Diamond in the Rough

A weaker, more fragile self likened my kismet move to Cambridge to that of Napoleon’s banishment to Elba. I dreaded the ghost stories told to me by youth in revolt: there’s nothing to do there. It’s a giant flee market- outlets everywhere, no good Chinese food. The great paradox of the place, from what I could understand after multiple run-ins with early twenty-somethings- tattoos and ear plugs and barbells and all- was that if you wanted to understand the kind of city dweller, you should spend some time in a garbage dump. I found no humour, nor sense in the statement. For if you’re one telling me that everyone living in Cambridge is garbage, are you yourself not the same garbage? 

Riddles aside, and leaving any Socratic rhetoric alone, I did my best to tread lightly with my ethnographic accounts. I oozed arrogance and snobbery without even trying, but just by merely asking where to eat, or talking tea with, of all people, young tea enthusiasts. Coffee was another touchy subject. Starbucks was their cup of tea, if only because they got it for free. 

A forced 2 hour conversation left me jaded and unsure. Maybe where I was, for the most part sojourned, really was a sad, sad place, with little night life, and the depraved civilian riddling so many of its spaces, that locals were just turned off of going out and sharing space with them. That’s my biggest qualm with the city’s people so far. But urban politics aside, I was resolute to make my time here as positive as possible. I have a bigger home, nine foot tall showers, HBO, and a restaurant stove my dear mother made a promise of buying all her life. In these past two months, my days, for the most part, have consisted of cooking whatever elaborate meals I could on a stove that doesn’t belong in a suburban kitchen, recording television, reading whatever theory I can get my hands on, and practicing what little kung fu knowledge I have left in the dug out foundations riddling my neighborhood and its million dollar homes. When the scaffolding goes up in one home, I make an effort to move, night by night, on to the next, until everything’s all done. For now though, excavators are still my alarm clocks, and my unfinished kitchen, my own little restaurant.

Architecture is another thing that has occupied my time, as well as the odd teashop, the multiple libraries, and all of the city’s beautiful rivers. There certainly are spaces worth trafficking, which makes me question what the young have told me for so long. Either that, or my years dreading this place have awoken an old appreciation of urban study. Serendipitous, no doubt. And when I feel a little more adventurous, I campaign Joey to come and explore with me. We’ve been to quite a few dives, and so far, liked them all. It seems on most of our outings we’ve converged fluidly with an older crew. Are we getting old? Or is the city just cliché? Polite adults peppered with a majority of bored young people who are too lazy to go out and make their city a playground? My flaneur behavior makes me think it might be the latter. There are, after all, three different downtowns, all charming in their own right. If they’re not cosmopolitan enough, they certainly will be in the near future; but I’m sure the youth will complain it’ll be too expensive to live by that point. Alas, the grass IS always greener. But, I’ve found the grass here to be just as green as my old home. I’ve found an apiarist, a Viet-Thai grocery store, and what I consider to be probably the most impressive coffee shop in the Region. Is that a big claim? Good, because I stand by it. 

***

I’ve been slowly making my way around every café in town, looking for a local bag of beans if only to avoid the devastating shelf life that ruins any chance of a really great cup. And certainly, giving the city’s youth the benefit of the doubt, I expected to find absolutely nothing, just drip. Around here, the barista has been muscled out by laziness and big box stores that could deliver the same simply because no one was trying, or so I thought. 

Monigram Coffee Roaster’s location caught my eye. The building’s outer urban charm, and simple bold font design stamped onto its outer wall lured my cynical attention. It echoed the coffee cosmopolitanism I associated with so many third wave coffee joints. It was obviously the last place I went to look for a bag. And I expected nothing else. Something along the lines of beans brought in, but better than a grocery store; at least there might be  some contact with the mad scientist roasters around Ontario. I was caught off guard by my own defeatism though, because when I went in and asked if they had any bags, the shop's patron pointed to a shelf behind me next to a roaster. I was relieved to know I had finally found a place with fresh beans, but floored more by the knowledge. 

I didn’t really care about the roaster; in fact, when I see any in coffee shops, I never fully trust the places using in house roasting as a selling point. Why would Monigram Coffee Roaster’s be any different? So what swayed me? To the point, my questions of connoisseurship were answered with finesse. There were multiple kinds of beans, each with their own profile; they were shelved, dated the day of their roasting, and thrown away every ten days. Nothing around here is fresher. 

Monigram offers guests the coveted pour over, and the NEVER seen Siphon Coffee maker- the most regal of Japanese coffee invention. In the summer, I was told, they even offered the 24 hour cold coffee drip. All third wave theatrics not even done in Kitchener-Waterloo, pour overs aside. Monigram Coffee Roasters is as surreal as coffee can get. I’d say it’s cornering the market, but in the city of Cambridge, more specifically, downtown Galt, it’s playing a game all its own, and it doesn’t care that it cares a million times more than every other coffee shop. It cares about coffee, not the pretense of coffee for the sake of going to a café. This isn't coffee for the sake of the Enlightenment. It is an epitaph for the gastronomic greatness that can someday riddle this city though; perhaps a dooming one for the cynical youths that claim there is nowhere good to go. I reckon if I still lived where I used to, I’d make the trip out to Monigram before I would the places in my old back yard. If only I knew sooner. But luckily, I don’t have to. I bet my cool coffee friends feel pretty foolish, and if you don’t head to Monigram, you should too.











HOURS
Opening 7:30 weekdays, 8:00 weekends
Closing 6pm Sunday, 8:00 pm Mon – Wed., 10 pm Thurs. – Sat.

ANY PAYMENT

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The White Whale

The Chinese Bakery is my White Whale. It’s elusive, and reminds me of my incredible lightness of being. I’ve spent the largest of my culinary fortunes travelling to eat at as many as I could, hoping someday one would come to my town. I’ve turned over the idea of starting my own. I’ve had an 8 year vocation of trying my best to bake the things they sell, let down and overwrought by the fact that every place everywhere seems to get the same baked goods from some ominous supplier. There is an universality to everything they sell; a capital mentality to the exponential increase of profit in exchange for convenient goods.

