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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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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The Owl Could Be Wiser

Just when I thought I had uptown Waterloo licked, it hit me with another new restaurant. I should count myself lucky. We should all count ourselves lucky. We have somewhere to eat yet again. But what newest installation rests in the cultured culinary court of our uptown? Another Korean restaurant. Yes, you heard me, and I’ll whole heartedly accept your hating me for reviewing a Korean place so soon, but what else could I do? Nothing else is new. For me, anyway. 

I’ll be adult about this. No I won’t, I’ll be totally immature. To add insult to injury, the joint’s a chain. A chain you’d be better off confusing for an ESL cram school, what with its owl in graduate cap mascot and all. 

There’s a lesson here. Yearning for more Korean places leads the universe to deliver more Korean places, and that can be a bad thing, especially when all Korean places seem to be doing the same thing. The ‘Famous’ Owl of Minerva Korean Restaurant & Bar is a little bit of an exception, because it has the most expansive, different menu I’ve seen, all while offering the same things we’ve already seen. But hey, why travel blocks away to one Korean place when you can just go up the street to the other? That’s one redeemable quality, I suppose. 

Its large dining hall shares a familiar vibe with the other washed out Korean joints of bigger cities. Intense lighting, a cool open, airy chamber, and an ambience that eliminates the time of day, all copy the same atmosphere portrayed by the restaurants of Korean dramas, all of which were playing on the multiple televisions resting on the place’s walls. Exposed brick, red and yellow swatches, regal chairs and tables echoing a woody Korean aesthetic all echo something we’ve seen before, and I suppose that’s the point. It can be comforting in its familiarity, but paradoxically agitating if you’ve been eating in these places for far too long and are tired of the performative bellowing Korean hellos. I wouldn’t expect any different, however. If you want something hardy and familiar, then it’s the place to be. 

It does fall shorter than I’d like though. Yes, it has a large menu, but mixing and matching is few and far between, especially if you want to stay under a 20 dollar budget. You can squeak by if you’re really clever, and compromising. Bowls of soup and rice aren’t partner to bowls of noodles, so if you want meat dishes, be prepared to pay a little more. Oh, and if you love black bean noodles, look somewhere else. But that’s a small flaw for the amount of options. 

I ordered an honest bowl of instant ramen noodles, because I’m a sucker for inexpensive dishes, and apparently a bigger glutton for punishment. Set in a stoneware bowl was a quota of noodles lumped together with slices of rice cake, dumpling and a soft boiled egg, all in a bath of boiling fuzzy foam and salty spiced broth. The bowl lacked any balance. No vegetables, no real meat, and in a bowl too hot to warrant eating immediately, so much so that by the time the bubbles settled down, the thing became a kind of starchy porridge. 

In between that and my plate of spicy ricecakes I consumed a smattering of side dishes, meager and all too similar in flavor, featuring a spectrum from spicy to sweet to brakish. I’d expect better from such an established place, especially since other places in town offer great arrays, and half the time, it’s the side dishes customers come for. 

My plate of ricecakes, combined with vegetables and fish slices, smothered in a spicy, sandy sauce, was my favourite choice. It had balance and clear, simple flavours of sweet, savoury, and spicy, calmed by sesame. Texturally, it was a treat with chewy cakes, firm fish, and crunchy vegetables. But regardless, with a stiff opposition of already established Korean restaurants in town, I’d expect more wisdom with cuisine from a place as 'famous' as the Owl of Minerva. 

The Famous Owl of Minerva Korean Restaurant & Bar
2 King St N, 
Waterloo, ON 
N2J 2W7 
519-886-7275 

11am-11pm every day 

ANY PAYMENT

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The Other Korean Place

This city needs more Korean restaurants, I’ve always said so. So when I was told by Daryl that Shinla Garden was knocked together in what was once the Lovenest (that favored of Ethiopan food spots) I was a little heartbroken, but consoled by its category of cuisine. Before Shinla Garden, there were only two or three places I could go to offering the kind of fare that wasn’t mixed together with another national cuisine. But now that Shinla’s here, I say the more novelty the merrier. And though Shinla may not be the best Korean canteen on the block, it’s been a long while since I’ve had a hearty bowl of black bean noodles remind me of why I was so glad to be part of a movement in the first place.

