially liked smothering them in vinegar and salt; they didn't seem to lose too much of their body. Crispy on outside, soft on inside. Is how it should be, I reckon. It was a satisfying meal for 9.99. Still, considering that, I would have liked a little more. Maybe it was the small side of coleslaw that got my attention. Or, OR! Maybe the chips were so delicious, I merely wanted more. Maybe I'm one cheap/poor/stingy son of a bitch. You'll never know. You only know me through my misadventures with food on this blog. Now, I've not much other spots to compare Golden Fish & Chips to (yet), but I'm glad I went (aren’t I always); it's been around for a while, and if it ain't gone, and don't look run down inside, then that must speak volumes for the place. I'm glad though that those fried little fishy cakies called me into that food pond like the sweet melodic sounds of some Sirenic beauty waiting to get the sexual innuendo eaten out of her. Man, I feel like a sailor.

Bill (with tip): a cool 14.98. Ouch, my wallet.

Golden Fish & Chips 
(519) 888-6660‎
Bridgeport Road West,
Waterloo, ON 
N2J 2J9

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