On Hog Tails

At the request of my mother, whom I respect dearly, I am making note of Hog Tails Barbecue- mother of the Lancaster Smokehouse, which I thoroughly enjoyed. Straight and to the point: Hog Tails lacked finesse. The coleslaw was runny, too peppery, the pulled pork saturated and sweet, the onion rings salty beyond belief and the Texas Fries a gelatinous mess of congealed gravy and more salt. I had a light-bulby moment. A) that Hog Tails needs better quality control, and I hope to the food gods that the Papa Hog Tails is equally involved in both space, because the 12-15 year olds cooking in his kitchen can't cook. AND B) On the note of the kids cooking in the kitchen- the food probably tastes so horrible because these young cooks grew up eating processed shit and assuming that those addictive sodium, sugary flavours are what equals good cooking. Sorry, young masters. Wrong. And if any of them went to cooking school, I'm doubly sorry. And I'm sorry to my mother, whom I said was being paranoid, having urged me to take her to the Smokehouse because cooks cook differently. I dismissed her insight, but it turns out, it was a very valuable one and taught be a very valuable lesson. That cooks can drastically change the same dish with the most minor mistakes. Also, the cornbread sucked. It was metallic and sodium-y- a symptom of too much baking powder and soda. And that's as about as informal as my writing will get.

Best,

Weezee

Hog Tails BBQ
519-888-9911
645 Laurelwood Dr., Waterloo ON

Mon - Wed: 11am - 8pm
Thurs - Sat: 11am - 9pm
Closed Sundays

*Don't eat here. It's sole purpose seems to be mere profit. It is neglected. Let the Chinese neighbourhood kids eat here and assume this is what Western food tastes like, just like white kids who assume fortune cookies and chicken balls are what Chinese food tastes like.

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Come and Catch the Sickness

	It's art, dad.

Vegetarians beware. Carnivores rejoice. Omnivores, you too. The Lancaster Smokehouse has inherited one of the city’s most proletariat of spaces and made a place for the most troubled of us eaters looking for food to pacify us against a sea of working class troubles. Where the portions will spoil you, and the waitresses will introduce you to other waitresses, if you’re charming enough to ask them. Let your troubles melt away, come and catch the sickness, because you haven’t lived until you’ve eaten at Hog Tails BBQ’s bigger little brother.

You heard right, the popular joint has expanded its business and transformed a dear old dive of mine, the Lancaster House Tavern- a place where serious drinkers would mock you by asking where your sherry was- into a champion of barbecue and Southern eating.

Now, I ain’t ever been to New Orleans, but I reckon if I’d a’ gone, this place sho’ woulda reminded me a momma’s cookin’. Maybe papa’s. Maybe ma brudda, o’ a’ sista’s. A forty-five minute wait at a shy hour or two before the place is set to close on a Friday night can’t tell no lie. The food’s gotta be great; either that, or the remote location makes it the most exploitable restaurant in the area. And don’t let the look of the place fool you either. The tables may remind you of your grandmother’s farmhouse, it may look like a ghost of its former self, trying to come to some sort of covenant with its new conventions, it may look like everyone’s having a family reunion at the same time in the same space, like some big picnic with walls. It may even remind you of some sort of tacky set up for a joke. Something along the lines of: a school, a pool hall, and a basement apartment decide to diplomatically go into the restaurant design business and accept each other’s respective love for orange walls, lacquered tables, and cobblestone pillars; punch line, laugh, and so on. Will it affirm an identity in the future? I don’t know. But I don’t care, because with an atmosphere of lively customers, a band playing blues and guitars squealing higher than the pigs slaughtered to make the pulled pork sandwiches, the look of the place is the most of the Smokehouse’s troubles. That’s right. I said most.

I can’t begin to properly tell you what’s on the menu. An array of fare from expected barbecue dernier cri like ribs, and sandwiches, to Louisiana favourites like gumbo, shrimp calas, and jambalaya, to anomalies like pig tails. Yes, it has it all, and we got it all: Carolina style pulled pork sandwiches, pico de gallo- that’s salsa for those of you who don’t know- and what the place calls Texas fries. Or what the waitress affectionately described as ‘poutine on crack.’ We laughed. But don’t worry, dear readers, I told her there was nothing funny about mixing food metaphors with drug abuse. We ordered so much, the staff obligingly put two tables together. People couldn’t help but stare in appetizing admiration. And if you think it cost an arm and a leg, guess again, nachos were plentiful, the fries were larger than two grown mens’ heads and the pulled pork a mile high. But we’s a just gettin’ started.

	I wish she was my neighbour. Coincidentally, I wish I had better camera skills.

Like the hoi polloi we were, we asked for everything at once. No need for any eating pretenses, we intended to dig in and dig in we did.

Our pico de gallo was a fresh cut of big clumsy cubed Roma tomatoes, green onions, red jalapeno’s, cilantro, olive oil, and lime juice, partnered with house nachos sworn fresh, but unfortunately, rather stale and greasy, not crisp and airy as expected. And although the salsa was a quenching compliment to all the savoury food we ordered, it did little to hinder the chips’ stale quality. The size of the salsa’s pieces was also a mess to eat. Without the tenacious quality we expect from popular salsas- that kind of viscosity that grabs onto whatever is dipped in them, we were hard pressed to tiredly fork it onto each chip. I could appreciate the sentiment of making a fresh salsa, but hated the practicality. Still, that was about as bad as the meal got. It was all uphill from there.


The Texas fries were the paramount player of our meal. Fries swamped by blushed bits of tender pink brisket and fatty gristle the size of my fingers were smothered in a white cheddar cheese and gravy. I was glad the place had the boldness to sell such a daring dish. The fries absorbed a smoky quality, and the peppery cheese blended well with the silky quality of the meat. For an 8 dollar dish it was more than worth it.

Our piled high pulled pork sandwich was a calm combination of bald slow cooked pork, mild but uplifting thanks to the homemade peppery coleslaw piled on top, and the sweet familiar sauce on top of that. I was relieved the pork was an arid constitution, not saturated in its own juices like the sandwiches I’ve had before that do nothing but make every grinder I have fall apart, resulting in a wet, frustrating mess. Of course it was messy, but it was fun. And the chewy Portuguese dinner roll that wrapped itself around it did a good job of matching the pork’s own textural tone.

For me, it was a dream come true for barbecue, and if dreams come true in New Orleans, then they certainly come true at the Smokehouse. And if, by some culinary act of providence, the Smokehouse ever decides to make beignets, I’ll have no qualms about never waking up.



The Lancaster Smokehouse
519 743 4331
574 Lancaster St. W, Kitchener, ON
N2K 1M3

Mon – Wed: 11am – 9pm
Thurs – Sat: 11am – 10pm
Closed Sundays

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