Journey to the West

Eat your heart out, Korean-Cosby.

West of Seoul's 'opening' seemed like five long centuries. I like to think I waited for its vehicular arrival for about as long as Su Wukong waited for the opportunity to be released from the Buddha's own hand. I checked websites, looked in the streets, read tweets, even tweeted to the point of being ignored by them. But, eventually I had to come to the understanding that I’d either be around when the damned thing got some gas and hit the pavement, or I’d be up in the air, on a plane to Red China waiting to eat dog in the streets. Fortuitously however, the Universe- at least I like to think so- wanted me to have both. 

Some Sundays ago, Bingeman’s park- just one of the many places Joey and I have been ‘dismissed’ from (Joey for no bad behavior whatsoever; me for corrupting the youth of Athens)- hosted what the Region called the largest food truck event ever. The less backhanding individual would politely introduce it as the 2013 KW Harvest Food Truck Rally for Charity. So, though inevitably expensive, I managed to absolve my cheap guilt by telling myself over and over again, ‘it was for charity.’ But let’s face it, I was perfectly prepared to spend what I still contend is a ridiculous amount of cash for novel street food. That said, let me just answer the question I seem to cleverly skirt with backhanded statements: will I EVER think food trucks are worth the cash? No. Not ever. You’re better off going to a restaurant. At least you can sit, loiter, eat, and not shit in the streets for the same amount of money, tip included. But again, it was for charity!

So, calling Joey out of an inebriated slumber, he, the XuanZang- the Tripitaka, the Tang Sanzang- to my Great Sage Equal to Heaven, journeyed with me if only to release me from the culinary tyranny that had enslaved my curiosity for so, so long.

And then there we were, standing in line with tens of trucks at attention, their engines all drowning out all the obligatory chatter us food fatheads could posture out of our glutinous mouths. We meant business. Joey meant to eat more than I thought he should have- without pacing himself, at least. Luckily, convincing him of the existence of other trucks, and not only the one we had ventured to eat, had him taking his time. West of Seoul’s docket had us choosing what I stereotypically considered Korean, culinary appropriations aside. I ordered what seems to be Waterloo’s proverbial food truck staple: Risotto balls, but Korean; and the only other item I considered patriotically Korean: pork belly. Unless doughnuts and apple cider are something I know nothing about. But cheap shots aside, and using Joey as the name-sake  for our order, we took our appetizers and ran into the giant residual tent left standing on the property after the previous night’s Oktoberfest celebration, where-in-which Joey witnessed a woman get pushed by a big drunk dude. Anyway…

The clever constitution of Kimchi rice balls never really seems clever in the least. In fact, it seemed too obvious when I read it on the menu; but I ate it. The things were hardy with glutinous rice, and briny from the kimchi mixed within. Still, I couldn’t help but think the things were missing an element. Otherwise, when it came to any sapidity, the things were bland, even with the Russian-esque Korean dressing, which’s familiar flavor you find in every other joint. Was it wise to play it safe? Or pander to pedestrian palates? Probably. Especially since I’m probably the most polemic eater around these here parts, and people would sooner listen to me than eat enough on their own and say, ‘hey wait a minute, I’ve had this before.’ Anyway, that’s the worst of it. What I did like was the flaky, light tempura used to batter the otherwise hardy staple. Frankly, risotto balls are the residuals of poor peasant proletarians who needed every calorie they could get. Eat enough and you’ll sink like a stone, so thank high cuisine for some gastronomic gentrification.

