Poor Ol' Fuji-San

If you’re tired of making any kind of effort to visit any kind of all-you-can-eat sushi place in town, your prayers have been answered, because Itamae sushi is the newest ubiquity bogarting on the phenomenon of cosmopolitanism that has been diffusing the neighbourhoods around Waterloo’s university blocks. That’s right, for all the lucky students, all-you-can-eat is a mere jaunt. 13.99 for lunch, 20.99 for dinner. You’d be foolish not to grab a filling, almost irresponsible, lunch every day. And now, when you do, you don’t have to feel like a contemptible in-debt student at an all-you-can-eat facsimile, because Itamae feels and looks a little more urbane. I’m ashamed to say, I found myself hypnotized by the chic, Orientalized space. Cool browns, blacks, greys, forgiving tiled splash-backs; thick, stocky furnishings, pearled dining tables, waiters setting orders on hand held tablets, faux sushi itamaes in blue hakis with murals of origami met with bursts of warm colours on aesthetics reminiscent of the origami motif of the space. Even its centre made the place exalted and heavenly as the gold ceiling reached up to a point representing none other than Fuji itself. The bathrooms had granite counters, and robotic paper towel dispensers; it was a fantastic feast for the eyes, an alright feast for the stomach. Unfortunately, our orders took a good amount of time getting to us, so much so that Joey lost any truck he had with the wait staff, taking his own order and walking up and handing his tab to every sushi chef, making sure he would get what he wanted. And there were the usual chronic mixups and mystery orders that constantly happen at sushi places too.

Itamae offers nothing particularly new, some different menu options, some half-assed desserts masquerading as haute because they look, like the space, really good. That was my biggest tension. I’m a devote fan of egg tarts, but what we received was a beaten egg baked in an obtusely folded wonton, too eggy and off putting. And the Itamae apple pie? Nothing more than an apple fritter, with no spin on it to imply the character or personality of the place. Just an apple fritter. A boring apple fritter. Everything is hit or miss, and that seems to be the complacent accession of all all-you-can-eat-sushi spots. It can’t all be good. But, I argue it can if it didn’t want to seem like a cash grab all the time. Some sashimi was good, the white tuna, clean and salty, the salmon and red tuna, a little stale and brassy from sitting in a fridge. Some sashimi came room temperature, some uncomfortably cool. The eel on my sushi pizza was another climatic affliction. Cold seafood on hot deep fried rice in other words. We did very much enjoy the lotus rolls, though. A series of rolls rolled with bean paper, reminiscent of a thin cabbage, rather than the usual seaweed. And the mango banana roll was somewhat amusing. Mango stuck out of it like shoots of bamboo, wrapped in usual seaweed and rice. It was an ambitious project. The fruit wasn’t as ripe as we would have liked, and the flavours juxtaposed too much to really want it again. Even if a dessert, which it wasn’t, it still fell very short. But again, the menu’s a big thing, with a lot to try, so you’re bound to accept something. We liked the bacon asparagus rolls, and the curry chicken was enlivened by lime and notes of star anise. The grilled mackerel was surprisingly good for something expected so fast.

Itamae sushi doesn’t need to try at anything. Hell, if it had any professionalism, I imagine the waitress would have stepped aside to let me through a hall of crowded people rather than elbowing past me when I approached. But when customers just want to fill themselves us with alright food, forgoing great taste and service, can you blame them? Still, why not just buy a bag of rice? Let’s hope it’s not a representation of the superficiality of cuisine, or anything for that matter, in our break neck developing city, even if substandard goods are conventionally associated with developers just interested in a quick buck. In that case then, I reckon Itamae is in the right place.

ANY PAYMENT

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Ramen?

