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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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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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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Good Gracious, Gordita!

Joey’s stomach knows no bounds. And when it receives the call for a particular cuisine, not even a sushi spot where the host calls him handsome could make him choose otherwise. Not even a 2 hour’s drive could make him change his mind. No, it would only make him want it more. Even if it meant driving out of town; even if it meant driving to Cambridge. That’s right, my dreaded culinary wasteland. What keeps bringing me back to this place? A jaded palate in Kitchener-Waterloo, a big wide culinary world, and a little bit of serendipity, I suppose. But all that aside, I was humbled by Joey’s tenacity because it brought us to what I consider the only true Mexican restaurant between the two cities: El Rinconcito Mexicano. Forget the stalls, forget the tienda-esque Mexican places in Waterloo, they can’t compare. Its own name is even too humble for the sturdy meals that bolster it to local culinary admiration. If you’re in the mood for Mexican, you’d be foolish not to make the journey to a fantastic, and already well received place like El Rinconcito. And if you already live in Cambridge: congratulations. You have somewhere worth eating. 

El Rinconcito’s great kitchen is pulled together by its culturally themed dining room, well thought out with Mexico's colours, as well as edifice that you’d like to expect in any South American restaurant, but done well, even with whatever items of kitsch strewn along the walls, which surprisingly don’t unravel the illusion, but make it more inviting. The menu is nothing short of manageable; reading it, you may think the prices daunting, but when you receive your meals, you’re most likely to change your mind, thinking you ordered too much, as Joey and I both did asking for sides of poloze soup, a phenomenal Mexican stew rooted in culinary ritual and complex flavor. Garnished with crisp diced lettuce and radishes, the maize based stew was reminiscent of nothing else but Creation. An earthy flavor bound up in its savoury tomato tart broth, and accented further by oregano and juicy pulled pork, the 5.99 dish came as a side, but could have easily been a meal all alone, especially with the deep fried, puffed up tortilla shells that accompanied it. 

Pozole and laughter.

We took our time extolling the dish, adding copious amounts of lime, dipping in constant shells, deciding that if anything came close to a garden, the pozole was it. My entrée, another meal in itself, was a delightful, generous combination of gorditas, rice, and refried beans. 

I can’t begin to describe how my sandwiches lifted my spirits. Stacked between two of the most texturally satisfying corn cakes was more pulled pork (my choice), creamy goat cheese, and a pungent, but reviving medley of bright coriander, onions and lettuce, which, it seemed in all of El Rinconcito’s dishes, do an excellent job of lifting up the heaviest of savory, otherwise over-satiating flavours. My chewy, but exteriorly crunchy gordita shells had a unique smoked corn quality that contributed to the pork’s meaty and reminiscent barbeque quality, even though stewed. And, contrary to what you may think, the goat cheese, though mild, took nothing away from the flavor. 

My only qualm with the dish was the rice and bean sides. Though the beans tasted canny, and the rice, riddled with diced vegetables, and too familiar to the stuff we boil from boxes, I was imparted with some advice by another party joining Joey and I on our meal: we didn’t come for the rice and beans. I was apt to agree, even though it was my first time. I’d be apt not to, however, if everything wasn’t as delicious as it was. That said, it was delicious. It was food I could eat every day. I thank you El Rinconcito; eating is exciting again. 

EL RINCONCITO MEXICANO 
49 main street 
Cambridge, Ontario 
N1R 1V6 

(519) 623-4100 

CASH AND DEBIT 

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The Good, the Bad, the Burrito

When I asked Daryl, one of my many brothers in culinary arms, to humour me with his lime marinated chicken burrito, he said to me, in his most appropriate, fatheaded voice: ‘It’s a tumultuous sunrise of vine ripened tomatoes.’ A beat. We both knew he could do much better. Mainly because, though there were tomatoes in the thing, they were a small part of it. That, and there was nothing tomato about the chicken.

	Ain't he handsome?