Texturally, West of Seoul’s pork belly was out of this world. I could feel the oil wet my lips, the tender fatty pork just melt away when I bit into it. No pull, no fibrous bite. It was unbelievable, especially around these here parts. Otherwise, it tasted salty and usual, which, unfortunately, had me yearning for something more. I won’t argue that simplicity is a good thing. Certainly, the popular convention today is that simple makes for the best kind of food, but the adage seems a little more than overused at this point. Simple can be good, but so can creative flavours, not that the pork particularly needed it. Still, buttery fat wasn’t enough to satisfy my adventure that day, and Joey wasn’t nearly comatose enough at that point. So we surveyed the long line of competition, inadvertently finding ourselves gathered around the attractively creative menu options of food trucks from out of town. What they were doing here? Charity, bro, charity. We were glad. And looking for something lighter than what we not minutes before crammed down our throats, found Hamilton’s Karma Chamealeon, apparently Ontario’s first 100% plant-based and animal-free food truck. Anyway, who really cares? Their Jamaican Jerk Tacos were enough to convert the most staunch carnivore, or the most unsympathetic, cynical eater who believes anything vegetable and restaurant related is a consumer trend. But I’ll be damned if Joey and I weren’t absolutely floored by marinated jackfruit pulled apart to match the texture of pork, topped with papaya-guava-salsa on blue corn tortillas. The creativity, the combination of tastes- sweet with savoury out of nowhere and a heat that came right at the last minute- made Karma Chamealeon our choice truck of the day, and forgetting trucks even existed in Waterloo. We went back just to smell whatever else landed in other customers’ hands. And since Hamilton seemed to dish out a great culinary chariot, we thought we’d try and make it a two-fer. 

Not two doors down, we visited Jonny Blonde, a truck offering a plethora of creative flatbead creations. And since the theme of the day seemed to me to be Korean, and the truck’s bulgogi sandwich offered a creative slaw with asian pear, as well as a mystery teriyaki sauce, I couldn’t stay away. Mixing our last little bit of dough, Joey and I begged for a sandwich split down the middle, and were humbly obliged. A soft, airy bread folded over rich sinewy short rib that curmudgeonly stuck between our teeth, but at least stayed true to a Korean staple. Jonny’s teriyaki seemed nothing out of the ordinary though, and would have saved him face to not call it his own. If anything, it was just more of the familiar. I could appreciate the creative chutzpah of combinations, but found myself done in by mediocre culinary rhetoric. A shame, but eatable to say the least. 

Hey, it took a humble monk 17 years to retrieve the sutras, and 5 centuries for a monkey to reach buddhahood, I’ll be damned if it doesn’t take me nearly as long to find something really remarkable to taste.

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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

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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

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Sushi San

Once in a while I have a romantic craving for sushi, satiating myself concluding every time that it wasn’t all that great in the first place. Now, I’ve no real basis for comparison when it comes to the freshest sushi. My lens is adjusted to whatever is landlocked in my city and a little further. I’ve no idea what fresh fish from the coast tastes like. You could easily argue against my complacency though, saying sushi from a place like Toronto is better. But I won’t believe you. I’d welcome the challenge. But I won’t believe you. I can confidently say I’ve eaten at every single sushi place around here without any attempt to eat at every sushi place. It just so happened that way throughout my misspent sushi eating youth. Mr. Sushi was one place, where in the past me and the kid from Hong Kong would spend a good twelve dollars on slices of salmon sashimi and all the miso we could sip. It had a bad rep, it burned down, and it was erected yet again. Has it too been baptized by fire? My curiosity, coupled with my craving for sushi, was looking to find out.

Its newest manifestation was an astonishing change. No dull kitchen atmosphere; no clichéd decoration; a surprising nod, I assume, to the contemporary and Japanese aesthetic. There was an haute cosmopolitanism about the space that I couldn’t get over. Warm browns, cool greys, wicker chairs, dining tables, quarried splash backs, and luminous chandeliers with busy patterns and prints harkening on familiar Japanese principles of art. The space was enough; the menu, a gilded tomb of cherry blossoms and gold lined trims and more so. I hoped its food was as elevated as its space. Its atypical choices, along with usual classics, certainly implied as much. Things like asparagus wrapped with bacon, spicy soba noodles, dumpling quesadillas (unfortunately not offered that day), and a loud amount of seafood themed salads excited me. A unique culinary osmosis pulled popular cosmopolitan works into Korean and Japanese options, the only question was, would they work? We would have loved to find out, but our impatience and early venture to a shyly opened Mr. Sushi had us opting for familiars typical of sushi joints. Regardless, we weren’t too disappointed.
 