 The bakery behind my house once held Chinese owners from the Province of Neimenngu who, when asked, had egg tarts ready for me within the hour. That was a golden age. It was there where everything came from the artisanship of their hands. I liked to pretend that the German goods they baked were a mere cover for all the mian bao they would make me. Sadly, it was short lived. They didn’t stay long. It was an ill-fated space. Their son Mei promised me tutelage in the art of noodling. I brought him tea during the dragon boat festival to seal the deal. That’s how serious I was; but the day I came, they were gone, and the new owners had no idea where they had gone. I never saw them again.

A year later, another bakery opened in the deeps of Kitchener. Yup, there lay the fixed threads of the warp subject to but one single, ever returning, unchanging vibration. It had it all: bubble tea, lemon tea so chalky it’d close your throat, egg tarts, rolled cakes, red bean buns, all settled in a long, PCB lit corridor, lights leaking Won Kar Wai’s own florescent imagination. Everything toted in plastic, prepackaged and ready to be plucked. It was a hard sell, however, especially with the Chinese grocery store next door, which more or less sold the same pre-packaged stuff. And before I knew it, it was gone too. I was surprised. Still, I never expected to see anything like it again, especially if it couldn’t survive where it was. Nor did I expect to stick around long enough to see another incarnation, especially in the old-line uptown space of Waterloo. But hey, I don’t have a crystal ball; Uptown does have a Crystal Palace though- coincidentally owned by the same confident creators of Hot Wheels Tea House, the newest incarnation of the Chinese Bakery. But I’d be a fool to call it that- it’s so much more. Tea House seems an apt label for what it, I imagine, will grow into. For now, while it practices opening, it offers all the baked goods I’d come to expect, as well as Chinese breakfast familiars. Inexpensive breakfast familiars. And if you want the cheapest bubble tea you can find, don’t hesitate to pay the place a visit, at least until it gets its bearings, because you can get a good glass for a nominal 2 dollar fee. That’s right. That’s it. Nothing more. There’s no tax for the time being. It’s too good to be true. Macaroni and toast, chewy steamed buns with crisp cucumber, and sweet tender peking duck; barmy, bitter Hong Kong tea I love, and as much as you can drink thanks to free refills- more than enough to slow down time, or be faster than it. So far, it’s a great place, smack with Sino-Western hybridity, after enough tea, you’d think you were living by The Bund.



N2J 2W7

519-208-8989

Hours: For now, whenever it feels like it.

Any Payment

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Slave to the Grind

I’m not particularly intimidated by Stratford’s downtown. When I was a kid, I was intimidated by the whole place, a symptom of my love of theatre and yearning to act and do something perceptively important to my young self. Those weren’t better days. I like my more cynical, less intimidated older self. I’ve never any qualms about calling shenanigans, as you all already know, I’m sure. So when it came to coffee in the city of Stratford, I wasn’t cowed by the possibility that someone somewhere was serious about coffee. Tea on the other hand, now that’s a different story I’ll reserve for later. But coffee, no way. If someone somewhere made a pour over, I’d had thought my meanderings one frigid Wednesday afternoon totally worthwhile. Sure, people talk about restaurants and how great of a culinary experience Stratford offers, but chances are I’ll never really have the cash to spend and know. Anyway, if that is the case- if the newspapers are right- shouldn’t that include coffee? If there’s good coffee, let me know, because when it comes to the brew in the city, I think the point to choosing a good café lies in your preference of which third space. What would you like to be associated with? What matches your pastiche? What gives you a laugh?

 

 Joey and I had it on good authority, after visiting the cherriest of tea drinkers, that Slave to the Grind Espresso Bar was super serious. And we believed it, given the context that the tea drinker provided the tea for the joint, and hers was out of this world. So we went, we meandered, Joey left, came back in with a Styrofoam cup of poutine, meatballs, and spaghetti sauce, and I treated us to a couple of cappuccinos, and one big peanut butter cookie the size of my head. And that was more or less it. Still, I was happy with some fun options: spelt cookies, a strange chocolate concoction called the Full Monty (if memory serves), and considerate gluten free options here and there (if memory serves). But, there are no meals. No sammies, just good old baked petit fours. I’ve never any problem with that. I quite like the idea of a coffee shop that keeps it simple, short, and about coffee. At the Grind, you can get the second wave essentials: anything from an espresso machine and the typical percolated brew. Alas, no pour overs though. But that didn’t draw me away from the place’s charm, the barista’s cute claim that my cappuccino’s foamy white blob wasn’t for lack of technique, but was, in fact, a fat swan. I laughed. It was enough to make me like the place.

Its 60s retro riddled space wasn’t my cup of coffee, but I could understand the appeal of brownfielding the obsolescent things of our American grandparents. A rotary phone on the wall, molecular chandeliers, a fantastic laminate faux wood ceiling. The place cried out for dynamic camera shots of the things. It was fun, it was small, it was a little run down, but cozy enough to offer a place for at least 12 customers to come and sit. Soon there’d be more room. A sign said so.

So, it wasn’t all coffee. Certainly, on a strip that had a lot of others, coffee seemed only a small part. Fun had to be a big part of it. Ironically though, there is the tea, which is definitely worth the trip to the place.

Slave to the Grind Espresso Bar
46 Ontario Street,
Stratford, Ontario
N5A 3G8


 
Mon: 8am- 5pm
Tue-Sat: 8am- 6pm
Sun: 9am- 4pm

   
ANY PAYMENT

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Not Like Nilus

I couldn’t help but lament to Joey about our city’s saturated cafe market. It seems lately no matter where we find ourselves, there’s one on every corner, staring us brazenly in the face, knowing they can strong arm any spot their owners feel like paying for. Day by day, I feel myself urged more and more to crowd multiple pastry shops, bakeries, or cafeterias into one review, feeling that their differences don’t really matter. If the height of my grief seems too aweless, likening the café as the English student of the restaurant world might be offensive enough to make you understand. I won’t say that when someone’s at a culinary impasse they decide to open a café; but again, it sure does seem like there’re a lot of cafes with nothing spectacularly different about them.
 

