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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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

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The Pizzaburger

This is not a lazy review. So when I tell you that Joey and I decided, after a long afternoon of ghost strolling the city, that we unanimously (maybe a little divertedly) decided to go to Boston Pizza, it wasn’t without good consideration. Yes, Boston Pizza is famous. So franchisy, it’s an absurd theatric to even bother to give it a review. Blue collars love it; foodies despise it. For cibos, it remains a very guilty pleasure. And I should feel nothing but shame for deciding on it. But Joey is always a good centre for reason and perspective. I’ve reviewed franchises or chains in the past, certainly not nearly as prolific, but what right do I have to deny myself the curiosity of Boston Pizza’s latest pastiche, he says? Besides, Joey and I have been so culinarily curious for the past month we could no longer risk the mutual shame of being those dudes who talk about doing something, but never actually doing it. Losing face is something my Old Master taught me never to do. Ever. That’s why Boston Pizza gets a review. More specifically, why one novel item on Boston Pizza’s menu gets a review. Because one item and a side of fries is all we can really afford. We have debt, we have mortgages, we have condominium investments, and while our assets remain frozen, 14.99 is as much as we’ll feloniously pay. If television hasn’t already told you, or if you’re too cool for television (or the internet), you may not know about the pizzaburger. It’s everything it sounds like. Even though your mind may interpret the name as beef on a pizza, or pizza acting as burger patties, think harder- it’s a kind of panzerotti. Actually, it’s entirely a panzerotti wrapped around a hamburger. Why it wasn’t called a hamburger panzerotti? Joey and I will never know. But don’t worry, we e-mailed corporate. We’ve yet to hear back. Yup, the pizzaburger just might be the obelisk of food novelty. Why else would anyone venture to pay a solid fifteen dollars for something no larger than 6 inches in diameter? Apparently though, when it comes to choice, the pizza burger isn’t novel enough. It only comes in two variations: bacon and pepperoni, or three cheeses. Guess which one we chose? Never mind, I’ll tell you. We ordered bacon and pepperoni. We reckoned there was enough cheese in the mix anyway. Guess what, again? We were wrong. There was also very little sauce, which came as no surprise to the waitress. She said it was the most common complaint; even more common than the pliable premade burger patty clammed inside the chewy wrapping. It sounds less appetizing than it was. Surprisingly, the dough was slight enough that it didn’t overpower the actual burger, nor did it absorb every bit of flavor. There was that slight tang from the usual stock pizza sauce. You know? The kind you taste at every pizza place? With that kind of spectral pepperiness. And what could I say about the cured meats? Pepperoni, bacon: the meatiest combination of dopamine inhibitors in culinary medication. Salty, savoury, smoky. I couldn’t help but lather the entire thing in ketchup. Joey refused to bastardize anything though. To each his own. And when it comes to Boston Pizza’s pizzaburger, I can’t think of a more poignant phrase to use in this situation. 

BOSTON PIZZA 
597 King Street North 
Waterloo, ON, 
N2V 2N3 

(519) 880-1828 

Sundays: 11:00 AM - 12:00 AM 
Mon - Thu: 11:00 AM - 1:00 AM 
Fri - Sat: 11:00 AM - 2:00 AM 