We started with deep fried tofu dressed with a sweet sauce. Small cubes minimally placed in a dry puddle of sauce were decorated with a sprinkling of roe, and blocky shavings I considered more embarrassing than aesthetically impressive. The portioning was close-fisted. I wondered if its construction was an attempt to play to the practice of high cuisine having controlled, chaste portions. Ultimately, no excuse would have satisfied my vexation. I could find it larger and more satisfying somewhere else. Tough batter walled around soft tofu and juxtaposed well while chewing, but the lack of sauce made it a bland appetizer I had to leave until later.

The Hoedepbap, a salad on a bed of rice, topped with fish chuck was what I wanted next. I’m keen to the stuff elsewhere and but my plate too was another chintzy construction.  The salad was paired with pungent, unexpected pairings of onions and radish which elevated the heaviness of savoury fish, but the fish was few and far between. Crab meat, sinewy salmon chuck, and white fish were sprinkled too ‘economically.’  The bed of rice on the bottom, however, gave it a nutty under-note with a satisfying, chewy bite.

Our salmon sashimi was stale and earthy, exposed bare in the fridge no doubt, but our spicy tuna roll was a great exception. Rolled in sesame seeds, it was a unique chew with a fantastic roasted quality I’d never had in a roll. Combined with tender fish and soft rice reminiscent of, of all things, mochi, made it a great piece.

Mr. Sushi certainly isn’t at the pinnacle of perfection, but it tries, and I can certainly admire its attempt to try to go there.

Mr. Sushi
140 University Ave. West
Unit 6B
Waterloo, ON
N2L 6JB
226-647-5025

ANY PAYMENT

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Weezee Makes: Thai Beer Chowder

Hindsight had me feeling pretty sore about the food I was leading Joey to lately. One late night it was terrible seafood chowder; one day it was bad Thai food. So, being the opportunistic dude I like to think I am, I took some suggestions, a little initiative, and looked to the supports I had spent a good 5 years fostering in food and thought I’d make it up to my broheme the only way my degenerate butt can- by cooking. So if you like riding culinary coat tails, enjoy this recipe that took two seconds to think up, but a good five hours to actually produce. Transit was slow, and I had to beg for some ingredients from old employers, but everything’s pretty accessible if you need a grocery store and have a car. If Barthes were still alive, he’d be pretty impressed.



 



















There’s nothing authentic about this dish. You could call it fusion, but why bother? It’s a bunch of stuff mushed together, and it tastes great. It warrants enough cultural capital to create it and be taken into some charmed circle though, and it’s pretty inexpensive. For Joey’s sake, I made it mad expensive (which wasn’t really expensive), and I also rattled around in his pantry for whatever could be used to make a viable bowl of what I sloppily called Thai Beer Chowder when people asked and I was too lazy to explain the semantics of rhetoric in dish names and how they hypnotize the crap out of audiences. But again, it tastes great, and I implore you, don’t be afraid to substitute, it’s a pretty forgiving recipe. Have a shellfish allergy? Don’t use shellfish. Can’t eat flour? Forget the roux, or try gluten free. Hate butter? Use oil. You can make it work. This is a mere foundation for, in the words of my Old Mater, building high beauty.

