Smitten

I’d barred the idea of writing about tea for a long, long time. It’s my first love. Yes, even before the namesake of this blog. I was exposed to it by my old master, drinking hot tea instead of cold water after strenuous kicks and punches, and I’ve even gone so far as to con my way into expos masquerading as a buyer just for the sake of tasting the most expensive liquors. But, more than being something personal, I’ve never considered it something serious around here. I’ve badgered brewers in shops with techniques, and even asked them to give me the leaves separate from the water so I could wait for the appropriate temperature and then steep it myself. I imagined there was never really much to say about the stuff when it came to people shelling it out. It was just something traded, elevated by the rhetoric that branded it and sold the lifestyle attached to it. Around here, unless brewed at home, it was nothing more than a pretense for meeting. It doesn’t hold the same assumed finesse as coffee does around these parts. That is until Joey and I serendipitously discovered a shop in Stratford just shy of a week ago. It took Joey some convincing, but I guaranteed him copious amounts if he came along. And, of course, as my dear brother in culinary arms, he obliged, aware of my past, aware of my prospects with Mrs. Wu in the hills of Gukeng.

We almost missed Tea Leaves Tasting Bar, zooming by the old retrofitted bed and breakfast, now base to the only place, at least that I’ve found, run and occupied by a tea sommelier, schooled in the brew, traveled, well versed, and more than ready to teach you about the cheapest of luxuries. And before you disqualify with an assumption that the tea is expensive, let me assure you, it isn’t any more than the places you buy it at in town. The place is riddled with teapots, hangings, cups, anything tea related, and as well as the most spirited cats. Joey and I were smitten, if only a little anxious. Me, because I wanted to make a good impression; Joey, because he likes cats.

And so there we were, treated to an on the spot tasting, focused on buying the purest greens, but side-tracked by rich Keemuns (Qimens for you cool kids) because of our shared appreciation for the smokier whisky-esque brews. Our sommelier gave us a profile, set up some cups, timed, brewed, and poured, teaching us more in an hour than Okakura ever could. The resemblance to wine tasting was uncanny, and if you can get passed the discomfort of the bourgeois sentiment of connoisseurship, then you can learn how to really appreciate every kind of dynamic in every kind of tea. The touch, the taste, the smell. We were told about mouthfeel, how to slurp tea held in the mouth in order to experience an even deeper element of aroma and taste, ideas I’ve read about in books but only seldom tried until that day. It was magical. Just two bros at a bar, with a great teacher, lovin’ Lapsang Souchong, the most remarkable we’ve tried, and we’ve bought it from every shop in the region. Its aroma was like fresh tilled earth and a forest floor riddled with meaty fungus. Its flavor, smoky with woody elements and the most amazing root like notes reminiscent of fresh ginseng. I bought up a big bag, and spoiled myself with a cheery blossom sencha brew as well. Dewy with an ester quality. Buttery cherry notes filled the nostrils and breath even after breathing out. Apparitional cherry flavor even coated the tongue. It was hard to believe this tea, like all the others, had no flavouring added. And yet, there it was, sought after, thought about, critically drank, chosen, and brought back to us bumpkins so we could enjoy, what I can’t stop saying: the cheapest of luxuries.

 



 




TEA LEAVES TEA TASTING BAR
Wednesday to Saturday,
11am to 5pm, or by appointment

433 Erie Street, Stratford,
Ontario, Canada N5A 2N3

1-800-733-0376 (toll-free)
519-273-1201 (local)

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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Coming Home

You’d think that the bowl of congee would otherwise be my White Whale. Well, guess again, that’s the Chinese bakery, but that’s another culinary critter altogether. It was the kid from Hong Kong though, and his ‘earth-to’ over a bowl of congee that made me really fall in love with everything Chinese food. Go further back, and it was that same Hong Kong kid and a chalky cup of Hong Kong tea that woke me up to a whole other world of culinary sentience. Ever since, I’ve been obsessed with a cuisine I’ve no doubt mastered in another life, and have been trying to return to in this one.

