Oh, Hey, More Poutine

If the food adventures of hyper happy Italian John Cattuci haven’t already acquainted you with Stratford’s poutine palisade, Boomer’s Gourmet Fries, then you’re likely living under a rock, or likely me, who doesn’t give a flying fuck and rolling doughnut about any food tourism show the Food Network hashes out because you got enough of that sad shit in graduate school. So was it any wonder why I was publically shamed asking who the hell the dude in all the photos was? The answer is a resounding: no. Was I impressed? Only because I never thought television paid any mind to the backwoods of Southern Ontario. When Cambridge is on national TV though, I’ll be really blown away. Was I ashamed of myself? Not in the slightest. I was there to eat. Maybe a little against my will. But Joey wanted poutine, as per usual, and so did my future ex-girlfriend (or wife, Universe willing). So I couldn’t not oblige. Contrary to popular belief, I am a gentleman. Besides, our last trip to Stratford, the home base of Boomer’s, and Joey’s mystery poutine in a Styrofoam cup had me wondering where the hell the thing came from and why he paid near 7 dollars for it. This was one more gastronomic dog I could at least put to rest.

And of course Boomer’s name precedes it, thanks to television; but there’s a reason it was on television, and that’s because it makes fantastically creative poutines, or ‘gourmet fries.’ The joint’s aesthetic may communicate otherwise, but the bougie sentiment of gourmet certainly sticks to some, if not all, options like, well, cheesy curds on poutine (yeah, I went there). There are burgers too, among other things. I’m sure they’re just as fantastic, but my stinginess requires me, in my heart of hearts- until I’m a real person, making real money- to stick to eating as little as possible without feeling the belly-ache of portions I hate to pay for. Hey, we’d always like a little more for a little less, but this isn’t America. Boomer’s isn’t America. It’s a place that makes some of the best poutines around though; some that look like martinis topped with onion rings, toothpicks, and olives, others like strange bowls of spaghetti and meatballs. All tasty, all interesting. Joey and I bought poutine topped with goat cheese and basil oil (a kind of quick pesto); but Joey, having discovered we made the same choice, immediately changed his mind for a black bean and chili fries concoction.

So there they were in front of us all: my stacked fries, bottomed out with gravy and dolloped with a cool ball of lush, tart goat cheese, drizzled with an elixir of potent oil that easily flavoured the entire dish. I wanted more, thinking the golf ball of cheese and the tincture of oil couldn’t cover the whole mix. Joey showed me otherwise, swapping mine with his and turning it all to prove that a little went a long way. The oil was vibrant, almost visceral, peppery and hot, made savoury by the gravy and cheese. If I didn’t like the idea of gravy with it before, I did then. A landslide of refried black beans deluged every fry. The more I ate it, the more its spice warmed the back of my throat, the more the cumin lingered on my breath, creamy but paradoxically gritty, absolutely reminiscent of all those strong, familiar South American flavours. I couldn’t have liked it anymore. But Boomer’s is far from perfect. My piety for coleslaw had the place losing a little points. It was briny, but a little too lime like for my liking. So much so, it had the bizarre quality of lemon soda about it. It was crude, a little too fresh, not as stewed as I would have liked. Clearly, fresh crunchy coleslaw isn’t my thing, but hey, what can you do? John Cattuci might have something else to say, but his isn’t my mouth, and lucky for me, I don’t have to worry about pandering to avoid being fired. That’s already happened anyway, and I survived. Obviously, after this review, Boomer’s will too.

Boomer’s Gourmet Fries

26 Erie St  

Stratford, ON

N5A 1B2

(519) 275-3147

Tue-Thurs: 11:30 am- 6pm

Fri: 11:30 am- 7pm

Sat: 12 pm- 6pm

CASH ONLY

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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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Chippy Fishies

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

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

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

That's why they pay me the big bucks!

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

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

	Ahoy, Matees!

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

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

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

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

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