ANY PAYMENT

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Eat It

*RESTAURANT CLOSED*

I’m always apt to judge any Italian place, but at least I don’t claim that nothing compares to my mother’s cooking. I can compare anything to my mother’s cooking. If anything, my defeatism stems from my history of, well, eating Italian food. Knowing it, cooking it, practically bleeding it. Yes, it’s a confirmation of the most static identity I have, unless you count Chinese- but that’s a spirit I’ve had to earn through prayer, study, even kung fu. But that part of my soul is much more fluid. Other than that, my palate is a little exhausted, a little unstimulated around Italian cuisine. Anyway, my otherwise dim view, combined with a hopeless coin toss had me clinched and choosing Eataliano Panini & Pasta Ristorante, one of many spots popping up in town offering familiar Italian fare that’s a little more accessible than the fancy joints I’ve grown up and politely eaten at. Not to say there’s anything debasing about Eataliano’s eatery. On the contrary, its space is clean, conventional, not hackneyed and ethnically stereotyped. Sharp tile flooring, minimalist tables and sleek chairs decorate a dining space also lit up by a nostalgic photograph of a chipper old Italian man that panoramically envelopes the walls. Then again, have you ever met an unhappy old Italian man? Aside from me? But aside from me, Eataliano leaves little to be unhappy about. Sandwiches, pastas, salads, all the usual informal Italian entrees one would expect, with a little variety now and then. Yes, things on the menu do change. My visit had a vegetarian lasagna I jumped at, but before that, the eggplant parmesan: battered and fried eggplant sandwiched in a Kaiser roll with roasted red peppers, tomato sauce, and provolone cheese. The price had me itching to spend more, gaga at how much I got for how much I actually had to spend. But don’t worry, if you’re a big spender, feel free to load up on special toppings, combos, or sides like olives, which I liked the idea of. Why? I don’t know why, I suspect it was because I really like olives and the idea of having a fistful of them. Speaking of fistfuls, my eggplant parmesan was a satiable size; a sandwich bigger than both of my gnarly kung fu fists put together. Its sauce was sharp and bright, not acidic in the least, with earthy herbs and a peppery heat that pleasingly filled the back of my mouth. The roasted red peppers were sweet and soft with a little tang. But it was the slices of tender fried eggplant that wowed me. Lightly battered in panko crumbs, it was just enough to absorb any flavor surrounding it, though each slice could have been enough on its own. So much so, I found myself peeling out slices and eating them all by themselves. Even the crumbly Kaiser’s density was matched by the thickness of the fried aubergine. 

My vegetarian lasagna, a special of the day, was layered with multiple vegetables and cheeses, creamy ricotta standing out the most among the dish’s thin, white sauce. Hardy, savoury, and rich knobs of carrot, broccoli, and cauliflower, as well as slices of onions and zucchini made for good variety, though I would have preferred thin slices of the edible plants instead. Even so, it wasn’t too disheartening, and the entre not heavy enough to weigh me down.

Yes, I don’t know what it is, I may be particularly jaded and spoiled by my own efforts to eat, but Eataliano certainly humbled me when it came to my own roots.

Eataliano Panini & Pasta Ristorante

255 King Street North
Waterloo, ON N2J 4V2

(519) 208-9000

Mon- Sat: 11-9

Sun: 11-8.

ANY PAYMENT

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Damn

Public Kitchen and Bar is wasted on location; and though I’m abraded by its dining room’s pinache, reminiscent, to me, of the first apartment a freshly minted university girl graduate passionately decorates with retro and white, I can’t help but worry if its kind of cuisine is being overlooked as it situates itself in Kitchener’s more quiet neighborhoods. But seeming cosmopolitan and stranded may be the only thing that works against the poor little tapas bar. It’s certainly not the food. And though I can’t help but argue that people would prefer it in the deep down depths of the city, especially if they want to drink and eat and drink some more, the better part of me knows eaters will have no scruples about making the uncool trek to its little strip station.

Beggarhood makes me a scrupulous gourmand, but Public gave me no excuse for some of the tastiest food I’ve had in the city’s haute circles. Yes, tapas are usually a little pricey, but for a generous hour Thursday and Friday nights you can have some of the most aggrandized dishes for a ridiculously reasonable price, and maybe a little something extra to splurge on. 

Splurge I certainly did. I got everything I could, a heaping bowl of mussels for two in a bright sweet Romesco sauce, a cassoulet of white beans and stewed pork, bruschetta, patatas bravas, all at 5 dollars apiece. It was almost cruel getting everything I did for so little. To absolve my guilt, I added rolled taquitos with an avocado mousse. It was a lounger’s dream.

The mussels were the favourite, brought out first and accompanied by thin crisp twice baked fennel speckled bread. Saffron made it glow, red peppers and tarragon (I like to imagine) made it sunny and citrus like; and a mysterious sweetness had me flabbergasted, challenged by its flavor and in love with elements that made it Asian in its phantasmagoria of taste. The cassoulet was nostalgic. Creamy stewed beans and tender pork hock infused the dish with a smoky savoury flavour my company and I were fighting over.

Next, our bruschetta, riddled with vegetable ratatouille and garnished with pecorino cheese, cubes of salami, and a pungent ramp pesto had me a little leery, if only because the pesto looked too fresh for something available only a month out of the year. Still, it was another incredible dish, with mellow tender vegetable compote cooked enough to maintain body and bite. I liked the chewy alien texture of the salami in the medley, the softer bread, but would have preferred something a little warmer in my mouth if only to prevent the cheese from becoming a little elastic. Still, it did nothing to ruin the thing.