Serves 4

Ingredients
1 medium sized carrot
1 large celery stalk
1 small white onion
½ cup of butter
¼ cup flour
1½ cups chicken stock
1  330 ml bottle of beer (Thai Singha beer for the sake of novelty)
lime leaf
3 inch knob of lemon grass
2 lobster tails (½ pound)
8 medium size shrimp (chopped)
400 ml can of coconut milk (cream for a thicker chowder)
Salt to taste
Thai basil to garnish 

Directions
Mince the carrot, celery, and onion as best as you can (no pressure). Chop your lobster and shrimp and set it aside. In a heavy pot melt the butter at medium low heat. Throw in your minced vegetables and sauté those suckers. When the butter thickens and the onions become translucent and fragrant, sprinkle in the flour coating all of the vegetables. Now you’re making a roux. Keep stirring until it thickens and turns a light gold. Don’t go too dark. Not necessary. Throw in your liquids. Stock and beer only. No coconut milk yet. Throw in your lime leaf and lemon grass. Set the heat to medium high. It will be difficult to see a boil because the beer will foam. Throw in your lobster and shrimp. Simmer on medium low. When both meats become cooked (a bright supple, white flesh) shut off the heat. Pour in your coconut milk (or cream). If the milk is a solid, just dump it in and stir until it melts. Don’t you ever cook coconut cream. Salt to taste. 

Plate, garnish with Thai basil, and serve. If you have any limes, feel free to squeeze ‘em in. Galanga too, if you really want to drop mad cash on all those hard bodies you’re dying to hold (but they’ll probably never eat anything so fatty. Ha).

There you have it. Thai food’s never been so easy. We came, we cooked, we concurred. And surprisingly stretched a course for 4 into a meal for 7 Italians (and a cat), 5 of which ate before hand. Fantastic. Enjoy. 

Love,

Weezee

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The Tame Fox

Wayfaring for food with Joey has once again taken me to the farthest reaches of the region’s culinary landscape. But dread not fellow eaters, because I still managed to keep my iron stomach in town, though this particular place may be a ways in our culinary pond. Still, if you are like me, the chancing culinary type, you would risk wandering somewhere far for something potentially good, as Joey and I do, and always seem to be doing lately, our meandering mouths aptly choosing a place that suits the wilds its situated in. I’m talking about the Rabbid Fox. Not particularly wild, but in the wilds of Kitchener, as wild and suburban as things can admittedly get. And as wild as the place allows its actual essence to be, its selling point being that, as rabid as the fox is, it has a ‘twist.’

The flushed aroma of beer hit us hard, and the patrons at the bar would have otherwise intimidated us if we hadn’t been, by some act of Providence, dressed for the occasion. Yes, Joey and I fit in well, what with his handle bar mustache and my thermal undershirt button-front combo. But that’s enough small talk.

There’s nothing particularly rabid about the Rabbid Fox, unless you consider its attempt at pretension, because behind its manifesto one will discover, as I did immediately walking through its proletariat sports bar decorated with lethargic, unwincing browns, hockey jerseys, and flat screens commingling with a dining section that can only remind a person of those large mysterious mansions we see while driving in the countryside, no doubt belonging to misanthropic surgeons, that the Fox is just a gastro pub. Certainly, the butcher paper tablecloths and silverware combination cements the conception.
And, like all gastro-pubs, the Fox does everything it can to coalesce the best of the two rivaling sibling worlds that have existed ever since the birth of the Market. So much so, that the special of the day was escargot; combine that with poutine and you might have some sort of sibylline utopia. I’ll never know.
Nevertheless, you can have a hardy, but well thought out meal for just under 20 dollars. I can’t deny my interest in all of the things I wanted to combine on the menu, offering trivialities and house specials which did catch Joey and my fancies.

We started with the saganaki appetizer, a Greek cheese flambéed in an anise flavoured liquor, contrasting salty and sweet powerfully by way of melted, curdled cheese mellowing in a wonderfully reduced syrup of liquor. If we were patient, we would have taken our time to dip our flat breads in the stuff, but we were having too much fun piling cheese on bread and chewing away. I had to settle for dipping my knife in the stuff when all was good and done, it was that fantastic.