Attritional with his second attempt, Daryl did what he could to wow me with as much rhetorical bravado as all his years as a Sous could muster: ‘A tequila sunrise bathed in cilantro.’ A much more meaningful depiction, I thought. Still, I would have been somewhat more articulate. Perhaps, like looking at a tequila sunrise while bathing in a pool of cilantro? He disagreed, and I realized I’d become, like my professor pointed out to me years ago, a terrible concrete thinker, devoid of moving metaphor. When I think about it, a sunrise made out of tequila bathing in a sea of cilantro seems more flavourful than some dude watching it and sitting in it. Unless of course, cannibalistic urges make you in to that sort of thing. Aw, food. How divine.



Holy Guacamole isn’t anything out of the ordinary. And yet, as roundabout as it may seem, it does offer some unique character. Namely, that it is an assemblage of Tex Mex (how’s that for metaphor?). In its modest space of green tiles, warm coloured walls, spicy food photos, and hurried painted ceiling, it borrows from the conventions of this town’s sandwich assembly hideaways but with, you guessed it, Mexican sandwiches: or tacos, or burritos, or quesadillas, or whatever you call them. ¡Caramba! You can even get everything in those foreign wraps without the wraps themselves! Just a bowl full of fresh, Mexican fixin’s. How’s that for alliteration? How’s that for all you carb counters? You can even opt for wheat flatbreads. But I feel like I’m losing focus. The fixin’s are fresh. I can say that much. Holy Guacamole can say that much. Never frozen, always fresh. Even the bits of corn for a topping. Sweet kernals of corn. I believe it. Heck, I ate it. It’s simple food. Easy in its composition, civil in its choices. Quick food for vegetarians and omnivores alike. Daryl and I both thought the vegetarian option could be as satisfying as any meaty meal, what with choices of lettuce, tomatoes, red onions, cilantro, cheeses, jalepenos, cilantro lime rice, refried beans, black beans, sour cream, burrito sauce, hot sauce, a guacamole with a buttery texture and calm stoney flavor that uses its avocado character and nothing more; a good way for allaying any overpowering spiciness that may combine with it. And I can’t forget a typical, but well balanced salsa, furnished with ripe tomatoes, diced fine (thank Dios), cilantro, red onions, and lime juice. More impressively, the servers knew well enough to squeeze the juice out of it before putting it on my spread or otherwise have my burrito a juicy mess. But that didn’t affect the overall flavor of any of it. In fact, it was the pungent favourite of my first burrito. A packed roll of marinated chicken and choice fixings that I begged the help to choose for me. Cilantro lime rice, refried beans, cheese, burrito sauce, guacamole. A Fixing of flavours lost in the lake of Texcoc itself. Take that metaphor, Daryl.

Daryl and I agreed, the chicken was a little more minced than we would have liked, but still stayed true to the flavor it advertised itself as having. Daryl loved the rice, I recalled wanting it a little less cooked, the gobby nature of my burrito being too soft for my liking, though still kept in check by my wheat wrap. But this is no fault of HG. That’s what I call it now: HG. No, no. It takes some consumer responsibility. HG can be a very empowering place. Offering you the option of making your own fare. The choice, and fault is all yours. Still, with fresh ingredients and bright, pleasing acidic flavours, it takes a lot to screw up. My advice? Treat whatever future wrap like a good pasta sauce. Simple, and focused on one discernable flavor, or a few that compliment whatever meat goes in it (or roasted vegetables).

My second round wrap consisted of the Mexican pulled pork. A burrito that felt right in my heavy hand. And though intentionally packed with pulled pork, still not messy. My only qualm, maybe even Daryl’s too, once I convinced him, was the not unflavourful, but unwelcomed processed flavor used for the pork. It was a strange familiarity of nameless spices, hot, peppery, chalky in composure, perhaps earthy in fantasy. Like the stuff you get in packs for taco meat. If we’re wrong and unfamiliar with the flavours of chipotle, we firmly apologize. But we have experienced and vagabond-like palettes. Or at least we like to think so. But the worst is over and very difficult to come by. Fear not, dear eaters, you’re in good hands at Holey Guacamole. Repent, and the spirit of Tex Mex will set you free. Free from all those gyros, subs, and pitas you’ve had in your regretful past.

	The End. (I've always wanted to write that in company with a pretentious food photo.)

Holy Guacamole
519 513-2495
8 Duke Street East Kitchener

Mondays thru Wednesdays from 1100am until 600pm
Thursdays and Fridays from 11am until 700pm

Any payment

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