It’s been a good 3 years, but I suppose Watami Sushi and Sake Bar has absolved any guilt I’ve held over it during that time, if only serendipitously. Because if I hadn’t respectfully accepted a dinner invitation to the place I would have never discovered its weekly ramen special. That’s right, Watami sushi has heralded itself into the charmed circle of ramen. Seriously. I may have no truck with bougie size portions and fleecing the rising middle class diner with the ideal that sushi somehow equals sophistication and cosmopolitanism (thanks, 80’s Japan), but if any place anywhere brings one of today’s most charged dishes of Japanese cuisine to the backwoods of Kitchener-Waterloo, I can’t help but ethnographically eat it. Thus, with a couple days wait and a quick phone call to the only other digestible dude around with decent ramen perspective, I called Joey and we were off. Coincidentally, hung over and ready to dive in to what we hoped was a good bowl of ramen noodles.

It’s a small choosing, but with a myriad of combo options you can choose from two styles of ramen bowls and a bunch of other stuff on the side. I won’t divulge the possibilities, because as far as Joey and I were concerned, a big 11 dollar bowl of ramen was meal enough, and we were both pretty hungry, if that means anything. And luckily, our own choice of bowl wasn’t denied us, it unfortunately being the only one we could choose from out of the two that day. Ours were bowls of Shoyu Ramen: simple pork broth enriched with soy. Noodle reclamation supported a big bowl of sliced pork, sweet preserved egg, sprouts, chewy seaweed, nori, and canned corned. We didn’t waste any time. Joey’s become a star student of anything gourmand. I thought the broth was salty and a little too slick, but Joey said I must have been kidding, sparing no feelings- ‘It’s super oily.’ Relieved, I agreed. Its potency in taste and texture was almost overwhelming, all because of a strong boil of plain old pork. None of the smokey, cured qualities that you find in other ramen broths, both in taste and smell. That kind of liquid bacon soup was something we missed here. What we didn’t appreciate though was how the broth managed to flavor the noodles; still, we couldn’t forgive such an overwhelming richness. The noodles too lacked the alkaline notes that finished on the tongue. Personally, we always enjoy that strange little bit of chemical, but for the unaccustomed diner, we could see how this wouldn’t be a problem.

Fatty slices of pork would have been welcomed in a less oily broth, but it was another imbalance we weren’t too fond off, especially since there was no special spin on the meat. No flavor, no braising, just a plain topping. The canned corn did a good job of balancing out any saltiness, but I felt the kernels’ soft buttery character should have been reserved for a milky dish of miso ramen only- with a big old knob of butter. Otherwise, the dish just seemed riddled with obligatory toppings you hear about in bowls of ramen. Pairings seemed to lack finesse. That said, there was only one other bowl left to try: miso style. Oh well. Beggars can’t be choosers. And Watami seems the only place making an effort to offer what pop culture sells to us as ramen. Will others follow suit? It’s hard to say, especially since it’s taken this long for something so simple and underwhelming.

Watami Sushi & Sake Bar

15 King St N  

Waterloo, ON

N2J 2W6 (519) 747-1100

Sundays 1pm until the ramen runs out

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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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As Constant As the Northern Star

My animosity towards the all-you-can-eat sushi place in this town is dwindling. This means one of two things: that my own pre-judgments and pretentious assumptions denied my stomach the chance of really getting to know these eating places and limiting my own experience to a few terrible experiences in previous ‘hasheries.’ Today, I wasn’t pleasantly surprised, but certainly tempered against the bias that accompanies my own opinions of sushi in a place that is so far away from the ocean and fresh fish. But what does that mean anyway?

It may be a moot point even discussing Sushi Star, a restaurant that’s been around for a substantial time, and a restaurant I’ve given only the slightest of nods, having heard mixed reviews about it throughout the years. However, dear readers, I like to believe we’ve developed a good amount of rapport between the lot of us and that what I do have to say about the place has some merit.

To say I had a hankering for sushi today would be an untruth. In fact, I can’t claim to be a die hard fan, though I certainly can say I enjoy it, but not as much as the body builders who frequent the all-you-can-eat stops at least 3 times a week to keep their weight up. Today’s venture was a kind of earnest admission in order to see if the all-you-can-eat sushi place is a place even worth going to anymore, or if it’s gone the way of the great portion-givers of the West’s glorified consumer past; I speak of fast food joints, Chinese buffets, pancake houses.