Next, I was misdirected by the waitress into trying the bar’s special Po’Boy sandwich, stacked with sliced beef, cheese, caramelized onions, deep fried pickles (the coup de grace), and a creole sauce. I had high expectations that fell too short for it, and all Po’Boy sandwiches in this town, because I’ve never really had one I’ve enjoyed, simply because they’ve never been done well. My bun was soft and warm, my beef, boiled, fatty and bland, which did no good to balance the textural quality of the bread. The caramelized onions too were weak and squeaky, with no real flavour. Half way through I found myself pulling out my deep fried pickles before they lost any composure, but I’m always a sucker for the things. I thought maybe the dipping sauce it came with was reason for its dull composure, but it just made it a salty mess, visually reminiscent of some oil spill somewhere. Too bad.

Now, the Fox’s locale may make eating there forgivable, but I can only hope my bad sandwich was the only bad undomesticated thing on the menu.

THE RABBID FOX
123 Pioneer drive, 
Kitchener, ON(519) 748-2404

Mon - Tue:     11:00 am - 11:00 pm
Wed - Sat:    11:00 am - 1:00 am
Sun:            11:00 am - 10:00 pm


PAYMENT: VISA MASTERCARD DEBIT CASH

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U-doi?

*CLOSED*

I knew I'd say it again: stylish appearance should never be a substitute for good quality food. So when I'm gullible enough to run into a place that's new and has a flashy interior I'm almost always disappointed in myself. Not the place though, it's just a product of the times. Instant gratification, quick fixes, fast food (though fast food is delicious). Okay okay okay. You can have crappy food, but don't try to cover it up with fancy presentation and even fancier walls, cool ceilings and good looking wait staff. Unless of course you know you're serving people who don't really mind sub par-food. I for one don't mind sub-par food if the price is right, and the wait staff is good looking. Hey, I'm just a product of the times.
I've literally waited 4 months for this place to open; since September, when I first saw its sign and the little stereotyped Japanese character on it, who did look dangerously familiar. And, being a fan of the show with the similar name (though both are definitely unrelated; and if the cooks from this place were contestants they'd lose hands down for lack of creativity/ originality/ not having Masaharu Morimoto on their team) Iron Chef Restaurant seemed promising and something refreshingly new. I use the word "fresh" because if you haven't already guessed, Iron Chef is a "Japanese" restaurant, and things like sushi construct much of their food identity from being fresh. Okay, I'm lying. It's not all Japanese. In fact, and this should have been a red flag for me, Iron Chef is actually a fusion restaurant: A Korean/Japanese fusion restaurant. Yeah, I know what you're saying (like you always do): it's the same thing. Maybe, maybe not. I'm opting for maybe not. Don't get me wrong, I absolutely love Korean food, and I like Japanese love hotels; but lady, fusion cooking never seems to live up to its name in these here parts simply because fusion implies fusing, not putting two cultures' foods on the same menu. Not so you have pork bone soup and sushi to choose from, but that you have something like pork bone sushi, which the menu did not! More importantly, it just seemed like it was all Japanese. The only thing that may have hinted at fusion was using a Korean pot to eat Udon soup out of. Yeah, they didn't think I'd catch on, but I did. I always do. And as far as I'm concerned, there's only one type of fusion that works: that's good old Hong Kong cooking, baby. You want good fusion cooking? I'll take you somewhere sometime. Because quite frankly, the idea of a huge steak on a plate of stir-fried noodles is just sheer genius. Sometimes I can't believe China's official language is Mandarin and not Cantonese. But let's get this ball rolling shall we? 我们去.

Now, because I'm such an excellent sleuth, I finally managed to put two and two together: Iron Chef is the by product of a little food hole stationed in a university's student life centre. What university? Not important. Point is, this place, called Wasabi, is a fast food sushi establishment, or was, (I don't know if it's still there) that used the same stereotyped Japanese chef icon. At first I thought, strange coincidence. Then I saw the place's real sushi "chef" preparing my food, and well, things clicked. Movin' on up. George would be proud. So, now we know its history.