Happy Valley’s Congee & Bar’s lights were a marvel when I first saw them glowing and abandoned months ago in that poor plaza that burned down in 2010. Since its opening a month or two ago, I’ve wondered why it hasn’t been crammed with homesick out of town kids looking for a little simulacrum of the eating houses they miss in Hong Kong, Richmond Hill, Markham, wherever. It certainly was an egg in my beer, reminding me of all the pilgrimages I’ve taken to the culinary suburbs of Canada’s Rose Capital just for some sludgy tea and deep fried devils. It was almost too good to be true. Too good in fact, that the cynic in me was disqualifying it before even eating there; not getting my hopes up, thinking that what it had was already here, thinking it couldn’t last too long, despite its namesake in Hong Kong. I’ve watched enough police dramas and rom-coms to know better anyway. Still, something in my heart of hearts nagged me to pay homage to that emulsified porridge of fat and white rice that inspired my gastronomic vocation, if not career. So I’m paying my dues to the dish, and the dining hall of clinical Chinese cosmopolitanism that houses it. I’m talking wooden booths, flood lights, television screens, hearths, sleek browns and blacks coupled with plastic cookware and the homeliest Cantonese food I’ve come to know and love in my limited adventures of eating.

Happy Valley’s a remarkable place; of course, its menu’s a pastiche of Chinese soul food, and dim sum, but it also operates as a substitute to the banal bars and the typical fare we expect to eat when we go to them. Happy Valley’s a fantastic change of pace for these parts. If I’m not giddy about the boldly inexpensive alcohol, I certainly am about the even cheaper snacks you can grab if you’re adventurous enough. Have you ever paired a Hong Kong Tea with a pint of beer? You can there. I know, because I did it. I’ll never need any whiskey espresso bar again; why would I when I can get a pint of crisp beer with oaty finish for 2.66 and a one dollar cup of the most on-the-mark Hong Kong tea I’ve ever had in town: malty in aroma, bitter and sweet in flavor, chalky and mouth coating in consistency. I saw my future as a retired expat reading the Hong Kong Economic Times: flip-flops, relaxed flower print shirt, comb-over. All this while taking turns between fanning myself, turning pages, and having a sip.

And that was just the start. Deep fried devils, chicken feet, sticky rice wrapped in lotus leaf, dumplings, barbecued pork steamed buns, condensed milk sandwiched between slices of toast, all on the cheap. It was a dream come true. So much so, I stayed after everyone left. If it really was a dream, I didn’t want to wake up. Our deep fried dough gleamed in the light, flakey, and chewy, the consistency was a treat all its own, better when dipped in my congee, bathing over every kind of ingredient: century eggs, meat, seafood, decked to the nines with white pepper and chili paste. The chicken feet, sweet and swimming in a garlic black bean sauce with a delightful caramel undernote- a fatty textural pleasure, especially when paired with beer. And the sticky rice, as expected, was embalmed by the vegetative earthiness of the leaves wrapped around it, aromatically reminiscent of tea. All the trinkets of meat and nuts made it that much more satisfying.  

The dumplings- named after Chiuchow city- were another chewy Epicureanism. Packaged with stuffings like pork, spring onions, and peanuts, the pungent overpowering aroma was a memory of my serendipitous culinary youth. The barbecued pork steamed buns too. All too familiar, the sweet, smoky savouriness was good to eat when the things were hot or cold. Happy Valley certainly had it all- for me at least: familiarity, food, congee. It was, like that kid from Hong Kong said years ago about a good bowl of congee, like coming home.

HAPPY VALLEY CONGEE & BAR
140 University Avenue W
Waterloo, ON N2L
(226) 647-8818
 
SUN-WED 1130 am-12am
THURS-SAT 1130am-130am
 
ANY PAYMENT

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University Pub Showdown

*Posted at the request of one habitué to read whenever they so desire, and the same goes for all of you too. Enjoy. Or don't.*

I love you, dear readers. Believe me, I do. So much so, that I had every intention of fervidly spoiling our feuding University’s doppelganger food-hole cleverly named Wilf’s Restaurant & Bar.