So what can I say about Sushi Star that hasn’t already been said about an all-you-can-eat sushi spot? Believe me or not, there is some interesting personality accompanying Sushi Star’s food. Some peerless exceptions that make you consider the micro cultures that exist around the locales of restaurants. I normally don’t pay any mind to restaurants catering to the palettes of customers thereby changing their menus for profit because I glamorously consider it a kind of selling out, but this is stupid. Because while it could very well be perceived this way, it is exactly that dynamic that allows the all-you-can-eat to stay separate from others and in business.

Yes, there are tables with bamboo appliqués, contemporary paper lanterns hanging off the ceilings, neko fukus, pervasive dinnerware with calligraphic eggplants and Japanese characters of ‘delicious’ printed on them (purchased from the supermarket up the block), roasted rice tea, beige booths and uniformed wait staff, which are all too familiar. And on the other end of that familiar, maybe clichéd, spectrum there are the darker dining rooms in the city full of red, black and fancy wood, but these are nothing more than the Chinese whispers of sushi reviews from the past which are cause for nothing more than snap judgments for every all-you-can-eat sushi place.

Sushi Star has rare oddities, like deep fried milk for dessert, pork bone soup (sans the bones and pork, sadly), sushi rolls stuffed with nothing more than avocado and pineapple (surprisingly refreshing), plum wine (inexpensive plum wine), a selection of kind of real ramen noodles- or lo mein- or lao mian- or pulled noodles- on the menu; even purple yams. I didn’t think I’d ever find such individuality in any all-you-can-eat menu; there was even grilled saury. Never mind the misspellings on the thing, at least it was manageable. I wasn’t bombarded with infinite options like I usually am at other all-you-can-eat spots. And have no fear of being left out if you go for lunch, what’s kept exclusively to the dinner menu is comfortably small. There are only four kinds of raw fish offered (but all kinds of sushi) which I actually appreciate and interpreted as taking seriously the food offered.

Sushi Star really is its own world. It has wait staff that devotedly beckon to every whim and happily write down what you want, rather than giving a slip. I’ve commented on my displeasure at this choice of service in the past, but the wait staff had an exceptional charm.

The food wasn’t matchless, but it did offer up some great distinction: mackerel sushi with dollops of pureed ginger for example on rather thin and well balanced fingers of sticky rice (no wasabi underneath though). What really impressed my company and I was the temperature of the raw fish, never cold, but tempered to the climate of the room. Usually, we as eaters assume cold raw fish means it’s fresh, but in reality a fish pulled out of the ocean never comes from some underwater fridge. Some rolls could have used a little more rice, as the layers were so thin the nori peered through, and our curry chicken was a muddy sauce of salt. But for every yin, there’s a yang; our shredded crab pizza had a thinner base than other places and was easy to put in our mouths, the sauce of red peppers and spicy mayonnaise lending itself perfectly to the charred flavor of rice deep fried in a bread crumb coating. The deep fried scallops were a little leathery, but pea sized and easy to pop into our mouths. Dumplings were peppery but with a refreshing vinegar tang, and our seaweed salad not sweet at all like most places, but rather savory, though sometimes sinewy. The food ebbed and flowed between us. And though it wasn’t perfect, Sushi Star just has too many good qualities to disqualify altogether.

Sushi Star
450 King St. E., Kitchener, ON N2G 2L6
519 584 2341

Mon-thur 11:30-10:30
Fri-Sat 11:30-11:00
Sunday 12:00 – 10:30
Lunch Mon-Thurs 12.99 Fri-Sun 13.99
Dinner 19.99 20.99

All methods of payment accepted

 

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Sushi 99: if it only meant percent