My grief was at its height when Debrodnik’s Real Bake Company seemed like any other place. Another bakery or café in another plaza, bombed with illustrations on its windows advertising fresh sandwiches and what not. It too even holds up a little part of the aesthetic bargain. You can believe there’s a wall to sit against festooned with the fanciest decorative floral print wallpaper. You all know the next word I’m going to utter too: rococo. Luckily, it’s reserved to a single space. Beyond that is a more humble area with no spectacular colour schemes, just sandwich tables, pastry fridges, and playfully framed wall illustrations. Beyond that though, a spectacularly playful and spunky menu of simple, yet very creative sandwiches which, in hindsight, were carefully considered and work. How could a poutine sandwich not have been? Or a mini quiche in a bagel? If you’re reading this with any kind of my usual acrimony, please don’t, because Debrodnik’s is a fantastic change of pace. With meatball sandwiches, deep fried cinnamon buns, and proverbial black and white cookies, Debrodnik’s brings us workable comfort food, junk food, and good food. Yes, there are also fresh deli sandwiches. It’s an eight item menu, and I hope it never grows. It doesn’t have to, especially when it’s matched with some of the most creative pastries I’ve seen in a while.

Joey and I mowed down on a meatball sandwich and a gut busting poutine packed in a Kaiser, aptly named, ‘the Gut Buster.’ Weighing in at over one pound, a chewy Kaiser with an immaterial doughnut like sweetness was stuffed with fries, cheese curds, and more fries. Then, topped with gravy, it was carefully pressed together, ensuring its cheesy scaffolding would hold. And before you think something so carbo-loaded couldn’t work, guess again. Crispy fries, cheese curds that actually melted (in a poutine, heaven forbid), and spicy gravy matched the texture of a Kaiser that was buoyant and without all that flakiness we are always sadly expecting. Not here, however. Debrodnik’s creates a novelty sandwich that won’t be novelty for long; it’ll be Canon. 

Our Meatball sandwich was a close second. Crammed with roasted red peppers, mozzarella cheese, parmesan, tomato sauce, and a meatball the size of a little girl’s fist, we couldn’t believe it stayed together, but the sandwich’s creator knew a thing or two about balance.

And if we weren’t comatose enough, we made sure we would be by the time we left, finishing our visit off with a raspberry mocha slice- a cake stacked with rich raspberry mouse, cake, mocha mousse, and a brownie like bottom. A little rich for our fat selves, with a mousse a little more jellied than we would have liked, but a creative ensemble nonetheless. Next was the choux pastry baked black and white cookie topped with, what else? Black and white frosting. Cake like, but with body, it reminded me of so many of the pastries my grandmother shoves in my face. But the deep fried cinnamon bun was the favourite of the bunch. With a crispy exterior cased around a soft chewy inner bread laden with cinnamon and sugar, and coated with a thick heavy frosting we had to stop and put it down, think of how good it was, and pick up where we left off.

Debrodnik’s is the kind of stuff we dream about, see on TV, hear about on cosmopolitan food trucks, but anchored in a locale we can always come to visit. A place I’m wishing I kept a secret, what with its inexpensive and great food. Food, as far as I’m concerned, that easily shames every other blazeh bakery around.

Debrodnik’s Fresh Bake Company

(519) 888-8378

220 King St North  
Waterloo, ON 
N2J2Y7

MON-SAT: 11-7

ANY PAYMENT

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Romancing the Bakery

A gentle reminder for some of the confectionery spaces I've come to know. Mind you, there are many more, but I've tried to be as civil as possible with these places that hold special places in my heart, in no particular order. Enjoy, comrades.

City Cafe Bakery

I don’t find myself at City Café Bakery often, and when I do, it’s because I’m totting around my niece and nephew along with my sister. Nonetheless, she’s resolute: City Café Bakery’s da bomb. And, as I am a democratic eater, I thought I’d give it a good mention, because many recommend it. I personally do not have any major qualms with it, though I feel its offerings are ordinary in the baked goods department. What appeals to the masses, aside from the food, for City Café is the ethos of community it offers and always has. It polices consumer ethics with the honour system. Inside its garage/loft/diner interior customers buy goods and place their change in a jar. That’s right, cash only. But, if you’re feeling a little anarchic you can always stiff the bakers and literally vote with your dollar. You could very well refuse to pay if you don’t think the goods are up to par. An assortment of bagels, tarts, and bars, as well as pizzas are offered. The loaves come at a reasonable 3.25. Smaller goods, like bars at a questionable 2 dollars; but there’s never tax. Coffee’s fair trade. Again, community ethics.

Ottawa Street South

Kitchener, ON 

N2G 3S7

CASH ONLY

The Princess Cafe

The Princess Cafe has a popular following and is favoured, if anything, for its quaint space. Although I myself appreciate it far more for its rare novelties. Offering meal options I think better suited for lunch, the Princess Café offers a great array of potables not merely restricted to coffees and teas. It is the only café I know of in town that offers beer and wine in the setting, so when you’re feeling a little grizzly you can drink like a sailor while your friends all choose pinkies up. Its baked goods are supplied by local suppliers and change frequently based on what the outside bakers have to offer. Great for people looking for constant highs. A word of caution: the Princess Café boasts no barista expertise, so a cappuccino could be nice, able bodied, and foamy one day, but wet and deflated the next, depending on who makes it. So know your help well, and demand they do what they can to make a good and honourable memory of all those Capuchins, tea, or whatever. My novelty of choice? The Italian hot chocolate: a cup of cocoa made as thick or as thin as you like it. Alas, after the Cheeses Murphy debacle (Click here), I’m blackballed from the place, or like to imagine I am, if only to prevent myself from drinking someone’s spit- unless, of course, it’s Laura’s (light of my life, fire of my loins).