You didn’t think anyone had the guts to do it, did you? You all thought about it. Well now we’re all assembled around our own dictatorships of thought. Everyone else knows that everyone else knows we all want the answer to which place is better: Wilf’s or the Bomb Shelter? Well, you can thank me, because now we all have a mutual knowledge. Consider me the boy that said the emperor has no clothes. More specifically, Wilf’s is bad, or The Bomber sucks eggs.

So, with The Imprint’s resident photographer, Bobby D- devote Bomber habitué- by my side, we were ready and willing to skull some culinary scores.
Wilf’s venue is sexy. I admit it. Thanks to dumb luck- or malaqueous domus - Wilf’s was shut down because of a flood, rebuilding, and becoming more beautiful. So, when you’re leery about your food’s quality and its prices, you now know why. You are, as is the cosmopolitan convention, paying for the atmosphere. That’s where I like to think all my money went. Deep browns, sleek woods, high tables, comfortably sized booths, hundreds of fancy new flat screen televisions (unlike the Bomber’s four), flood lights, rococo ceiling trims all compose the space, as does very friendly service. Should we extend this imagery further? I don’t see the need. Everyone who’s anyone has been to the Bomber. We know what it looks like. It certainly isn’t bar chic (it does have a patio, though). It is, pardon my analogy, the country mouse to Wilf’s city mouse. Yes, it was looking pretty good. Bobby was conflicted. He didn’t want to like it. Point for you, Wilf’s, point for you.

But how was the menu? More focused, Bobby said. I took his word for it. It was a good charted bill of fare with drinks listed first. Unorthodox, yes; but when done, seemingly more logical. And if you’re still unimpressed, how about a gluten free menu in the menu? Damn. Bomber don’t have that. Wilf’s was coming up strong. But the food could be the game changer. We were ready to play. Bobby got his Shirley Temple. I got ready to order.

We started with appetizers: bruschetta on an herbed spiced flatbread, and deep fried pickles (the place must have finally got my letters).
When they did finally come, a good while after we ordered during an underwhelming lunch rush, we were aesthetically pleased. Flavourfully, we were both disenthralled. The bread did everything to flavor the bruschetta, other than that, it was a dull mix of cute little tomato cubes left to stew in their own disappointing premade juices, flavourless basil, and plastic parmesan cheese.

My deep fried pickles? Saltier than I would have expected, with a great crunchy exterior thanks to the batter, but not the pickles themselves, which were listless, flat, and lost without that pleasing lip puckering pickle taste I expect when eating them. They were dead, and the accompanying sauce like the paramedic that’s obligated by law to resuscitate even though he knows the subject’s dead.

All was not lost, however. Bobby had his chicken wings coming, and me my Hawker: a grilled chicken sandwich on a ciabatta bun, topped with bacon, tomatoes, lettuce, barbecue and chipotle sauce.
All that and a side of poutine.

Bobby’s wings came with crudite. He seemed to like it. The Bomber never did that for him. When it came time for the wings though, he was hesitant about diving in. The wings were drowning in a generous amount of barbecue sauce, and Bobby knew it was only a matter of time before he got dirty. His long, luxurious hair too. That was the only flaw. Other than that, he was satisfied.
And there I was, just me and my sandwich. Sure, sometimes the bacon was lost in the flavour of a moist chicken breast, calming tomato slice, and generous lettuce, but I couldn’t argue with its heartiness. My only qualm was its unevenly sliced bread. With a roof 3 times as thick as its base, it was only a matter of time before its bottom was an annoying wet mess. Oh, and the poutine? A family of feeble fries, drenched in a scarlet gravy, no doubt premade. What’s worse, is that it didn’t even cover all the curds lobbed all over my plate. The clumps just wouldn’t melt. It reminded me of the stuff from my highschool’s cafeteria, which Laurier practically is. Am I right?
C’mon. You all laughed.