I could have busted into the joint like Chow Yun Fat, guns blazing! Take my word for it, dear readers, I could have; and I definitely would have if I had the foresight to know what the food was like. Even the Yun would have no qualms about putting the poor place and all its chaininess and corporate investment out of business. But who am I kidding? I've eaten at enough all-you-can eat sushi joints in this town to have a good amount of perspective. Or all-you-can-eat sushi joints at all for that matter. Who hasn't? Shoot. I'm willing to bet that even if I did have the perspective to predict what this place WAS like, just like the Fat (whom I assume could do that sort of thing) I wouldn't have even bothered. That's how the Chun rolls, and that's how I like to pretend I roll. But I won't point fingers, comrades. Not today; not this time. Not when I'm foolish enough to sacrifice quality for quantity in hopes that quality will persist, especially on my prodigal freeter budget. A budget I owe to the trials of graduate school, and the unexpected tribulations of having to stay there longer than even I had anticipated. And for that, as I did a year ago, I apologize, yet again for making you wait so long for yet another adventure in food land. And I apologize for any mediocrity that nestles snugly between the lines of my poor, poor blog, especially in this post. Blame it on the uninspiring food, and the supposed 3 year olds in the kitchen who were allowed to make it. But again, look who's pointing fingers: your dear narrator. But, how can I not? It's what I do; it's what you come for. Nothing in this life brings me more joy than helping you save a good dollar, and getting to eat in the process (you thought I was going to say 'and get a good meal.' Ridiculous).

I've been waiting diligently for a meal at Sushi 99. Since I found out I'd be stuck writing about the similarities between television cooking and hardcore pornography for another month; since my sister told me to wait for her so that we could go together, since I told myself that I would not go out to eat anywhere until I had the funds, until I had a job to justify my post-grad, post poverty, post-parasite single spending. I tried. At least I finished a small book about porn and food. I may be the only non-feminist to have accomplished such, but I'm not here to brag, I'm here to chew Sushi 99 out.
I'm getting ahead of myself, aren't I? I'm ruining the experience for you. Or am I? Consider this: you could stop reading right here. Right now. I'm giving you the option. This post won't be pretty. I do it for you after all, dear readers. Always, always for you. I swear I already said that (I know I did).

A gastronome shouldn't expect much from the appearance of a place. A gastronome should never let the appearance of the place be a qualifying factor for the legitimacy of its food, nor its quality. And yet, I fool myself every time by assuming that the looks of the place have some meaning for the quality of food offered. This I say as an aside because in my travels all over “food-dom” I find, or at least I stand by the belief that, hole-in-the-wall places have delicious food and that decked out places do not. This is not entirely true. Though I admit, outer appearance in a restaurant is certainly a symptom of the belief that a shiny place equals shiny food. To be honest, it goes both ways- a bad looking place could very well serve bad food, or good food for that matter; but for me, my support for the hole-in-the-wall eatery panders to the fantasy of sincere, genuine, authentic food, which in the town of Kitchener-Waterloo is another ruse for a roving, post-colonial palette; just a simple romance to make my adventures with food a little more magical. Alas, Sushi 99 couldn't cut it. When I saw that first plate of poorly packed nigiri-sushi I had a sneaking suspicion I was only kidding myself, yet again. Yes friends, the uniformed black and white servers and the all in black in-house manager confidently striding through the isles to make sure everyone was fed, wasn't enough to make me feel that everyone was working to their fullest potential. Nor did the deep browns of the walls' trims and the proverbial colour of red paneling (to represent whatever it is that is Asian nowadays) do anything to change my mind. When I got that first morsel all I thought was, Weezee, you bastard. You've been tricked again. Tricked by yet another corporate investment, tricked by a place that reeks of franchise, not mirin and barley tea (though they did serve barley tea, not genmaicha which is particular to almost all "Japanese" restaurants in town). Tricked by a ceiling with planks of wood that careen to represent perhaps the shape of a caricatured fish or the character of those famous Shinto shrines known as torii, believed to mark the separation between the sacred and the profane. If that were the case, everything under the ceiling must have been profane, because there was nothing sacred about the food I ate. No aesthetic appeal, no effort in preparation, not even a dab of wasabi between raw fish and packed rice, which I'm confident wasn't cooked, discovered after noticing what looked like cracks in between grains, which in my experience of cooking rice professionally is a huge indicator that: no, rice is not cooked.