46 King Street North
Waterloo, ON 
N2J 
(519) 886-0227

Any Payment

 


Sabletine Fine Pastries 

Sabletine Fine Pastries is my chart-buster. A quaint retrofitted home, unfortunately overshadowed by a high-rise of late millennial capitalism, Sabletine connects eaters to a very romantic French culinary past. It has a monopoly on any other patisserie, all goods being born and bred by its pâtissier, trained, I’m told, in France. It offers all café fair, from coffee, to tea, to an espresso with a rich, heady crema, slight almond body, toothsome aftertaste and sugary aroma I liken to a honey glazed donut. One of my favourite novelties of the place is regal cups and saucers given to the humble and well mannered customer ordering tea. Its chocolate croissants, sprinkled with sugar and pearled with chocolate centres are flakey on the outside, chewy in the middle; and if you can, I recommend going early and getting them warm. Don’t even get me started on the joys of the French Éclairs. Its macaroons are a rare breed in these here parts, and the rich almond meringue that encapsulates a flavoured butter cream worth the exalted 1.50. It may be a lot, but nothing compares to that crunchy, chewy, perfectly balanced dessert, rich enough to have you satisfied with just one.

203 King Street South  

Waterloo, ON 

N2J 1R1 

(519) 568-7373 

Any payment

The Cake Box
Straight and to the point, the Cake Box offers a cupcake that eclipses all competition. And aside from that you can have sugar cookies, prettily dressed, and if you’re lucky, a hearty piece of artisanal cake. Though memory recalls there being more coffee options, the cake box limits itself to coffee, tea, and a small choice of cold beverages. These, I take it, are mere courtesy’s, the coffee being rather tannic in nature, but still tart. The cupcakes, however, are what’re worth the trip, and the lovelies working the line of cake decoration give a good reason to sit, watch, and make anyone feel uncomfortable under the gaze of someone stuffing his face with sweets that have the most unique and impressive flavours, like chocolate mint, coconut, and rocky road. I opted for red velvet as I always do anywhere. A moist chocolate topped by a butter cream with a touch of acidity and a whole lot of sweet. A safe bet for anyone wanting a little familiarity. Cupcakes will set you back 2.50, but quite frankly, I’d pay for them even if they were more. Cookies are 3 dollars each, so I advise a little leeriness, lest you accidently get a stale one. I am also told its legatee was also schooled in L'hexagone as well. Fancy. Check out the new location!

70 Victoria Street North

Kitchener, ON 

N2H 5C2

(519) 579-6230

Any payment

 

Cafe 1842

Café 1842 is the underdog in this culinary battle for café contest. Though I wouldn’t dare suggest a great coffee here, I’ve recollections where my lattes have had great foams. Again, it all depends on the help. But that’s not what makes it a coveted place for this self-conscious culinarian. Yes, its tables are wobbly and its matcha latte at times resembles the eggy aura of an omelette, but if you need a place to go in the late hours of the night, Café 1842 seems a fitting place. Open late, and often in the company of other peaceful café-teers, 1842 is a clean well lighted place for anyone seeking solace, and with the Jazz Room opened next door, you can stay awhile and swoon over the smoke-and-honey voices of the singers that grace the stage Friday and Saturday nights. But its baked goods are my raison d’etre. Don’t be fooled by its lackluster qualities, I’ve never been disappointed with the stuff baked by the cooks upstairs every morning. The lemon squares are my favourite: a crusty, gooey, lip puckering dream. Its array of brownies are another chewy reverie, and the ones that are gluten free expel all guilt, not that I need them. 

59 King Street North  

Waterloo, ON 

N2J

(519) 886-3350

Any Payment

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Dollars to Donuts

Muscled onto the 401 by three Mack trucks mere car lengths before our exit, your enraged narrator and his despot compatriot, Joey, found themselves driving, driving, driving yet again- without any cellphone service, without any direction, without any canteens (that I haven’t already been to), lost first on the bucolic roadways of Ayr, then Cambridge, and then, hours later- cars later- in the downtown of our boondock sibling city, Elmira, which by the way, I didn’t even know had a downtown. A downtown that’s only a few block long mind you; but, a downtown nonetheless. And as a quick aside, if you’re from Elmira, and find yourself angered by my own ignorance, don’t be, I’m already angry at myself for not knowing its dives, its expensive dollar stores, and its damn friendly locals, who seem to have had a radar for two guys who don’t live in the town and came off as the kind of folk who drive Mack trucks and muscle people onto the highway. Seriously though, the amount of hellos, ‘can I help you’s, parables, and blushing school girls were uncanny. I can’t for the life of me remember so much charm, especially when I spent a good deal of my own youth terrorizing so many parties in its neighbourhoods as a teenager.

That said, today was no different, because it wasn’t long before Joey and I were polling residents, comin’ off as big city folk, askin’ for the three best places to eat, laughing because there were only three places to eat, having strangers interrupt strangers, making jeunesse teenage girls feel embarrassed by the sojourning temperament of their town, wishing they could, like Joey and I, come from the big city where we sauna, drive recklessly, and drink all of our parents' vermouth. 

But eventually, we settled for the most amusing novelty suggested, a Mennonite diner called Donuts & Deli, chaperoned to the spot by one of the locals, this time an old lady on her way to the hardware store. Are your hearts gushing yet? They should be, it happened. 

And so there it was, unconceited, nowhere near overblown, filled with storeys, filled, no doubt, with stories, painted plain with walls the shade of emerald somewhere and lime somewhere else, old oak wood, eggwashed ceilings, Kulture, gold ambience, quilts, bread, it was like being baked into your grandmother’s meringue and left out for days. We loved it. Its cheap banana splits, its donuts, its baked goods, its bizarre house specials. Its life lessons. Joey’s being, that for a diner you should expect the food it gives you. So, if a plate says taco salad, don’t expect fixings in a tortilla bowl, expect nacho chips crumbled over salad with cheese. 

I want to write about Donuts & Deli, dear readers, but I don’t want to be honest. Not at all. The governing gourmand in me says, ‘No,’, but the novel seeking adventurer says, ‘Yes’, all the way with Donuts & Deli. It was a confusing escape. I ordered the day’s special, chucked ham and cheese on a Kaiser, broiled, mashed, tough around the edges, a salty, buttery mess that set my stomach on fire, that destroyed me cognitively, releasing dopamine from eating something that was so bad it was good. Combine that with a ridiculously inexpensive price and no one could resist even the most ill-suited thing on the menu of a diner run by Mennonites. Again, I’m talking about the taco salad. It’s so far removed from restaurants, it can’t be judged. 