Low blows aside, the poutine is right up there with the Bomber’s; side by side, you can’t tell any salty singularity. So which’s the better house? If both bars’ foods are equally humdrum, check out Wilf’s. The venue and menu make it seem like it’s at least trying. Still not convinced? Of course not. You’re all too patriotic. That’s why I’ve broken it down for you all with a fun little list. Like it, love it, hate it, whatever. Just enjoy it. I heard two girls say that in beautiful vocal fry. Anyway.

WILF’S
The Hawker

•    A chicken sandwich served on a ciabatta bun with shredded iceberg lettuce, tomatoes, onions, bacon, mayonnaise and a barbecue sauce.
•    A moist chicken breast flavoured with a barbecue marinade.
•    Bacon was sometimes lost to the overpowering sauce combination.
•    Ciabatta bun unevenly cut, which made the bottom soggy halfway through.
•    Comes with any side

Poutine

•    Super salty with a deep scarlet gravy more or less constituted from powder.
•    Dry curds that couldn’t melt and fries that bore little spirit.

Wings

•    Tasty chicken wings
•    served in an intimidating amount of sauce that made the pound look more like a stew. 


THE BOMBER 
The Warrior

•    A chicken sandwich served on a ciabatta bun with leaf lettuce, tomatoes, onions, and mayonnaise.
•    Blander than its challenger, but the Cajun version can be purchased.
•    Chicken breast was rather dry, and the lettuce flaccid.
•    Mild on the palette.
•    Its saving grace was an evenly sliced ciabatta bun with just enough bread on either side, unlike its contender.
•    Comes with any side.

Poutine
•    Overpoweringly salty, with fries that need to be eaten fast, or else.
•    Even though the gravy was salty, it had a better viscosity than its competition.

Wings
•    Alright. Just enough sauce, but not nearly as flavourfull as Wilf’s

*originally published in The IMPRINT Mar 30, 2012*

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The Tame Fox

Wayfaring for food with Joey has once again taken me to the farthest reaches of the region’s culinary landscape. But dread not fellow eaters, because I still managed to keep my iron stomach in town, though this particular place may be a ways in our culinary pond. Still, if you are like me, the chancing culinary type, you would risk wandering somewhere far for something potentially good, as Joey and I do, and always seem to be doing lately, our meandering mouths aptly choosing a place that suits the wilds its situated in. I’m talking about the Rabbid Fox. Not particularly wild, but in the wilds of Kitchener, as wild and suburban as things can admittedly get. And as wild as the place allows its actual essence to be, its selling point being that, as rabid as the fox is, it has a ‘twist.’

The flushed aroma of beer hit us hard, and the patrons at the bar would have otherwise intimidated us if we hadn’t been, by some act of Providence, dressed for the occasion. Yes, Joey and I fit in well, what with his handle bar mustache and my thermal undershirt button-front combo. But that’s enough small talk.

There’s nothing particularly rabid about the Rabbid Fox, unless you consider its attempt at pretension, because behind its manifesto one will discover, as I did immediately walking through its proletariat sports bar decorated with lethargic, unwincing browns, hockey jerseys, and flat screens commingling with a dining section that can only remind a person of those large mysterious mansions we see while driving in the countryside, no doubt belonging to misanthropic surgeons, that the Fox is just a gastro pub. Certainly, the butcher paper tablecloths and silverware combination cements the conception.
And, like all gastro-pubs, the Fox does everything it can to coalesce the best of the two rivaling sibling worlds that have existed ever since the birth of the Market. So much so, that the special of the day was escargot; combine that with poutine and you might have some sort of sibylline utopia. I’ll never know.
Nevertheless, you can have a hardy, but well thought out meal for just under 20 dollars. I can’t deny my interest in all of the things I wanted to combine on the menu, offering trivialities and house specials which did catch Joey and my fancies.

We started with the saganaki appetizer, a Greek cheese flambéed in an anise flavoured liquor, contrasting salty and sweet powerfully by way of melted, curdled cheese mellowing in a wonderfully reduced syrup of liquor. If we were patient, we would have taken our time to dip our flat breads in the stuff, but we were having too much fun piling cheese on bread and chewing away. I had to settle for dipping my knife in the stuff when all was good and done, it was that fantastic.

