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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The Ill Shing Leung

	My brother in culinary arms.

Eating with Shing Leung always means spending a whole mess of money; but I can't complain, because he's my brother in eating arms and if not for him, I would have never learned to eat, or known what it meant to eat with other people. What it meant to roast coffee beans with a heat gun, stuff a giant nameless fish with noodles, or learn to squat on the curb over a sewage drain with a bowl of pho and thus prevent a potentially bigger mess. Eating alone can be a very lonely thing, so says Gille Deleuze, or so I heard my professor tell me once because I was too lazy to find the text. Regardless of all that, I've spent a small fortune eating with my comrade for the past five years and earning, what I think is, a rare and privileged education in gastronomy.

Sometimes, when I got the guts, I like to hitch a ride on a bus and take my sorry ass to the big stinky city of Toronto and from there take a subway and go make big trouble in little China, which is my affectionate name for Richmond Hill and Markham, amalgamated in my mind into one place of strip malls consisting of Asian restaurants and grocery stores- and maybe some dental offices, but nothing else.

No way. Okay, gross exaggeration.

There are other kinds of restaurants- but seriously, nothing else. I believe they stay afloat by depending on the inhabitants of both townships to work outside the cities, commute back home, and eat- and buy real estate.

Last weekend was a special treat, because while I haven't been to the Hill in a long, long time, the ill Shing Leung and I decided to have a chow down at Guu Izakaya: a favoured Japanese tapas bar (yeah, tapas, that's right- not that Asian food culture doesn't already manifest the idea of small dishes at a communal feast, but in order to get the ignorant Westerner/hipster to come they need the label of ‘tapas’ so it sounds friggin' trendy, but whatever). I was scared. I'm not cool enough for the bodies that meander through the streets with Neon Trees playing behind them wherever they go; instead I look like (my own fault) a sailor on shore leave: hat on head, bags around shoulders, books on food and porn theory in my hands (still to this day). But that's okay, I've come to terms with it.

I came late, but lucky for me Shing put us on a waiting list so we had the pleasure of our company until, unbeknown to us, we were allowed in and blitzed by the hyper-greetings of the entire staff that worked there, shouting "welcome" in unison (in Japanese). From the front door we were circumnavigated in a room that had a stone wall permeated by small squares of light (and electric ceiling lights) to the front bar where we were seated on the heaviest blocks of wood which were actually used for stools. Aw yes, the experience reminded me of my time working off the shores of Okinawa: big wooden tables on the floor where strangers were forced to eat together and dim lighting combined with the huzzah of voices, more or less happy to be eating, much like the mess hall of a barge. To the point, Guu was a total theatre for whatever Orientalizing mouths dared venture and pretend to see what Japan was really like: not overworked salaryman getting smashed and cooks crying back and forth for the sake of getting food out, but cooks who are happy to sing out what order number is called and do cool Night of Fire dance moves between dishes and around deep fryers so eaters wouldn't be concerned with the tapas’ sizes and prices. Just sayin'. Just sayin' the next afternoon Shingzy and I went to a ramen shop in J-Town (another novelty of Markham with Japanese-Italian food, the typical overpriced Japanese grocery store, and what not) and were not greeted the same way. We were greeted, yes, but quietly and humbly with the same "welcome" phrase in Japanese. The shop wasn't fancy and formal, but humble and popular among people on Chowhound with nice chewy ramen that I suspected wasn't anything to be overly praised because it resembled the stuff of instant noodles, but I digress.

			Click the pic for a video of the real, loud thing. ダブルラブ～

But Guu is popular for a reason, and I must humbly admit I was blown away by the food. Specials and all. All kinds of sake, all kinds of beer, novelty soda for earthquake victims in Japan and of course tea- that I was charged for. Phhh. Whatever. For an Asian place to charge for generic tea always seems like a disservice, or so my comrade and I think- unless of course its prepared cold. We don't know why exactly, there's something faulty in our logic there, but I think if we were to really think about it, our heads would implode.

We did the obvious: order tapas and see how full we could get. Considering the size, the price was fair, running from between 5 and 10 dollars; we tried fare like maguro carpaccio drenched in a ponzu sauce that permeated through each piece leaving the slightest fishy taste, aestheticized by fish eggs (forget about using "roe" here, it was what it was), and tuna marinated in a delightful soy, wasabi (reminiscent of the mustard of Dijon) and sesame sauce. We paid for pickled vegetables: sweet coloured radish, mild sesame cucumber and the like. We were probably the only ones who ordered the stuff. We were also adventurous enough- though to call us adventurous here especially with our history may seem a moot point- to try raw shrimp, propped up against each other heads pointed up in the shape of a fountain, like a group of synchronized singers ready to dive into the soy sauce accompanying them. Cool and slimy. I wasn't a fan, but Shing assured me that was the nature of the little sea beasts. That slimy, fuzzy feeling you get when putting the things in your mouth is more or less the way they are anywhere else. I didn't have the perspective to say otherwise. And before calling it a night and heading off to a burger joint to fill our stomachs we opted for the closest, fast food-esque item: deep fried chicken skin, a more aggrandized form of pork rinds, but still crispy and buttery nonetheless. It became one of our favourites, paired well no doubt with beer. But before that still we actually encouraged each other to try an entree off the menu before the rinds came. Like the old man I am, I cried out for a bowl of Japanese hot pot and rice (having never fully mastered my own and thinking the dish could give me some perspective) and Shing, like the Chinese-Italian wannabe he is, romantically asked for a bowl of carbonara "esco" udon with kimchi. The flavours were surprising, when I was reluctantly trying the kimchi in the dish I was impressed by the rich, sharp smoky flavour within that resembled the carbonaras I usually make myself. Using udon was pleasant fusion, and I only hoped that I could someday do something similar.

My hot pot was everything I imagined it would be: hearty with a deep barley noted broth, combined of course with the usual kombu presence. It was especially comforting considering how much we both yearned to be full. The vegetables, hard egg and strange processed fish pieces were what I needed.

After a staggering 80 dollars and trip to the bathroom, equipped with mouth wash and rustic stone bowled sinks watched over by the voice of Ou Yang Fei Fei singing Love Is Over, we were up and on our way to catching the subway, but not before urging Shing to go Karaoke to the song before we left. I couldn't believe it was playing; more importantly I couldn't believe I actually knew what the hell was playing. I did know one thing though, Guu certainly knows how to work a crowd and pander to an audience who likes to romanticize the East with bubble economy love ballads. Shoot, I wouldn't have been surprised if they served coffee and put gold leaf in the brew, but the people get what they pay for, even if it’s unrecognized, but very much appreciated by this eater, Japanese love ballads.

And yet, that was only one of the many charming food adventures that weekend. We told ghost stories, argued about Bourdain and Brittany Murphy and did it all again the next day at places like Sam's Congee, a joint packed with family and popular, yet temperate congee, deep fried devils and free tea and J-Town, where we paid for our cold malted chas (I’m bein’ fancy- that just means tea).

Yes devoted readers, I can honestly say that if I ever forget why I go out to eat visiting Shing Leung will always certainly remind me.

Guu Izakaya

398 Church street

Toronto, O.N. M5B 2A2

TEL: 416-977-0999

Mon - Thu 17:00-24:00

Fri - Sun 16:00-24:00 

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