The locals loved the food they were eating, they asked if we got what they got. They loved their egg salad sandwiches, Joey his turkey sandwich, his potato sausage soup. The stuff was dull as dishwater, but we knew we’d be coming back- for breakfast, for donuts, for girls in bonnets, for the baked goods we love because they’re simply nostalgic. How could we not. Like the blue hair leaving the place told us, ‘better soup with a friend, than steak with the Enemy.’ Damn right, darlin’, damn right.

Elmira Donut & Deli
22 Church St W,
Elmira, ON
N3B 1M3
519-669-5353

PAYMENT: CASH DEBIT

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Responsible Eating

I knew I’d need a good amount of perspective before writing about a place like Bread Heads. I planned on indifferently stating the obvious- that Bread Heads made bread. That’s it. But the pangs of disappointment that came from its owner regarding people who ate there and wrote about it without really thinking about how personal food is to each and every one of us reminded me that I was still pretty responsible when it came to eating anybody’s food. That is, as much as I like admitting that I review with the notion of entertaining my readers first, I do have to consider that even if I don’t like the way something’s done, it doesn’t mean that it’s done badly. The demarcation of food writing allows a lot of wiggle room for this dynamic, choosing your own palette in favour of what you are given to order.

With all that in mind, I took the long way home after spending the better part of my evening sitting against a communally mounted table that shared its space with only six chairs, the most unambitious wood fired oven I’ve seen in the city, and a bread cart displaying the leftovers of what the bakery could turn out for the entire day. Yes, I walked through a graveyard, drank some tea, and thought long and hard about how I could give Bread Heads the good honest review it deserved.

What I respect the most about Bread Heads is the thought that goes into what it offers, even if a miniscule amount compared to the bakeries in town. But that is only in Bread Heads’ static bakery, because aside from that, it has its own mobile cart bringing bread to the people of our fair city. In its bakery, it is a more delimited story. The space is small and cozy, heated throughout by the oven that is fed wood throughout the day. It offers a choice amount of baked bread, but not without having thought about what is best suited to the day. Organic whole wheat loaves are the choice. One type of loaf supports the place, reinforced by offerings of particular baked goods that suit the hot environment: muffins, scones, squares, nothing too baroque. Entrees come in the form of sandwiches and melts, using the buns baked for sale, as well as a smattering of thin crust pizzas which I found to be the most indulging. All these things are apt to change, so although choices seem small day by day, there is always something new the next. 

I chose the day’s pizza special: the harvest. A pizza topped with local vegetables, sheep’s cheese made in Stratford, and a balsamic vinegar reduction. I appreciated the spot’s attempt, no matter how bootless, to seek out the business of the community, and give the food an identity from home. More importantly however, was that it was done with finesse and in good taste. 

It was the fastest pizza ever made for me too. It was not more than 5 minutes before a 9 inch pie was placed in front of me. A sparse, but harmonized amount of cubed roasted vegetables decorated the thing, signaling my mental bellyaching about why there looked to be so little, but soon absolved when I realized that there was no need for so much with such a thin, light crust, speckled with spots of char from the hot oven. Its roasted qualities didn’t interfere with the balmy butter quality that mimicked the comforting character of an English muffin. There was no raw dough here, only light leavened crust, sweetened by the mild nature of the cheese and the reduced balsamic vinegar that was drizzled all over it. I’d otherwise dread telling you the price, but the quality ingredients perfectly justified the payment, and maybe coming back for a muffin and a cup of coffee. 

Bread Heads
16 Duke Street East 
Kitchener, ON 
N2H 2G8 

Hours? I dunno. 

Any payment

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Damn Good Sandwich

Café 22 is the last bastion of culinary contentment my mouth hasn’t had the pleasure of terrorizing. Granted, it’s no restaurant, but it idles as the last obstacle in way of my own gastronomic mastery of all eateries the culinary landscape Uptown Waterloo has to offer. That’s right, by way of Café 22 I will have reduced Waterloo’s proud culinary core to nothing more than mere triviality. It won’t get any more of my money, at least until something else closes or something new decides to open up. Fingers crossed. You may pass the arcade by, unawares its upper level has turned into yet another parasitic delineation of rococo design pasted up into the contemporary spreads we find in so many clinical home décor magazines. But that’s as much as I’ll talk about the way the place looks. I won’t bring it up anymore. I won’t. Why bring this phenomenon of the third place’s aesthetic up again? It’s already been concluded. 

I have to admit though, its space, elevated on an upper level and exposed to the uptown through huge arched windows is very charming, and I felt very peaceful sitting during the dead hours of the afternoon waiting for my order. 

A catalogue of the European delicatessen, Café 22 offers a terra forma selection. You can have lasagna or quiche, soup or salad, panini or sandwiche, as well as every other kind of patisserie for a price that isn’t anywhere near competitive with confectionaries up the block. But to each their own wallet, especially with selections that offer you the chance to have as many fixings as you want in a sandwich or wrap. I strayed away this time from such a privilege, making the tough choice between a Panini or slice of quiche, deciding on the pressed sandwich of my choice: the Toscano. A pressed focaccia sandwiched over translucent slices of salty prosciutto, grilled and marinated eggplant, a fig spread, and slices of brie were paired with a side of obligatory mixed greens drizzled with a smattering of olive oil and herbs making not really a side, but existing as maybe something enough to beat some culinary bylaw of supplying a side in every overpriced dish. 

Normally, I’d rail against a sandwich costing 7.80. But not this time. The smell of grilled eggplant wafting in the air triggered my past romanticisms with food in my own grandmother’s kitchen. To the point, my sandwich was perfect. An easy yes to the best sandwich I’ve had in a long long a while. The focaccia’s herb’s earthiness only lifted the savouriness of the meat, the brie balanced the saltiness of the prosciutto which was both quenched and livened by the incredible plumy sweetness of the fig spread, a first for myself. The bread was crisp, had great hold, was light as air, and crisped consummately by the olive oil it was soused in to bake it, just like my grandmother’s. If anything broke my heart, it was that the fig spread was spread thin, I found myself biting carefully to preserve as much of it as I could throughout the meal. I loved it. I didn’t care who made the thing, where it came from, if it was ‘artisanal’, what factory turned it out- the bricolage that was this sandwich was fantastic, and whoever thought it up had remarkable taste. I’d get it again. I couldn’t care about anything else but this sandwich. Any drawback’s of Café 22 were forgiven in lieu of such a good. I forgot the pretense of space, the overly moist character of my macaroon, nothing mattered. No, no, I’m not saying the place is great, but I am saying the place has one great sandwich, and that’s reason enough for me. 