No need to be harried, dear eaters, because there is something for everyone at Shinla Garden. The most expensive thing on the menu is a combination plate of 23 dollars, but that’s dinner for two. If you’re eating alone, you’re apt to spend less than 10 and be more than satisfied with a slew of side dishes, a Korean courtesy at any restaurant and always a treat for the novel eater. It’s been so long for myself that I forgot they came with any order, and by the time I was finished deciding on an ambitious bowl of Korean Style Handmade Noodles with Black Bean Sauce and Pork Bone Soup (both 8 dollars), there they were, set in front of me, reminiscent of all the times I’ve had them before, but unique to every place that served them.

So, while I took in the blushing décor of the place- flushed purple walls, a naked tiled floor robed by a single pastel rococo rug and a plasma television showing nothing more than a zoetrope of China’s landscape- I delighted in some new and novel side dishes.

Remiss in one small bowl were four green slices of what I was told was a Korean pancake. Gooey with a flavor of durum reminiscent of the fresh pasta I’m used to eating, it was a rare treat. Its cool temperature made it a chewy delight, keeping it in my mouth as long as I could in order to savor taste and texture. The pickled radish was another treat. Familiar, but with its own unique sweet and sour quality, it was a side I couldn’t get enough of. Sadly, my side of kimchi was all the same, similar to every other place, which made me wonder if everyone else was really making their own.

My noodle entrée came first. Bedded in the bottom of my bowl were what the menu called handmade Korean noodles, though I’ve still half a mind to call shenanigans of something so similar to the noodles I can buy in the store. Layered atop all that was that affable smokey, salty black bean sauce I have come to know and love. Riddled with nutty beans, ground meat, squash, and sweet onions it was a gummy mix with malty undertones that clung to every noodle and left glutinous globules of flavor behind on the bottom of my bowl, and all over my napkin. 

My pork bone soup came still boiling in its bowl, its bright spicy citrus odours percolating up to my nostrils whenever any bubble popped. A savoury broth combined with spring onions, fleshy greens, crisp sprouts, and pork that tenderly pulled from each rib make it a light dish, but heavy if its eater is brazen enough to dump in a bowl of rice. Regardless, its portioning, like its entrée before it, was perfect, and though I definitely ordered more than I could finish, I’ve no regrets about trying as much as I could.

There’s nothing particularly au courant about Shinla Garden, but there’s something certainly familiar, and since its prices are enough to spoil customers, why spend more than you have to anywhere else? 
 
Shinla Garden
183 king street east
Kitchener, on, n2g 2k8

Mon-sat 11am-10pm
Sun 12pm-9pm

Any payment

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Yulyeong

I haven’t been to Korean BBQ in a good number of years, though I’ve passed by it enough, watched the restaurants around it close and change, and remind myself why I’d probably never go back. But, with all that’s happened, it’s remained firmly rooted in this gastropolis waiting. Waiting for my inevitable return. Why do I speak so somberly? Why did I haphazardly promise myself never to go back? It certainly wasn’t because the place is bad. No, no. It is, as are most recollections of my pabulum past, full of nostalgic discomfort. Discomfort at the fact that I cannot recapture my past no matter how desperately I try, or have tried for that matter. Korean BBQ was the coveted Korean kitchen of my dear brother who almost always voted for it when he- not we- wanted to get Korean. To him, its lackluster appearance only spoke volumes of its legitimacy. To him, the rudeness of the help was invigorating; and the voice of the mother in the kitchen like a lullaby. Here, I learned, and to this day romanticize, that for a place to be good it has to be a little scary. And all these allegedly scary things became, like a butterfly’s dream, the paradise of my mind. But that was years ago, and I won’t do that to you today.