Next, I was misdirected by the waitress into trying the bar’s special Po’Boy sandwich, stacked with sliced beef, cheese, caramelized onions, deep fried pickles (the coup de grace), and a creole sauce. I had high expectations that fell too short for it, and all Po’Boy sandwiches in this town, because I’ve never really had one I’ve enjoyed, simply because they’ve never been done well. My bun was soft and warm, my beef, boiled, fatty and bland, which did no good to balance the textural quality of the bread. The caramelized onions too were weak and squeaky, with no real flavour. Half way through I found myself pulling out my deep fried pickles before they lost any composure, but I’m always a sucker for the things. I thought maybe the dipping sauce it came with was reason for its dull composure, but it just made it a salty mess, visually reminiscent of some oil spill somewhere. Too bad.

Now, the Fox’s locale may make eating there forgivable, but I can only hope my bad sandwich was the only bad undomesticated thing on the menu.

THE RABBID FOX
123 Pioneer drive, 
Kitchener, ON(519) 748-2404

Mon - Tue:     11:00 am - 11:00 pm
Wed - Sat:    11:00 am - 1:00 am
Sun:            11:00 am - 10:00 pm


PAYMENT: VISA MASTERCARD DEBIT CASH

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Still Burgin'

You’re probably tired of reading about hamburgers, and with due reason. It seems this summer the things are all I write about, so I don’t blame you. But please, dear readers, bear with me one last time, and take comfort in knowing that my burgin’ has given me a wide perspective on the patties our dear city has to offer.

At the request of yet another mouth I was led to Jack Burger Pub, an alleged dive bar turned hamburger joint. I’ve known the red bricked house on the corner of Duke and Ontario Street my entire life, parking in the adjacent lot many-a-time, hearing the rabble from within, neon lights glowing without, never having the gull to enter on my own, or with a friend even. But those were different days. Days when Jack Burger was old One Eyed Jack’s, a bar most probably didn’t look twice at. So, why would I?

Well, as a staunch advocate of good, focused menus I was nothing but thrilled when a friend told me to check out Jack’s: a place with three menu options and nothing else. Now, it may not be the focused mastery we want with foodstuff that takes time and effort, like a perfect bowl of ramen, or good cup of coffee, but the dynamic is something I certainly appreciate and wish to support.

Straight and to the point, Jack’s allows its customers to choose from two kinds of patties, vegetarian or meat, or Jack’s 8” hot dog; from there, you have the option of making a myriad of combinations with toppings, some at extra charge, but who’s counting.  There’s also the choice of salads, and cool nostalgic novelties like milk shakes, what Jack’s menu explains as ‘real’ ice cream, and soft drinks in glass bottles. Now, if you know me by now, you know I’d rail against such appeals to a nostalgia most of us reading aren’t even old enough to have experienced; but I won’t in this rare instance, because glass bottled coke has an appetence different from what we drink out of a can or plastic bottle. Don’t believe me? Go to Jack’s and shell out the 3 dollars to try one. Gone is that overbearing carbonated saltiness the kid’s from Hong Kong go gaga over. Relish in the pungent caramel syrup that sweetens the liquor. Personally, I’m glad I threw my prejudice to the wind. This time.

Spoiling myself further I asked for a Jack burger with smoked bacon, blue cheese, and the usual burger fare. All that, and a side of poutine. Then, after a patient 10 minutes, laid in front of me was a fine grained sesame patty stacked with pickles, lettuce, chopped tomatoes (not conventionally sliced), bacon, and a blue cheese that liquefied as it smothered a pale looking patty, not seared like I’d expect. The first bite shocked me with the pickles’ fruitiness, the rich blue cheese mellowed any sweetness, and the chewy demeanor of burger and bun, balanced perfectly in proportion, made the chuck disappear in a matter of minutes, leaving a mess of mustard and ketchup in its wake. It wasn’t the best burger I’ve had, but it certainly was genial enough. The side of poutine was another story: fries smattered with grains of salt smothered in an even saltier gravy and curds that didn’t melt, even in 30 degree weather. Nothing out of the ordinary, and like so many other poutines this city has to offer. Alone, however, the earthy flavor of the fries was a delight. Otherwise, I’ve no qualms with Jack’s. And if you’re in the neighbourhood, and if you want a burger, there it is, patio, bar and all.