If you're after any kind of authenticity, dear readers, you won't find it at Sushi 99, though I can't say that they claim to serve any kind of genuine Japanese food, or be Japanese food for that matter. And if I may digress, as I so often do: it shouldn't matter who the people are. That there were no Japanese people in the kitchen making my sushi didn't matter. That I eavesdropped on the Mandarin conversation of boss and employee says nothing about the quality of the food, though it may say something about Sushi 99's intentions of hiding behind particular conventions in order to appeal to an eating audience- an ignorant eating audience who is idiotic enough to see Asians behind a counter taking fish from a pile of pre-sliced tuna and stacking it onto a bed of shitty rice and believing they are sushi chefs.

Please. Let's not kid ourselves.

I certainly didn't. Especially when I saw how unevenly my rolls were cut. Which brings me to my point: what makes my food matter is the skill behind it. No chefs or cooks, or sushi savants, or whatever, were even qualified to cut a roll, let alone roll it. It was nothing more than an assembly line, which in sushi places in Japan- shoot, even Vancouver- at least employ qualified sushi chefs. I couldn't help but think how much Sushi 99 hid behind its appearance; its entire construction being nothing more than a compromise for taste or passionately prepared food. It seems that in this place of all-you-can-eat sushi, there was nothing more than cooking complacency, a need to get orders to tables on a Friday afternoon and an even bigger need to rush people out in order to make room for more people and profit. I didn't think it was worth it, but certainly the huge teenage crowd that stuffed the joint did. I can't blame them. Cheap food and even cheaper palettes. I recall a young girl raving about her lunch next to me. Reach for the stars, kid. Maybe read a little Hume when you have the time, too. See what it means to have a little taste. Or not, what do I care? I'm pretty sour by this point in the entry anyway.

In retrospect, my memory seems a little relentless. After all, Sushi 99 is a new restaurant and it is another all you can eat food chain, with lucky cats and a big dining room and cheap prices. On a Friday afternoon it only makes sense that the food seem a little lacking in some areas, especially since there appeared to be no genuine chefdom going on anywhere near the kitchen. Now, I couldn't see inside the kitchen, but judging by the quality of the cooked foods I received I'm willing to bet guidance was devoid even in that of most coveted food spaces. It's difficult to redeem any of this experience. Sure, my lunch cost 13.99 (12.99 on any other day of the week; but, it was Friday, and for some reason that warrants charging more) and I received all I could eat (for 1.5 hours, which servers neglected to tell me about, and which I luckily read on the lunch menu by chance, so I really couldn't eat all I could eat- I do wonder what they would have done if I did order past my time limit?), but that hardly makes up for the food I wasn't nearly satisfied with. The alleged Japanese pancakes- fried eel fried in a batter in the shape of a pancake was chewy and raw, seaweed salad (to my usual dismay) was nothing but some seaweed topping a filler of iceberg lettuce, and the nigiri sushi didn't even hold against the poorly packed oblong rice, which I assume happened throughout my meal for one of two reasons: no wasabi (which is a stretch), or, that the rice wasn't cooked properly. But it was Friday, right? So, I should go easy on the place. Easy on the place. Easy. Tempura’d vegetables were too thick and thus not crispy and firm, but semi cooked when coming to the table. Dumplings were soft, too. Other kitchen appetizers such as spring onions wrapped in beef were chewy and the onions burnt, eggplant cut awkwardly and difficult- no, frustrating- to handle with chopsticks; and the vegetable udon was too overpowering to finish, its broth tasting of bad kelp and really fishy stock. As for actual sushi rolls, the poster child of the all-you-can-eat sushi joint, were poor all around. Not only did they exude sloppy preparation and hold, but they thoroughly lacked a good amount of rice, so much so that one could easily see the hue of seaweed beyond the rice when picking up the roll; and if that wasn't bad enough, sometimes the rice stuck to the serving place pulling off of the seaweed wrapped portions themselves.