Korean BBQ’s father may be the most beleaguered cook I’ve ever come to know publically. For it was in his shop where my dear brother and I would go not thirty minutes before closing, be welcomed happily, and then ignored as soon as the clock struck nine. We took it as latent, aloof rudeness. Still, my dear brother always wanted to go at the same time. Classes finished when they finished, and I was a sucker. So, needless to say, I was almost always irritated.

That all changed today, because although I wouldn’t put it past papa BBQ to shoo me out at closing, I came with all the time in the world to eat (and hours before). That, and he seemed to do a good job of absolving himself of any guilt he may have incurred when I curmudgeonly chose to eat everything on the menu that had been crossed out, but which he happily came back and apologized for, asking me to choose something else. He blushed, I didn’t. He made suggestions, I asked for pallock remembering the days I could get a whole fish on a sizzling plate, and he suggested Korean pancakes instead. Memories.

The menu isn’t as workable as it used to be. I say this lamenting the loss of pallock. And the little seafood options that are left are a little wobbly. There is a squid fried rice which seems somewhat adventurous, but anything else seems reserved to the fishy flavor of a seafood broth and tiny little shrimp. Aside from that, the menu is riddled with familiar Korean fare, all of which I’ve had many times in the past- those familiar flavours of beef, pork, garlic, and chili. There are favourites: bibimbap, pork bone soup, udong noodles. This time I tried to get away from the classically popular, though I think that’s difficult in a food context. Always. Regardless, I took to something hearty, yet simple: a potato pancake with seafood (tiny shrimp); quite classic. And an otherwise mysterious dumpling soup, which I imagined as slices of rice cake in a spicy Kimchi broth.

I waited sentimentally, listening to the soft laughter of Korean BBQ’s mother as she made my pancake in the kitchen. The sea-foam walls, plastic flowers and old paper clippings taped to the wall and glorifying Koren BBQ’s heyday were a testament to the rootedness of Korean BBQ’s food and how it was as strong as its barley tea. My favourite of all places. Its intense roasted flavor was enough to make me forget I was drinking tea. Yes, even if the place has boiling grains down to a complacent art where the family just simply does what it’s done almost automatically for years, I don’t know it any better anywhere else than this.

A plate sized pancake (good enough as an appetizer for two) was placed in front of me, cut in slices and accompanied by a dark dipping sauce. The lack of egg in the humble batter of flour deserted it of all airiness and left it heavy and glutinous. If left alone, I’d have not enjoyed myself, but the dipping sauce washed the pancake of all that glutinous gunk. Its Fermented salt and vinegar flavor made my toes curl. I Loved it; either that or my thyroid was acting up.

My soup was a disheartening spectacle, but only because it wasn’t like I had dreamed. Placed in front of me was a bowl of dumplings immersed in a strong odorous seafood broth, but delicate enough on the palette, sprinkled with strips of seaweed paper. And to make the simple even more so it was dotted with pieces of scrambled egg. The more it soaked in itself, the richer it became. The dumplings, I concluded, were made by hand, tearing them open and finding pork mingling with translucent pieces of some kind of starchy noodle. And if they weren’t, they certainly tasted that way, the pork not tasting processed in the least, but earthy and savoury.

But I’ve been keeping the best from you, dear readers. The champions of Korean BBQ, indeed any Korean spot: the side dishes. Korean BBQ’s side dishes are my most loved: bean sprouts with a nutty roasted note, crisp and refreshing; Kimchi that’s calm and quenching with a hint of heat; an ambiguous fish sliced thinly and flavoured sweetly with a little spice; and potatoes, sweet and starchy, slathered in soy sauce and Korean cornstarch. They were dishes I could never forget, and with my meal a sobering reminder of why I came back.

Korean BBQ

(519) 568-7111

265 King Street East,

Kitchener, ON N2G 4N4

Cash and debit

Tues-Sat: 12-9

Sun-Mon: Closed

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Tomu Sushi

Yeah, so what? I caved. You wanna fight about it? I was trained by a kung fu grandmaster; taught meditation by Laos monks; learned to cook from an old Thai woman; learned to eat from a kid from Hong Kong. So if I wanna write about a place 3 times, I'll damn well write about a place three times.