The patatas bravas were certainly the heartiest. Crisp potatoes dusted with paprika were paired with a simple aioli sauce that left a distant brassy finish on the tongue; and though the dish had an otherwise bland pairing, nothing stopped us from dipping our potatoes in everything else. Unorthodox? Don’t ask me, I don’t know. But I liked doing it. And playing with food didn’t stop there. 

Our taquitos, rolled and stuffed with chorizo and Oaxaca cheese, came with an assembly of avocado mousse and spicy oil painted on the plate. And taking the small but potent side salad of cilantro, lime, and peppery arugula, gave us eaters a fun food palate to paint, combine, and create with. It was something neither of us had any objections to enjoying. I’m almost conflicted with the ever changing menu; sad to see good things go, but excited to see what else the place can cook up. For the city’s only tapas focused bar, I don’t see the necessity to change, but I certainly see the passion. Regardless, I am privileged to have tasted the effort.

PUBLIC  KITCHEN & BAR
295 b Lancaster Street West
Kitchener, Ontario N2H 4V4
(519) 954-8111

Thu – Sat: 5pm-1am
Sun: 5pm – 10 pm

ANY PAYMENT

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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

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One Restaurant at a Time

271 West passes pasta test

I'd post the review here, but it belongs to the Record. So click the link for the full review! Enjoy!

 -w 

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Responsible Eating

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hours? I dunno. 

Any payment

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Damn Good Sandwich

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

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

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

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

CAFE 22 
22 King Street South, 
Waterloo, ON 
519.603.5005 

Monday - Saturday, 9:00 am - 8:00 pm 

ANY PAYMENT

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Pizza Pedantic

I’ve much personal angst when it comes to the gourmet pizza joint. Maybe it’s because of the cruel tutelage of an uncle who dedicated the second half of his life to making some of the city’s best pizza, and who constantly fixed mine; maybe it’s because of the painful memories of lifting a paddle up into an oven that was taller than myself- burning my knuckles, bruising my ego. Or maybe it was the standards of almost all places, which made me forge health inspector letters in desperate attempts to fix the complacent sanitation problems that my employers refused to acknowledge. Whatever the case, my experiences with the pizza place, even the most cosmopolitan one, serve as some of my first disjointed experiences with the food industry, and make me feel, even today, a little leery of every spot. However, today I felt I owed it to my readership to face the Neapolitan demons that keep my own gastronomic identity in constant flux.

Mon Ami: Pizza and Restaurant is another culinary symptom of charmed cosmopolitanism. Declaring itself to be the best, a motto appropriated by an ironically large number of pizza places in this city, Mon Ami situates itself in the urbane tech location of Kitchener’s Tannery Building, visited by the most technologically intelligent and gastronomically inclined (presumably).

Its space may be as tactful as its rhetorically pandering menu. Bamboo place-mats rest atop thick wooden tables, and even heavier wooden chairs with faux log appendages wait patiently for customers who look to leisurely fill them in and make the malapropos chateau that is the restaurant’s dining room. I can only recall spaces like these in popular history in the coldest forests of Eastern Europe, or, more surprisingly, in the isolated teashops of kung fu movies- the Chinese invented pizza anyway, right? Add to that plastic stone veneers and a stone oven, and you stand to come a little more nostalgically close to the assumed pizzerias of the culinary world’s authentic past. Then again, design choices like wall lamps and paintings of England’s flag turn the dining space into something riddled with so much unfocussed romantic cathartic that it’s hard to take any gormandism seriously. And unfortunately, the menu does the same to bolster this pedantic gastronomic dynamic, which is an obvious tactic for charging customers a little extra. That’s right dear diners, at Mon Ami Pizza, an inappropriately French name for a fare that is obviously Italian, you are allowed the choice of gourmet toppings (for a little more money), or classic toppings- a pizza pie paradox if I do say so myself. And if a pizza from 9.99 to 24.99 isn’t, for whatever reason, what you want in a pizza shop, don’t fret, because there are the unavoidable menu options that seem more obligatory than essential, like chicken wings, lasagna, salads, and sandwiches. Now, it’d be unfair to judge these things, because I tried nary a one, but with the many premade pizza options, I wondered, why bother?

A small 9” pizza was what I limited myself to for lunch. That, and a quick espresso. It always intrigues me why coffee exists in pizza shops like these, and also makes me a little hopeful; hopeful that these pizza connoisseurs will go the extra mile and care for coffee as much as they supposedly do for pizza. Alas, that wasn’t the case today. It was a dull and stoney brew, watered down, and a little bitter, with grit at the bottom. Absolute sacrilege.