I'll be completely honest. I was wowed when I came in, because with it's draped curtains and yakitori-esque bar, red walls, and sexy Japanese Happi worn by the staff, I was awestruck- brainwashed if you will. Kitchener-Waterloo doesn't have a Japanese eatery this visually stimulating, which makes me wonder why its looks are so Japanese influenced, but apparently fused with Korean undertones. How do I know? Well, the Korean on the sign's corner tended to give the notion away, or imply that "fusion" stood for a Japanese restaurant owned by Koreans. Stranger things have happened. Regardless, I was still dazzled by the place's looks. With that said, my respect goes out to the owners exemplary taste and creativity; it's almost as if they knew their food would taste like everyone else's and that they had to make up for it. Too bad I won't go back. I may peer inside the window from time to time, just to appreciate its aesthetics and dream of being a samurai, or ask one of the waitresses out.

Things seemed off to a good start: my friend and I sat down, we were given the typical genma cha tea in fancy cups, we looked at the nice velour trimmed menu, we got generic items that you can find anywhere else. I ordered the most original thing I could lazily find: pickled pumpkin wrapped in rice. Lame? Maybe, but I never had it before. And I hoped, absolutely hoped, that this place would, in the least, have a solid bowl of Udon that I could attempt to mimick and cook for myself. Which it did. (Thank Kami-Sama) Which the waitress informed me, was a soup base, not rice dish, like the other "don" dishes. U-doi? Soo ka.

I was excited. Aside from those two items there was the odd spicy tuna role. And appetizers: a house salad with miso soup. オリジナル. The salad's dressing was a good start, my only regret was that there wasn't more. I'm almost positive a girl wouldn't feel good about eating the sweet mayonaise drenched salad, but I couldn't blame her. Not all of us have a 11,000 kick a day kung-fu regime. Still, why not make an exception. It was good.

After a nice pace, our orders came, my pickled pumpkin roll and my friend's spicy tuna roll arrived. We ate them. That's really all there is to say. Nothing new. Unless you count the fact that my pumpkin roll tasted an awful lot like chewy fish instead of sweet pickled pumpkin. Sirrah. Konna kurashi yo. I still had the udon, and at the rate things were going I was willing to bet it would taste mediocre, but satisfying. And it did. Did it ever. It's broth had a sweet acidic taste, which hinted at the use of maybe more mirin and sugar than some may wish to apply, but I wasn't disappointed; I expected it to have that umami seaweed, fishy flavour (but it didn't). I think after that pumpkin, it was appreciated. I considered the balance a nice little favour, but who could say that always happens. The udon was plated with some tempura, random vegetables in the broth and good, chewy noodles- but not too chewy. I don't know how people do it, I can't cook udon to save my life. Not yet, anyway. Like I predicted, it would satisfy, though it wasn't anything special. I could have used a spoon, but I felt it rude to ask the cute waitress who was talking to her even cuter friends. Oh, and we would have liked more tea too; but apparently it's bad politics to come during someone's meal and ask if they want a refill. Oh no, that sort of thing is reserved for the end, when we're ready to leave. Did I mention the service? It's new. Maybe they're off to a bumpy start. I don't think I'll ever really find out.


The prices are average: the rolls ranged from 3.99 - 5.50 and my udon cost a cool 10 dollars. for a 15 dollar meal, I can honestly say I wanted to expect more; so much more that I came home an hour later and ate. But if there is one redeeming quality to Iron Chef it certainly would be its atmosphere. And if anything warranted a return, it would have to be the cute waitress that served us, that is of course, unless her friends drop by again. With that said dear reader, I bid you good eating.


Iron Chef Japanese Fusion Restaurant117 University Plaza
Waterloo, Ontario, Canada


Wasabi Sushi BarUniversity of Waterloo, Student Life Centre
200 University Avenue West
Waterloo, Ontario, Canada N2L 3G1
519-888-4567 x35925

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