CAFE 22 
22 King Street South, 
Waterloo, ON 
519.603.5005 

Monday - Saturday, 9:00 am - 8:00 pm 

ANY PAYMENT

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More Cupcakes

It’s a far stretch to say that Honey Bake Shop monopolizes itself in a space that offers so many shops with baked goods, but I’ll still make the claim, even with another patisserie mere blocks away. Because despite all that, it composes itself well as another ballad of the cupcake shop, and the closer to all of our mouths, the better. 

It’s nothing particularly special, nor knew. But its familiarity may make it resonate with the customers it keeps. It’s a lofty, familiar space: woodsy, amalgamated with rococo Alice-in-Wonderland motifs, pastel colour schemes, and a contradicting pioneerism whispering the belly aches of Henry David Thoreau, who I’m sure would even himself be familiar with the operations of the current design standards of pastel, woods, and retro-whatevers. So much so in fact if he came to eat deliberately, or when he came to die, he would have most likely discovered that in the redundancy of these places he had not lived. But if I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again, this isn’t a bad thing. If anything, it’s more convenient for our apathetic palates. 

Aside from an array of cupcakes at the typical cupcake price of 2.50, much like everywhere else, you can have your fill of other danties like shortbreads, croissants, loafs, cookies, brownies or squares, and of course sandwiches, apt to change weekly for the sake of novelty. There is handmade icecream too, which I didn’t privilege myself to try; that said, I’ll never really believe in its quality until I see it hand made in front of me.

Punchy with the amount of annuity I allow myself to spend on these sorts of things, I chose a sweet potato, avocado sandwich to start: a perfunctory sweet potato paddy topped with avocado slices that slipped around, cheese, and a chewy rye, sprinkled with a smattering of oats you’d never see unless you pulled the thing apart. Why the aesthetic exertion on a glorified grilled cheese sandwich? I’d half the mind to mind. The potato did deliver a sweet quality I enjoyed though; the sauce of choice however- a coriander jalepeno- did very little, the rye too, which was much chewier and staunch than it should have been, especially around its edges.

But let’s not dwell on the negative too long. I tried the cupcakes, red velvet was my favourite choice. Although my tongue was thwarted by a tense frosting I expected to be light and fluffy, I can’t say I was too disappointed, especially since its demeanor blended rather well with the butteriness of the cupcake itself, even if a textural mismatch. It had a spicy note I couldn’t put my finger on, but enjoyed anyway. 

The cheesecake brownie was the next on my crusade. Lost in the burnish browned chocolate of its luscious saccharine, the cheesecake topping, light and airy couldn’t handle the heavy body of the baked good. Any flavor had was only discovered by picking it apart on my own. Too bad. The pumpkin loaf, however, was the saving grace. Light, and chewy, I could sense the aromatics condense around the air on my tongue before diving in. Laden with all the perfect pumpkin spices you’d expect, it had the perfect amount of bite, pull being the best feature for any baked loaf in my opinion. All in all, Honey Bake Shop looks good, and dare I say, tastes even better. Jaded as I am with these sort of schemes, I’d be more worn wondering why people aren’t eating there. 

Honey Bake Shop 
100 King Street South, 
Waterloo, ON 
(519) 954-0972 

Tue:Wed:9:00 am-7:00 pm 
Thu:Sat:9:00 am -8:00 pm 
Sun:10:00 am-4:00 pm 

ANY PAYMENT

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The Young Masters

Years ago, in my more conservative culinary days, I would have done everything in my power to expel it from the collective culinary conscience of local eaters. ‘Fair trade? Whatever,’ I said. ‘Eating local? Who needs it?’ It was all a mere ruse. I thought nothing of the eaters seeking those conventions. Slavoj Zizek in my heart, I thought they were nothing more than degenerates; they’d all turn into monkeys.


However today, as if by some act of serendipity, the motley crew of handsome dudes and dudettes at Seven Shores have charmed my ruddy heart and have me wishing that I was privileged enough to work alongside them. Not because of its campaign for eco-eating, though I cannot deny the merit in that. But because of its crew’s swift work ethic and drive for mastery over food that spreads an infectious charm any customer will come by when seeing the passion in what is being made, whether soup, sandwich, confection, or coffee: the masterwork of the place. There is no resistance against a customer’s opinion, only humility.
When it comes to coffee, nothing but truth and artisanship, something the joint stands firmly behind. The horde is honest and will tell you the better coffee choice of the day, provided you ask. From drip to pour-over to the fabled Chemex Coffeemaker, if you’re lucky enough to come on the days one of the young adherents decides to bring his own in. That’s how much they care.

Yes, it’s a huge claim to say Seven Shores offers the best coffee in town, for there is no right or wrong when it comes to the science of connoisseurship, only mere speculative opinion. And yet, if I am to choose any durable standard for measurable taste I’d be a fool not to say nothing beats the brews at Seven Shores. You can even buy the beans yourself if you like it that much, the place is just simply happy having changed your life a little. But the buck doesn’t stop at coffee. There’s a bevy of other beverages, like smoothies and super smoothies (an intriguingly expensive specialty), cold drinks and potable potations offered from the place’s market shelf full of fair-trade and organic products, and even takeout from the menu. That said, there’s a lot to stuff down at Seven Shores, and the menu, combined with what is being baked or offered at the time can be a little overwhelming, but a myriad of choice might be your only problem. Either way, the help has no problem holding your hand through the process. And teasing you about it. That’s right, the prices are fair, and the humour is free.