The prosciutto pizza was my choice meal. Something I’m familiar with, and one of the pizzas I’ve learned to prepare with fearful and artisanal accuracy. Topped with ricotta cheese, spinach, mushrooms, herbs, and of course, that cured temperamental meat: prosciutto, I was willing to risk any future relationship with Mon Ami.

I was quick to respond to the thicker than usual pieces of prosciutto topped with cheese that were yellowed and dried out in the oven. I dug around for mushrooms, cooked unevenly, and was disappointed by the flavor drowning mozzarella. On top of that, there was the usual sprinkling of oregano I see on too many gourmet pizzas.

The prosciutto itself had an overpowering salty quality more reminiscent of fried bacon than that cured, almost fermented flavor of a fresh slice of the meat. In my pizza heyday, prosciutto was put on at the very end when the pie came out of the oven so as to avoid any saltiness. This time, that wasn’t the case. The potential for any unevenly baked mushrooms was also avoided by making sure the things were the last toppings put on the pie. Instead, here they were mixed throughout without a chance to lose all water. With an unwelcomed amount of cheese, they were either moist or still raw- but at least fresh enough that they weren’t too off putting. Surprisingly, and against all of my own prejudice, the spinach –which I thought would do absolutely nothing for the dish- contributed a beautiful grassy flavor that calmed any unbearable saltiness. And the other saving grace? When the crust wasn’t saturated and wet from sauce, it had a nice light texture, almost like cake. Unfortunately, this was few and far between. It was more flaccid and wet when I picked it up by hand, the ingredients sliding off in clumps.

By the end, I found myself forcibly adding fuel to the fire that was in my belly. I can’t say the pizza was absolutely bad, but I can say I expected better. Maybe it was the space, it seemed too new, too professional, albeit culturally mismatched. I’ll be bold and say this much: Mon Ami makes expensive pizza, and if you pay for it, you’ll get a slice of pie that isn’t half-assed like the boilerplate pizzeria pizza slices we happily pay low prices for when we’re just plain hungry. So you won’t get half-assed pizza. That’s all. Pizza that’s not half-assed. NOT half-assed. That’s all, Mon Amis.

	I'd like to blame the picture on the pizza itself.

Mon Ami Pizza & Restaurant
519-570-9992
151 Charles St. W.
Kitchener

Mon-Wed: 11:00am - 9:00pm
Thu-Sat: 11:00am - 9:30pm
Sun: 12:00pm - 8:30pm

Any payment

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Hipster Sophistication

If you ever find yourself in a bind about where to eat, feel free to ask a stranger. Everyone likes to think they know what they're talking when it comes to eating, simply because everybody eats. But does everybody really EAT? I say this with conviction, dear readers. Does anyone ever really think about what they're tasting, or merely that what they're eating tastes good? More importantly, do people think about why they think a place is worth eating at? Atmosphere, taste, service, price. Aw, yes, the obvious things we think about when it comes to dining out; but what about what the things or places we choose to eat at mean for those who hear about us eating at them?

I’ve been to the Princess Café many a time. However, never to eat, only to drink insurmountable amounts of coffee and what I’ve discovered late in life, and much to my chagrin, to be Italian hot chocolate. Even my poor Calabrese mother never heard of the stuff. So while in a bind about where to eat after having been shooed out from another place because I had no cash on hand, I simply asked the first stranger I saw. They said, “I like Princess Café.” I responded, “I like turtles,” thanked them and went on my way. If I were to have any more fun, I’d have to sternly remind myself not be picky and go. To be honest, my frequency to the place left little to my own imagination, but if my experiences there were merely limited to coffee, hot chocolate, hilarious poetry slams and debates about whether the girl at the counter looked like Miley Cyrus or Kat Dennings, then I should at least give the food a try, even if only once.

I started my venture with a gander to the dessert fridge, ignoring the prices placed in front of the pastries like chocolate truffle cake, strudels and mini cheesecakes, knowing that if I looked at the cost first, I wouldn’t even bother. I did my best to get excited dear readers if only to assure myself that a substantially small piece of chocolate cake or mini cheese cake was worth the five dollars and twenty five cents; and yet, I could do no such thing. All is not lost though, because for those of you with an uncompromising sweet tooth, there are affordable goodies like two dollar cupcakes and strudels, and if you’re lucky, even more affordable sweets the next time around, the desserts having a rotating selection every now and then.

