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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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Yeah, Yeah, I know what you're thinkin'. Everybody who's anybody has been to the Cake Box! (Why does that sound vaguely familiar? Why does vaguely familiar sound vaguely familiar? What can I say? I'm a hack!)
I recall my first experience visiting the Cake Box and feeling exceptionally out of place; I had just finished work, smelt of lime, fish sauce and 7Up, was in ragged, chemical splashed/bleached clothes (God bless kitchens) and was coerced by my eldest sister to tag along in order to pick out a proper colour swatch for a baptismal cake, as well as pleasant party favours that say, "Hey, man, we're Christian, my kid's going to Heaven someday, and he's got good taste in confectionary." It's always a fun novelty when people assume that when you cook, you have an insurmountable amount of knowledge about anything food. I was humble then. Now, I'm a total snob. Not connoisseur, but snob. Connoisseur implies practice, training, mastery; snob entails arrogantly assuming you know everything. I was never really arrogant; but people just stopped believing I wasn't an expert. It must have meant I was kind of an expert. I have lonely Friday nights and interest in food to thank for that.
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My first experience with the pastries of the Cake Box was approximately three years ago when my sister had, from some rather wealthy friends I assume, received a birthday care package full of cupcakes from the joint. Everything from rocky road (whatever that really means for flavour) and chocolate mint. It was all down hill from there. But I say that in a good way. I was strung out on those things for days. I acted like it was no big deal, but I'd never tried anything- cakewise- more delicious. When I think of cupcakes I think of over sugared, saturated, usually dried pastries with a rather distinct- that meaning artificial- flavour. What is that artificial flavour you ask? Oh, you know it. Like the Japanese technique of KIME, it's something that must be experienced over and over again, felt by the body, before fully understood. I liken it to those decorative rose flowers put on cakes that kids always try to eat, the ones which are exceptionally chalky and usually give the eater cotton mouth, cut inner cheeks or the rare chipped tooth. That artificiality. The kind that when you first bite into something artificial and overly sweet you think, "Oh goodness, I want more!" And then you eat more and then reflect, Oh God why did I kiss her? I mean, why did I eat that much? You belly-acher, you. Now, I can't speak for the cakes, because I, unfortunately, never did get the chance to try the cake my sister bought, but I did manage to have my way with the typical short-bread-esque decorated cookie. You know? The food in the shape of food? Refer to Barthes. I can't articulate anything anymore, anyway. Where was I? Oh yeah- shortbread cookie on a stick. typical, familiar, not undelicious. But it's the cupcakes I'm after. The cupcakes I have to talk about. Flavours so faithful to the real flavours of the things they imitate, it's uncanny. Eating a chocolate mint cupcake made me wonder what came first, the cupcake or the chocolate and the mint. Was the cupcake the fruit of the chocolate mint tree? The flavours were so poignant, so real that I finally understood the notion and culinary theory of using real ingredients. We say it so often, but are the ingredients we use really "authentic" or genuine. These things made me believe it, or were so good at imitating things like lemons that I'm just another gastronomic dupe.
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| Slim pickings. |
For $2.25 a pop, I'd rather not know the beautiful (maybe ugly) truth. Yes, the place is pricey; yes, the place plays to the heart of puritans who watch Martha Stewart and believe they can, just by shopping and eating in the space, transform themselves into the idealized hostesses of a Victorian past. Pastels, contemporary furniture, cakes on display like out of bridal magazines, a pleasant all female staff that encourage customers to take pictures of the wonderful displays and edibles they gingerly make- but this is where I launch into a tirade. Because though it is my dream as a man to work at the Cake Box, I never can. Because the confectionary coalition of the Cake Box, I fear, enjoys the gender stereotypes that cater to a nostalgic past. When women were domesticated and therefore the only ones allowed in the culinary space. Pastels, paisley and Rococo are only things a woman can understand; the same goes for marriage, and cakes, and cute-commodified confectionaries like cookie shaped flowers, and tiny little cakes.