I was invited to try a latte to start and have the Miso Sesame Tempeh Wrap: a simple wheat tortilla wrapped around meaty marinated wedges of nutty tempeh, stuffed with carrots mixed greens and, of all things, cashew butter. It seemed an odd combination, already disqualified in my mind, but that first bite cautioned me against my own prejudice. Yes, dear readers, I was humbled yet again; apprised of my spoiled self decadence. Cashew butter and vegetables in a sandwich? Who thought such a civilized combination could exist between a savoury preserve and fresh mélange. Not this dude. Accompanying that was a miso tapenade for extra flavor. A dark dipping sauce of what I assumed was miso, soy, sugar and sesame oil, the side offered a good buffer against a dryness that characterized the roll. And though I could appreciate the sentiment, I felt the wrap was enough to stand on its own.

Next on the dish was the side salad of the day, a coleslaw I couldn’t get enough of. A pungent medley of julienned cabbages, peppers, and root vegetables, the dish was enshrined by a homemade dressing of extraordinarily well rounded sweetness, accenting those Asian inspired flavours of the wrap, and tempering the fermented characteristics of the fresh cut cabbage. I daresay it was my favourite part.

To quell my gluttony further I asked for any baked goods, eyeing the banana bread and what the place called Marg’s Magic Bar, a palmed sized square with a graham cracker bottom and all the nostalgic fixings of the goods our moms’ used to bake us in our youths: nuts, chocolate chips, oats. I blushed at the first bite, the salty, buttery base ablated my sharp demeanor, and the sweet bits quickly picked me back up. Even its burnt edges had me curling my toes. I didn’t care that some might not like it. I did.

However, my banana bread had a mild sweetness accompanied by an unpleasant balminess one finds from using notably over ripened bananas, but its crisp exterior and moist interior more than made up for it.

Ironically, you may be pressed to find a place to sit, especially since Seven Shores has expanded into a larger space. That said, you might get lucky, and be able to pony up the dough to rent out the new community room for whatever venture. One thing’s for sure, regardless of its move away from its older folksy convention of space in place of a homier and more cosmopolitan design, it still manages to maintain its mission of fostering a sense of not only community but, I think, good connoisseurship.

Seven Shores Urban Market & Cafe
10 Regina St. N Unit 4.
Waterloo, ON. N2J 2Z8

Monday to Friday 7am to 6pm
Saturday 7am to 4pm
Sunday - Closed "Spending time with Family & Friends"

All methods of payment

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The Big Black Brew

Death Valley’s Little Brother, or DVLB for short, is a gastronomer’s analytical dream. Gastronomer, not restaurant reviewer. You all know, I consider myself the latter. Sure, I relay to you luxurious readers how things taste, but I like to put culture a good step before any tasty meal. Why, out of all the third spaces in town- coffee shops, I mean- is DVLB a place worth visiting? What does it mean for its patrons? A myriad of sophistications.

Does it have a niche?

believe it.

Is it a business monopoly?

Perhaps.

A charmed kind of coffee circle?

Most definitely.

You need only see how the space operates and, of course, how it brews. I can confidently say it is the first place in town to offer the pour over: the cherriest of coffee brews. Yes, it is, as an old master told me weeks ago in a basement bar, a space capturing an authentic past, a sure fire sign of cosmopolitanism, paradoxically. It gregariously pays homage to its Kitchener Waterloo heritage. Once a livery yard, once a private men’s club, once a speak easy, now a dark, mysterious coffee shop. The operation is tongue in cheek, and for that reason, I respect it. It has hours of operation it doesn’t follow, a sign without a name, a light above its front door that glows red when it decides to open for the most devout coffee drinkers, and an infograph for those who want to actually have a good glass of whiskey to level out any polemic coffee gives them. Its lofty appearance, iron chairs, hanging chandeliers, clinical tea jars and jolly roger espresso cups, may make it seem like a preemptive declaration of trendiness, but DVLB playfully demarcates itself from all that jazz, for behind all its smoke and mascots, it maintains its admirable, most patriotic quality: great coffee. And even greater whiskey, I imagine.

And I’ve no complaints with the fare they sell: Scottish pies, pasties, and pastries. It may seem odd to have a 15 dollar expatriated anti-pasto dish on a very small menu, but I can’t find any argument with something savoury in a place that sells liquor. Bocconcini and truffle oil don’t blend well with scotch anyway- so I overheard. And yes, it all seems a little pricey; 3.50 oolong tea, 6.00 crème brulee; but I am merely giving what little bad news there is first. There are reasonably priced confections and I cannot now, nor ever complain about the price of the black brew. Sure, it’s negligibly more for a cup of coffee at DVLB, but I think once you have it, it’ll be hard to go anywhere else. Be forewarned.

My favourite part? That espressos and americanos share the same price point. Thank you, DVLB. And if that’s not enough, how about a tart espresso with a deep, roasted quality, more deep and nutty than tannic and brassy. Combine that with a stick to your rib crema that stays around even after you let it settle. An elixir so slick, oily, and smooth you’d consider using it for petrol if its finish wasn’t so savoury and worthwhile.
My pour-over was a more gentle, tempered story, so much so you’d never know it had more caffeine than its tiny espresso counterpart. It conveyed a piney, apparitional aroma. Sipping its bright, fruity surface, you’d never think it was coffee, what with the over roasted Americanized ashy brew we’ve come to know as Western drinkers. Each pearl of oil was like a star, swirling around its surface, forming a galaxy and a coffee that would take anyone out of this world. It warranted mindful drinking, especially hot, otherwise losing all the qualities mentioned in lieu of a tannic underpinning if left to cool. Is there a life lesson here? Enjoy the warmer aspects of our friendships, lest we lose sight of all others good qualities and have them turn cold and bitter. Deep.

But I digress.

There’s much more to discuss, like the lavender and blueberry crème brulee: a manifestation of pure luxury. A ribbony blueberry sauce lying beneath a creamy surface of saturated lavender custard emblazoned by a caramelized glass of sugar. An earthy aftertaste quenched an otherwise decadent dessert, giving a new level to its crème brulee element. Dazzling.