If you haven't already figured it out (assuming you're hopelessly devoted to my blog- which would be pretty stellar) I'm talking about none-other than that place I bitched about not even a month ago: (and if the title of this entry didn't already give it away) Tomu Sushi. Previously, Sushi Nara. Previously (in my mind) place that refused me cold radish soup. But hey, this isn't about my personal vendetta- it's about you, my dear food readers and eaters and everything inbetweeners.

Long story short: me Mam (that's folk talk for 'mother') had a hankerin’ for taking me out for dinner. It was a special occasion, that's all I'm sayin'. And she wouldn't take ‘no’ for an answer. This went on for a solid three days, and so, I caved and opted out for Tomu Sushi because (a): I hadn't had sushi in a while, and (b): my damned anal retentive workaholism had a hankerin’ for gastronomically deconstructing the F* out of this place. And deconstruct I will. Why else blog? To legitimize my eating? No way . . .

Typical layout: open concept kitchen with a bar for the more intimate sushi eaters (if you don't know what I mean, go to a sushi bar), a major dining area, and like any other sushi place, booths surrounding the restaurant for those ‘oh so intimate’ dining experiences. Sprinkle that with a typical array of cloth samurai and geisha paintings, some lanterns in place of lights and a kitchen staff of Koreans and you have the clichéd dynamic of a typical North American sushi restaurant, at least in this town anyway. Don't get me wrong, there are one or two restaurants claiming to be Japanese run by Japanese owners; and don't get me wrong even more, race has nothing to do with cooking ability, but do get me wrong when I say this: people do, for whatever reason, expect more authentic dining experiences if the cooks match the 'ethnic' cuisine being prepared, which in its own right is a whole-lot-a-hoopla, because there ain’t no such thing as authenticity in the Western, globalized world, comrades. You can pretend there is and impress a lady friend with your Bourdieuian tastes, but when it boils down to it, you is just kiddin' yo-self. My advice? Throw authenticity out the window, because you'll be pulling hairs otherwise. Just chase the flavours, friend, because though part of the dining experience may be the adventure of the space and the people making the food, Othering ain't even a good indulgent (and if that ain't a noun, it is now).But that's enough white guilt for one entry.

A part of me- a huge part of me- misses the decor of Sushi Nara, which was, more or less, a cold looking dining area with sea green coloured walls and booths, humble steel chairs and wood trims with a strange burnt motif, of which has still remained in the refurnished Tomu Sushi, now coloured with deep reds and dark blues- perhaps an expression of the freshness of sushi and the spiciness of Korean (ha, who am I kidding?). However, the new layout takes itself very seriously and makes it a more appealing dining spot for the contemporary, "oh my God I fear ugly places because that is a reflection of sanitation," diners.

	Side dishes: the pièce de résistance.

A side note: when I say these next things, I may seem harsh, but at least I'm being honest. The wait staff was a wait staff. Overly accommodating at times, confusing at others; constantly switching servers on us. Confusing at times, and a little condescending with their baby talk comments. Baby talk comments? Whatever do you mean, Weezee? I mean this: when I break a pair of shitty disposable chopsticks and rub them together I am not trying to create fire, I'm filing off the shitty splinters. When I stir the miso soup (a typically overplayed inclusion with any friggin’ dumb meal at a sushi restaurant, which I friggin hate- did I mention that?) with said chopsticks, it is not the equivalent of an ape discovering some giant monolithic black slab in the middle of the desert for the first time. So I don't need overly mom friendly comments of, "that's right, you stir the miso soup with the chopsticks" from some Korean waitress who sees my whiteness as some signification of my ignorance about Japanese dining etiquette, because I'm willing to bet that kid never read Empire of Signs. No, no- me blushing wasn't because I was shy and proud, but because I was pretty damn offended. There are better ways to get tips. But hey, now I just sound like one big fathead. Of which I am. Maybe it was her first day, I dunno. She did seem to confuse requests for spoons with requests for forks. I sympathize, I do. I always do. It's tough manning a dining room full of what? 3 tables? Still, the wait staff wasn't all that bad. Service was rather quick, and when expressing displeasure with the salmon we had received, were immediately offered to choose from something else on the menu, and when refusing, humbly given a discount. A courteous call, not only on the wait staff’s part, but the restaurant as a whole. Though I'm positive the cooks probably heard about it later. And on that note, let's get to the food!