Having come to terms, I approached the counter, asked for a small cappuccino, and chose from what at first glance seemed like a limited menu of Panini sandwiches, pastas, soups and salads. A fair selection, considering that the place’s main identity comes in the guise of a café with specialty coffees, teas, and even rotating house wines and imported beers. A diamond in the rough, in this humble eater’s opinion. But what absolves the Princess Café’s apparently limited menu selection is the number of variations one can get from the Panini sandwiches they serve. The salad selection is acceptable and the soup is always changing.

Having been unsure of what was more filling, soup or salad, the server suggested, seemingly unexcited by my question, to try the vegan soup of the day. I figured hey, I’m somewhat socially responsible. I could go without meat for one meal. Forget that my deodorant probably had animal fat in it, or that the air filters used to clean the dust in my home most likely depended on the fine hairs of a cow’s carcass- at that moment in time, I was going meatless. With that, it was a resounding yes to said vegan soup- though I had no idea what “vegan” tasted like- and “the original vegetarian” Panini. A sandwich snuggly stuffed with roasted eggplant, red pepper, tomato, artichoke caponata (a fancy food buzzword for briny artichoke spread), pesto, basil (I dare not say fresh in the middle of February) and brie cheese (albeit a mild tasting one closer to that of mozzarella).

Thus, I took my cappuccino and found a seat. I’ve had many cappuccinos in this town, the majority from ubiquitous coffee chains, and the same goes for London Fogs, the cappuccino’s English cousin (Earl Grey with frothed milk), and if there is something worth noting about the Princess Café it’s that I’ve come to enjoy their London Fogs to a great degree. Quite frankly, they’re the best in town. The cappuccinos, however, can be hit or miss. The strong foam that stood on its own paired with what I would expect to be a strong, clean roasted espresso was unfortunately acrid and ashy, a symptom of an improperly cleaned machine. Alas, unfortunately for us as customers, some places’ dishes depend on the skill of each individual cook, not the leadership skills of the manager who would otherwise push to make sure that their staff all cooked consistently. So it goes, dear readers, so it goes. And it’s one thing when we depend on the foam, naturally sweetened in the frothing process, to sweeten our cappuccino, but it is certainly another when we depend on it to dilute the bitter flavor of what tastes like over-brewed coffee. Luckily, there was sugar nearby.

	'Gotta brush up on them camera skillz

Still waiting, I took in the scenery, an echelon of hipster sophistication: retro-posters placed in frames, stiff, white rococo chairs recycled from what may have been some twelve year old’s garden party, old tables, and paisley kerchiefs used in lieu of disposable napkins. I could appreciate the sentiment because it catered well to a young crowd enjoying a new trend of ironically consuming old and out of fashion things like coffee mugs from the 80s with terrible decals, and to the old who enjoyed coming in for a sense of nostalgia within its warm red and white walls.

It was then when my meal came and snapped me out of it; a humble array of soup and glorified sandwich, accompanied by a thin, quartered pickle. Now, my ancestors tell me a Panini should be hot coming off the press, lest, I suppose, there’s a good reason for it not being so. I can only assume that the Panini, being a hearty bread, needs such heat to soften it up for consumption. However, this was not the case with my sandwich. Conveniently, the local bread used for the dish was soft with a good amount of bite to it. Not too little to become soggy immediately with all the balsamic, briny ingredients in between, but not too hard to be tedious to eat. An overall good pairing with the vegetable ingredients, also being soft. I wonder however, what the bread would have been like with the cured meats that accompany other sandwiches. For 6.46 alone, I would have liked something a little larger. As for the ambiguous vegan soup, I could only guess what gave it its earthen flavor. I say earthen and not earthy here, my soup having the flavour of something edible, yet still in the ground. I did my best to ignore this one dynamic of flavor in lieu of the soup’s curried aroma, combined with its peppery taste, and strong nutmeg like overtones, all supported by that of what I assumed to be a base of either carrot or some kind of squash, giving it its orange colour. As an accompaniment to my Panini, the combo came to a resounding 8.10. Reasonable.

Finished, the café’s host, in a brief moment of time came, saw my empty plate, and conquered, taking it up and cleaning my place immediately. From there, I up and left, paying my dues and paying a good 14.25 (tip included), wondering who I could ask about where to eat next.

The Princess Café

519-886-0227

Mon-Sun 11:00 AM- 10:30 PM

46 King St. N. Waterloo

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