	Poorly cut, poorly rolled.

Now I know for a fact that Japanese food prides itself on its aesthetic construction, so much so that larger food portions are usually compromised in order to express this dynamic, and obviously justify the price of Japanese food. That's why I have a love hate relationship with bento lunches.

Delicious food
so much money,
never enough to eat.

Did I just write a haiku? Anyway, it seems Sushi 99 capitalized on that idea, or at least on the part of Japanese cuisine that seems to charge a lot for so little. Sure, it was all I could eat, but not when I'm rushed, and not when my sushi looks like sushi first did when it was discovered by some old Japanese woman who hid her rice from thieves in a bird's nest which later brought bits of fish back thus inventing the dish (mere folky speculation).

	Spring onions wrapped in beef were chewy and the onions burnt.

I can only think of one thing on the menu that warranted some attention, and that was the dessert of deep fried ice cream and deep fried bananas. Needless to say, I expected a hardy batter to surround both, but what I got was a weak scoop engulfed by an even weaker, mushier tempura and a half of a quarter (try to imagine that) of a banana deep fried in the same batter, drizzled with chocolate sauce. Another disappointment, especially when so many restaurants in this town offer the same dessert.
Up until the end of the meal, service was pretty punctual. Actually, too punctual (it did forget an order of soup, but hey, that's the nature of the all-you-can eat beast, I reckon). Some would call it over-service. I would call it over-service. I can understand the need to clear tables and make room for more food, but I draw the line when I can't hold a conversation with my company for more than five minutes before random hands (manager's included, which was very uncomfortable) dive down in between us to collect our plates. I did not take this as one of two possibilities; they simply wanted us to eat and get out, not to enjoy ourselves and the experience of what looks like a fine sushi establishment; not to be bogged down with dirty dishes at our table. Again. Please. I'm nothing if not a gentleman. My comrade and I ate with a good deal of grace. This type of service was probably the most irritating I've ever experienced. I didn't tip, because I knew I wasn't coming back.

Alas, dear readers, did I break your hearts? Sushi 99 certainly broke mine. Fear not, there is a world elsewhere, so Shakespeare says. And there are definitely many times of day to eat. Perhaps you could try Sushi 99 on a Monday at lunch, or a Thursday at night and tell me how it goes. Until then, eat well. Oh, and I've missed you.

Bill (without tip): 16.09.

Sushi 99
(519) 725-7799
36 Northfield Dr East
Waterloo, ON N2L 6A1

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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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Straight to Chekhov

Mommy: Whuu! I been up since 9. Mommy glad you're here, baby. Me and Daddy go to bed late last night!

Weezee: What time did you go to bed?

Mommy: We go to bed at 3:30.

Weezee: Mommy, why'd you go to bed so late?

Mommy: We went to a party. I'm a pawwwwty animal. Haha. Mommy is a pawwty animal! You want coffee?


So, again today, I wonder how the hell that woman has so much energy? She went to a party? And she stayed up until 3:30 am! And worked the night before! Probably the whole day! from 9 to 11:30 at night. All I did was tutor some kid for 3 hours, get lectured by a 17 year old about what I'm gonna do with my life for the same amount of time, and attempted to apply for an internship that I probably won't even get! What's more, I fell asleep at like 9:30 in front of my computer. There's a way to spend a Saturday night.

But I'll be reasonable. It wasn't all fun and lame. There is some back story to this otherwise mediocre blog entry - like crying babies, obscure phone calls with Russian Grandmothers, and doors in houses where Russian Grandmothers probably keep crying (deformed monster) babies. But I'll be even more reasonable still. That's only a very small part.

One of the "youths" at the "youth" theatre I volunteer at forgot their wallet after a rehearsal; so, naturally, me, being the trouble maker that I am, volunteered to take the wallet home, hold on to it, and have the actor/actress call me early Saturday morning before I managed my prerequisite 11 hours of sleep after the usual Friday night of work (only a part of my usual 11 hour shift), debauchery, and early morning winding down, usually to some European game show called "Sexy Car Wash" - the name pretty much speaks for itself.