ANY PAYMENT
45 Duke St. West in Downtown Kitchener.

Hours: unknooowwwnnn.

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Ch-Ch-Changes

Everyone who’s anyone knows about the Huether Hotel, an ambiguous grab-bag for all the restaurants that actually make up its space, the Barley Works being one such assemblage. Now, my eating there may even be old hat for all you eaters, and I’d be apt to let you all assume that as the students, you all are becoming the masters of places to eat, but let me assure you, this is not yet the case. So, why the visit to a place so well known in the city’s conscious? To the point, the menu has changed and separated itself from humble pub familiars to food with a more cosmopolitan tone. Yes, things are changing. The only way to see it may be by reading the bankable menu, rewritten to seduce you with urbane imagery and sellable artisanal rituals which, for some reason, make us all think the food tastes so much better. That and, of course, trying the food. You certainly won’t know by stepping in the place. The atmosphere hasn’t changed, so I won’t bore you culinary confidants with the details. But, if you are a little inexperienced, here’s a brief blow by blow: sports bar, tvs, exposed brick, lions’ heads, plaques, red pipes, popular patio, always filled in the summer. Good.  If it pleases you, you can spend a little, or you can spend a lot. A satisfying meal will run you between 10 and 20 dollars, though the appetizers seem as expensive as entree meal options. The menu runs the gamut, not necessarily specialized, but not sabotaging either: from soups to salads to hamburgers, pasta, schnitzel, and steak, you can have it all. I may have very well ate more, but I spent all of my personal allowance on bottomless hot pot for an expatriated Taiwanese news anchor turned self-effacing business man, bless his hardworking heart. Thus, I settled for an unabashed bison burger, a meat that seems unsuited to the wilds of Waterloo, but a good test of the Barley Works potential. For dessert, I stuck with an old menu favourite, although new to me: a stout float. A pint filled with brownie, vanilla ice cream, and the house’s choice beer; maybe a familiarity to you, but a total surprise to me. Yes, young masters, I’m still learning.   My burger came to me settled snuggly beside a house salad made of iceberg lettuce, spinach and veiny red chard, with typical toppings like carrots, peppers, and croutons. Now, as far as I’m concerned, a salad’s a hard thing to do, and as a side a mere display to make you seem like you’re getting some money’s worth. Not the case here.  My burger, a charred round hugged by lettuce, tomato, caramelized onions, a sun dried tomato mayo, unfortunately lost, and jalapeno havarti cheese on a Kaiser with a soft character, was an avid eat. Not perfect, but nowhere near a failure. If I had any qualms with the thing they were nothing more than mere textural trivialities: a bun too big for a paddy that slid back and forth and eventually fell apart, caramelized onions too stringy and stubborn to easily break, and too little avocado spread. But aside from that, I couldn’t resist the paddy’s charred exterior, its maroon flesh, reminiscent of a medium well steak, and the rich primal urge I had devouring the thing. I felt like a brute, but nothing short of satisfied. My stout dessert had the potential to be something great, if not for the hoppy beer it was paired with, not complimenting the sweetness of the ice cream, but only getting in the way of enjoying any contrast between sweet and heady. Fear not, if you are as gastronomically inclined as me, you could very well argue a choicer brew. And as for the brownie? Well, it’s a brownie; who would complain? Huether Hotel Lion Brewery Restaurant 59 King Street North, Waterloo, ON N2J 2X2 Phone: (519) 886-3350 Everyday 1130 am -1 am CASH CREDIT NO DEBIT

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Come and Catch the Sickness

	It's art, dad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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



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

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

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