	Hwae Dup Bap. I think it means 'delicious!'

For the most part, Tomu Sushi plays well to the Japanese dining experience: bento dinners, teriyaki dinners, sushi love boats, with only a small sprinkling of Korean influence placed in some meal combinations. But hey, what the masses don't know, don't hurt 'em. And like I said, it's all about the flavour. The pièce de résistance for this place however, though it was pawned off as a sushi restaurant implying Japanese cuisine, was the fact that it offered Korean side dishes with my meal. This was an exceptionally exciting surprise for me. Not because the side dishes were to die for- the seaweed was too fishy, the kimchi, not spicy or sour enough- but because they were offered at all. Period. We did get some pickled soy beans, which had a unique earthy flavour. Somehow, and I don't know how, even after being pickled, they still managed to retain that fresh flavour that often accompanies peas eaten right off the vine. I loved them! Unfortunately, side dishes are random, so when you go, you better hope the ones offered are good. There was also a Korean dinner section on the menu, which aside from the huge menu options, was a welcomed choice. So welcomed in fact, I ditched my original plan for sushi and opted for a hearty Korean meal of Hwae Dup Bap: essentially a salad characterized with hearty vegetebles- slices of carrots, radish, cabbage and iceburg lettuce- sprinkled with pieces of raw fish, accompanied by a nutty, spicy Korean sauce. And of course there was rice. I had my cake, and ate it too and finished it off with a warm bottle of sake. Like drinking hugs. For 12.95 the dish was more than satisfying. I absolutely loved it. The dish complimented the heat of the day very well (I should have opted for some unagi too- if you catch my meaning), especially when one often equates that kind of weather with freshness, and Hwae Dup Bap, with its astounding colour palette communicating freshness and tricking the eye into believing so. For 14.95 however, the salmon teriyaki was less than satisfying. Maybe it was just a bad night. As always, I like to give every cook the benefit of the doubt. Salmon is after all a touchy fish, especially when you commodify it into something that could easily be cooked and readied in a slim 15 minutes. Or maybe, just maybe, the quality is always the same. As me Mam says, the problem with people and dining out is that a lot of people who can't cook go out to eat, so anything is good. Anything goes. Ignorance is bliss and all that jazz. Truer words Mumzie, truer words. (Now you know where I get my harsh food criticisms from) I feel my mother, an Italian woman schooled in the art of domesticity and cooking for a large family knows a thing or two about eating and is justified in her response. The customer IS always right. Sure, if it was a fish she never ate I might have said otherwise. But let's not allow one bad food experience to dampen our palettes (poor metaphor Weezee, poor metaphor). With Tomu Sushi's extensive menu, there is something for everybody (price wise too). My mom just didn't find it yet. And I truly believe dining is in part the responsibility of the gastroneme. If you don't know how something cooks (like, salmon) you run the risk of being unawares of its complicated preparation and increasing your chances for a satisfying meal. Personally, I love being leery when I go out to eat. Maybe because I work hard for what little money I have and want every dish to be worth it. Then again, I also like a little adventure and playing Thai lottery when I can't read a menu, choosing a random number instead. Just be forewarned. Not all cooks are chefs. Not all cooks have Red Seals. Not all cooks have the passion! However, let's not stray too far. I can't talk food theory all day. I mean, I could. But I wouldn't put my dear readers through it. We did what we set out to do: get a solid experience at the replacement Sushi Nara. Tomu Sushi. Not bad. I do not however, have any motivation, like I did for Sushi Nara, of going back. Nothing really stood out that hasn't already been eaten somewhere else. Man, I wish I tried that cold soup.

Bill (for two, including sake, with discount off of displeasing meal): 28. 85.