Anyway, call me they did. Needless to say, the conversation was an hour longer than it should have been, and an hour earlier than it should have been too. But it was kinda nice, and to be honest, I'm kinda hopin' I get more. Now it's just a question of finding more forgotten wallets.
I hadn't been out to eat in a while, and by a while I mean one week. Out to eat where you ask? Well, I had passed a place on the outskirts of town called Afro-Bistro several times, and had a hankering for small empty places lit by the seediest red lights you could imagine, and the ladies of the night that probably frequented them - probably for some kind of delicious combo platter including rice, ox tail, and a trick or two. Unfortunately, my friend was stuck studying midterms all weekend, and I was stuck on the phone with a 17 year old. A 17 year old who wouldn't, for the life of me, let me bring her her wallet until I admitted why I wanted to bring her her wallet. Which was, apparently, to see her. What's more, I had (with all intentions) called her "kiddo," which she, on the verge of 18, didn't like too much. Specifically because she was turning 18, sometime soon I'm sure (I should have checked her wallet). So, for the next 30 minutes or so, a little bit after being forcibly put on the phone with her grandmother (which probably wouldn't have happened if I hadn't asked what she had been cooking), I ended up spending a good portion of my morning begging the person on the other end to let me bring her wallet to her. Was this a bad breakup? It felt like one. Only I didn't know there was a relationship to begin with, only a wallet I really wanted to return. Apparently, I did want to see her. And talk on the phone for a good hour or so, yelling back and forth, ignoring the bike in the garage and the breaks that needed fixing, and the kid that I needed to get to to tutor, preferably by bike, because my car, which I affectionately nicknamed the Blue Bomber, finally blew, and was hauled to the junk yard the night before. And while I should have been thinking of a productive way out of the situation, all I could think about was sushi and inviting this kid out for sushi in order to get the wallet to her, which, now that I look back on it, has no basis in logic whatsoever. But it worked. And I eventually got the wallet to her. And I eventually got yelled at some more, by her - a 17 year old - for picking her up half an hour late, in the cold (in a car this time - not mine).
So, after some stellar arguments yet again, Tokyo drifting down the mean streets of downtown Kitchener, after stopping off to pick up some groceries (for me mam), and after getting kicked in the heel for taking too long to choose a good MSG free brand of oyster sauce, we were well on our way to choosing where, if anywhere, we wanted to eat that had dead fish. I said Niko's Niko's, she said Ye's; I said tomato, she said, "Fuck you, I want Ye's." That's where I drew the line. The kid would have to pay for her own meal, and "rock, paper, scissors" me for food locale. Unfortunately, I lost. So Ye's it was, and Ye's I will tell you about; though I'm sure you've been to a generic, sub-par, all you can eat sushi place, at least once in your food blog reading lives.

Ye's: an Anagram for "Ey"