My lemon tart looked a little dry and gelatinous, but its firm foundation balanced well with its junket of bright lemon custard. Its puckering acidic vista leveled its overbearing sweetness, and its crisp butter bottom gave it texture and shape in the mouth, much more individual than the glutinous lemon squares I’ve been a proponent of for so long.

Lastly, my zucchini muffin, something a passionate customer swore by, was heated to a ripening crispness that left it crackling and a pleasure to chew. Though a bit dry, I couldn’t argue with its warm character, supported by its comforting treacle qualities of sugar and spice. Nothing too out of the ordinary, but it was only a muffin after all.

I’ve left out other options, like cappuccinos and lattes, but all the more reason to go and check it out for yourselves, assuming you still fear the big black brew on its own. Don’t worry, they won’t judge you, in fact they’ll offer a little cream and after that a little whiskey to calm you down.

Death Valley's Little Brother

84 King Street North
Waterloo, ON
N2J 2X4

519-208-6211

Corner of Bridgeport and King N.
(across from the Failte Irish Pub)

“We're open most days about 8 or 9, occasionally as early as 7,
but some days as late as 12 or 1.

We're closed about 7 or 8, and occasionally on weekends at 11.

Some days or afternoons we aren't here at all, and lately we're here
all the time except when we're someplace else ;)”

ANY PAYMENT

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Die Bread, Die

The Weltanschauung that codifies German Baked Specialties Ltd., or GBS for short, may be that it dabbles in the sales of German baked goods that are made, and therefore consist, of authentic German ingredients. That’s right, the new bakery located on the Uptown strip and no more than a month old has been abuzz with the most svelte of palettes (to sound as ignorantly German and sophisticated as I possibly can). What puts GBS in the current running as a potentially great bakery in a city with deep German roots and a lot of German culinary influence is the very dynamic that each loaf of bread, so I am told, is made and baked 60% in Deutschland and then shipped out here to the little town of Waterloo where the process is completed and customers get the privilege of having something of European quality put in their authenticity seeking mouths. Now, unless you think about what you put in your mouth, eating from GBS can seem like a kind of battle of culinary Imperialism. One can buy the food because of its quality and very well elevate themselves to that level of gastronomic sophistication, knowing where to get the best bread; or, one can refuse because it doesn’t support local eating- the carbon footprint is a big one. These are in fact two points I’ve discussed with those aware of GBS’s existence as of late, and as a gastronome I eat the drama up. Regardless, I’m not a hard sell when it comes to eating, and considering where the bread comes from, it certainly is affordable and I think worth a good try.

I considered coming late in the afternoon a good advantage, only to be caught in the eye of a storm of customers because GBS, unlike other bakeries around that I’ve been to, was still knee deep in dough. Surly bakers rushed in and out with treys of bread, while their more gentle counterparts attended to me as best they could. All-the-while, there I was, treading connoisseurship in a sea of housewives and flaneurs. The Bourgeoisie sentiment of the space was enough to remind you of your great Imperialist Aunt’s house. You know? The one with dendritic prints on her wallpaper, a gaudy glass chandelier, and a fireplace where your Uncle reads about, I dunno, Thatcherism? Yes, GBS certainly sets its long interior up as a narrow yet dazzling 3^rd space of the Bourgeoisie, as paradoxical as that may sound. I can only imagine what the spirits of our political ancestors would say. But don’t be so quick to judge, because though GBS offers a focused bill of fare (that being bread), it gives good reason to just stay in and enjoy. Coffee is one of them. I had to get the coffee, because during my second experience hearing about GBS I was made to promise to buy the coffee, the only coffee the place offers. One simple, focused, allegedly brewed right, cup.

Now, I may have learned kung fu from a grandmaster from the hills of Hunan province, how to eat from a kid from Hong Kong, and how to cook from an old Thai woman, but everything I learned about connoisseurship I learned from a woman who knows it better than I know myself. Who ate fish so fresh it was like fish candy, who picked wild berries as a child and ate them immediately with fresh cream, and who to this day keeps a lemon tree and red hen in her backyard. And as always, my old Bourdieusian master was right. It was one clean cup; no acrid, tannic acidity, but just tart and clean. The kind of stuff that makes the back of your throat roll over in submission. There was no need at all for any sugar or cream. My only qualm may have been that it is offered in one large cup; still, for a cheap price in retrospect. Aside from a good cup, GBS offers other great café-esque fare like doughnuts, light and chewy, and covered in chocolate fondant a little rich for my mouth. Closer to a soft cake rather than the gooey things we’re used to in the superfluous doughnut shops of our town. GBS has cheese cake, it has spreads for slices of bread, it even makes an array of sexy sandwiches running between 4 and 5 dollars. And mark my words, if I wasn’t drowning in a sea of Saturday afternoon socialites I’d have stayed for a slice, but I was satisfied asking for the helps’ favorite loaves.

A loaf at GBS will run you a good 5 dollars, give or take a little more. That said, they’re a good size, and asking for an even half is ample enough in my humble opinion. First, I was offered a dark organic rye. A loaf with a chalky exterior, it was the toughest of the group, but a potent rye nonetheless. Strong and full bodied with a smoky smell and even smokier aftertaste, it was the kind of savoury flavor you’d expect in German cuisine; a perfect partner to any pastrami.

Next, I was shown the polenta; a delicate corn bread with a muted flavor, but resilient shell dusted with cornmeal. Its interior was pliant and its flavor enhanced by a sprinkling of sunflower seeds throughout.

After that, I went after the rye sour dough. Hearty, but surprisingly not dense, it was another rich rye, this time with a charred back note. Any character from the sourdough was weak, but instead a mild sweetness permeated throughout.

Thanking the bakers and on my way to work a shift in underemployment, I was graciously met with a spelt loaf before I left, free of charge. That’s right, even gluten freevangelicals can enjoy what the GBS has to offer (kinda). GBS just may be the bakery that raises the bar for the elder bakeries still operating in this city, but lacking in a city where bread may have become too comfortable.

German Baked Specialties Ltd.

226-291-1147

94 King Street South

Waterloo, ON N2L 1P5

UPTOWN

Mon.- Sat.: 930-5

closed Sunday

Any payment

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