Tomu Sushi
(519) 746 1566
347 Erb Street West Unit# 4
N2L 1W4
Waterloo, On

Mon: closed
Tues-Sat: 11am-10pm
Sun:12pm-9pm

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Nara No More

	Again, glad I had my cellphone (with poor quality camera) on me.

Apparently Sushi Nara is no more. Yeah, I would have found out sooner, except cash doesn't come out of my ass. Honestly, how am I, young kung food adherent, expected to make good reliable blog entries when dives never meet lease contract terms? Apologies dear readers. Apologies that I, your dear narrator didn't have the foresight to see this one coming. I'm as equally disappointed. I almost regret having past by leisurely this morning, only to view the new sign TOMU SUSHI (more or less with the same interior- at least, that's what I saw peering through the window). Now I'll never be able to try their cold radish soup. This is why owners should never refuse food for a patron even if they feel it's too cold for the season and the white devil can't handle it. I bet they're feeling "it" now now- not as much as they're feeling the pang of not meeting a payment. Such a sad thing to happen to a restaurant. Like I've said before they come and go, especially if they don't have the goods to offer anything original. But this place did! My worldview is smashed. At least until I check out TOMU SUSHI. Though I've the sneaky suspicion it won't measure up. It's more Japanese than Korean/Japanese (so I've read). And Japanese restaurants in these parts are notorious for bogus prices and small portions. Phhh.

Tomu Sushi
(519) 746 1566
347 Erb Street West (Apartment 4)
Waterloo, On

. . . like it even matters.

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Sushi Nara

Straight and to the point dear readers, I've alot of papers to mark. But it's a bit of serendipity when I come across a place that exceeds my own snobby expectations, specifically a sushi joint that labels itself Korean/Japanese- usually that's a red flag right there; but not for Sushi Nara: a hole in an afterbirth of a stripmall in a plaza with nothing but old videostores and pet shops. But don't let that fool you; because its low tables, green padded and steel legged chairs, Hokusai-en knock off fabrics stapled to canvases and Korean speaking owners may denote lack of taste, but its food connotes so much more. Honestly. Today after the banterings of a fatheaded grad-student telling me how she'd never eat fish anywhere in this town because it wasn't fresh, I was almost ready to believe her. But the romantic, My Sassy Girl, black bean noodle loving voice in my head said to give it a shot. And it was the best I took in a long while. The menu was extensive, the sushi pricey, not expensive, pricey, and main dishes, pleasing to both tastes for real, genuine Korean and my own frugal wallet (not me, no way- I love spending money. My wallet says no, but my stomach says yes).


So, after an unconventional starter of salad with glass noodle and iceberg lettuce, and the proverbial miso soup, I was shocked by my small, yet savoury appetizer of 7.95 sushi pizza. Something I never ventured to try because of my purest roots. I was, however, in good company. And in the end, my 6.95 bowl of Jja Jang Myun noodles, as well as multiple condiments (kimchi, pickled radish, jelly among others) more than made up for it. Yes, I was part of a movement. The condiments were such a refreshing change from the other small portions I received from other places in town, not to mention creative. If it's a side dish I've never come across, you better believe the place is worth trying. Either I've been living under a rock, or this place is on to something. What else is there to say? This place exudes humility. Tables for Korean barbecue in the centre (pits and all), intimate booths surrounding the parameter (with seats that aren't bolted down and a little too far from the thin tables), and the usual soju advertisement with ambiguous Japanese race queen to appease my own post-colonial desires. The space was cool, lit with (what I consider) beautiful florescent lighting, and trimmed with the strangest charred wood along its walls. I'm sure it implies barbecue somehow. Regardless, it played well to the character of the urban Asian kitchen of the everyman. Wong Kar Wai would approve. Even the saki was cheap, sweet, and a small enough for two. It was probably heated in a microwave- but I didn't care, not with a flavour like that. Good Lord. Sushi Nara. Good food, good space, good service (even though they refused to serve me their cold beet soup in the winter). I'll be going back again. Just try and stop me.



Sushi Nara
347 Erb St. W-Unit
Waterloo, ON,
N2L 1W4

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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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