Ye's Sushi has two locations: one in the nice, wholesome, sprawled town of Waterloo, Ontario; the other, in the mean streets of downtown Kitchener (beside Waterloo), where homeless like to meet up with friends and talk about who they beat to death with goonie sticks, and alcoholics who like to take time to sit on the street's benches and reflect about the beauty of dusk against the cityscape, all while vomiting furiously. I say it all the time folks, Kitchener is real. And the place with all the best food holes.Now, not to say that Ye's is a bad place, but I would have preferred to write about some place better. And not so generic. That is, Ye's used to be awesome - when it first opened, for its first couple of months, three years ago, when there was no demand, and friends and I could demand every flavour of ice cream and weren't charged for each can of coca-cola that we could knock back - yes, a Hong Konger's dream. UUUU!! And it used to have cool neon signs, and red booths to sit in, a strange buzzing noise, and loud clangs coming from the the kitchen. Now that's character. Now that's gone. There's no obnoxious neon signs - well, there might be one; there's definitely no red booths, and silver diner-esque tables. And that strange buzzing noise? Drowned out by all the people the place is crowded with, which proves that Ye's does well - but that doesn't mean it is well. It's all you can eat, and that's enough to sell anyone who likes to eat. But is it enough for someone who really likes to EAT? Ye's is a restauranter's dream, a foodie's disappointment; overwhelmed by it's own popularity and expansion, catered to faux fads of Asian interior design: bamboo trims, soft cream colours, fung shui, a lucky cat or two - nothing really Japanese about it. Except for the one really tiny picture of Hokusai's Great Wave Off Kanagawa, and the Mandarin speaking wait staff - wait, what? They could at least speak Cantonese - I hear Sushi is uber-popular in Hong Kong - it's true. All my Hong Kong friends told me.But dear readers, I digress, it's all about the food isn't it? Not the fact that I was crammed into a corner beside a table packed with two or three families and their kids, all of whom kept giving me a one over with their strange shifty, baby eyes. Forget the fact that I had no chopsticks, or that me and the 'devoesjka were strangely surprised when we got food we were positive we didn't order. My favourite part though was sitting back to back with a really really big man - who I'm confident was eating alone - and feeling the convulsions in his spine when he swallowed. At one point, I think our chakras aligned and the food actually went down easier.
For the first time in a while, I liked Ye's sushi rolls . . . alot, which is strange because I'm usually such a strict food traditionalist/facist. Raw fish rolled in rice? How unorthodox! But you know, I could have very well felt that way in comparison because the sashimi itself was less than spectacular. White tuna was so wet that it almost felt soggy (how? I dunno) and the surf claim was so dry that maybe, just maybe, if I had combined the two together, and mashed them up into a kind of sashimi pâté, the situation might have jived better. The fatty tuna, too, also had its fair share of problems; but hey, no one expects top quality toro in an all you can eat sushi buffet. No one also expects there to be gray where white should be. The octopus (which was a new item offered on the menu - on weekend's only) was a pleasant change, not as tender as I would have liked it, but at least the suckers made a pleasant little face that said, "hey, how's it going? Your date looks pretty." She wasn't my date octopus, though it would have been nice.


Aside from all this, I'd say anything hot and fried (deep or not) is a good bet; nothing out of the ordinary, but something you can put your lips around. I swear, the kid must have eaten like 10 pieces of shrimp tempura. When it really boils down to it, any buffet is really hit or miss; that's part the fun of eating at them, guessing if you're gonna get something good, that and the crying babies, and the gratuity you pay for not finishing what you order. Awesome.

I would have eaten more, unfortunately someone had a curfew at 7 o'clock on a saturday night. And I was more or less tired of being asked what I intended to do with my life, and why I was 24 and still living at home. I'm almost positive at one point the conversation reared in the direction of me always playing my electric twanger. I was so delirious, I prayed with all my heart Twisted Sister would bust through a door, or wall, or anything and just start shouting, "We're not gonna take it!"

So, after attempting to say, like the Russian's say: "Yanayilsa," poorly written of course, I was "on eating" - eating as much as I could before the kid literally got up out of her seat, went to the register, paid, and complained. She'll make some man very happy someday, if not me.

So that was that. Found a wallet, returned a wallet, ate some sushi, dropped off "young woman," was offered tea by polite Russian Grandmother, politely declined out of teenager's embarrassment and angst, found out teenager didn't tell mother she was with responsible, Onizuka like character, looked like a creeper, and missed a stellar opportunity to discuss Chekhov in the original Russian. I did however, get to see a creepy door that Chekhov probably wrote about and predicted, and that I should not write about at all, it's creepiness being explanation enough.

Will I ever go to Ye's again? Well, let's just say, someone would have to lose a pretty big wallet.

Спокойной ночи и приятных снов!Ye's Sushi103 King W,
Kitchener, ON N2G 1A7
519-568-7566

583 King Street North,
Waterloo, ON N2V 2E5
519-888-6066

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