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At least, this is exactly what I have deduced from visiting the Cake Box since its opening. Or maybe, just maybe, dear readers I'm a little bitter because I've never worked there and probably never will, sadly. Because for me, there is nothing more lovely than waking up, going into a kitchen where sweetness wafts through the air, a cup of French roast waits for me, and baking the most delicious cupcakes, as well as painstakingly putting little silver candy balls on frosted trims, talking about who's dating whom and how much I absolutely love what's going on in the world of celebrity. Oh goodness. But I'm far too manly for that. At least, that's the impression that I get. But I don't want to be too manly. I want to bake, I yearn to bake. Regrettably, I'm doomed to, like so many other customers, sit in the comfy chairs and at the conventional tables of the Cake Box, order an espresso, have a cupcake or two and watch the counter of the five young women who make more of the thing I'm eating that very moment. Like watching the girl you love kiss the guy you hate. That girl, the tenderly decorated cake; that guy, those stupid girls who have my dream job. That and working at Tsukiji as a fish monger. Okay, so I have a lot of dream jobs. But as far as I'm concerned, these kinds of double standards don't fly with me. Shoot. Hiring only women to contribute to an image, or make a space seem more welcoming. Phhh. They don't even say hello when you come in. They just look up and rock paper scissors to see who's gonna be the unlucky one to take the next order. If it were my place, I'd force them to all say hello; and if they didn't, like some English lady of the house I'd say, "say 'hello' girls." And then the girls would say, "Hello girls" and we'd all have a laugh. That's at least welcoming. But I'm not insinuating anything. I just hope I'm wrong and places don't hire based on ridiculous prejudices, not in the great equal West anyway. No way. My maleness can't work against me. Absolutely not. That's crazy. It's probably for the best I don't work at the place anyway. I'd eat the owner out of house and home. Literally; I heard they live on the upper floor of the cake shop.
At least, like some sad Bourgesian character I can go, buy a cupcake once in a while, put it in a nice little package, give it to a friend for their birthday, and live vicariously through the girls who tenderly package it for me.
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All in all, the Cake Box isn't a bad place, not in the least. I can't say I've found a better place with more delicious cupcakes in the entire city. Pricey but expected. It keeps the unserious customers out. But this is at least one place that lives up to the old cliché that you get what you pay for.
So that's that. Yes, it's been around for a while, it does well, and there's probably been a billion other pieces written about. But none from this fella's mouth. None this real like the city it's situated in (Oh? Don't get the allusion? Guess you're not a fan then), none this honest; and for that, I make no apology (why does THAT sound vaguely familiar too?).
The Cake Box271 King Street West
Kitchener, ON N2G 1B1
(519) 579-6230
WHAT! Magic's popping up everywhere! It must be the season! Or people's "awesomety" in general. But first, a little perspective. Weeks ago, a friend and I, after meander the streets of the tri-city area in search of a little entertainment and culinary delight, unfortunately came up short, Kitchener-Waterloo generally having ABSOLUTELY no nightlife after 10 p.m. Unless you count bars of course - but I don't. EVER! We had both been hoping to wander into some obscure little joint called Saigon by Night, but, like the rest of this tame city, it was closed. A bar. Closed after 10. So, after that, and after peeking into the City's only karaoke bar (why so many bar's?), and soon running out from embarassment, we settled, much to our apathetic dismay for one of the more generic coffee shops in town - which would stay open, at least until 1. At least there's somewhat of a nightlife - for strung out university students, and pretentious fatheads who enjoy discussing Hemmingway's biting criticisms of F.Scott Fitzgerald's small penis.
So, feeling really terrible for my friend, who was the driver, and taking part in my wild, "let's-go-to-this-place" goose chase, I thought the best way to make it up to her was to buy her a slice of whatever cake the corporate coffee cash cow held behind its counter. Chocolate, generic (again) and kkkiiinnnnda decadent. And being the polite individual she is, she demanded I help her eat it - either that or she knew how terrible it actually tasted and couldn't muster up enough to get through it all alone. Hell, the both of us couldn't. And we left much of the chocolate fondant buried in a pool of table sugar, some shitty rasberry sauce, and pepper. We were bored. And she was an artist. I don't know what abstractions were at mind's work, but somehow, out of the muck, she (and I, I guess) managed to create a delicacy of post culinary delight. Short and to the point it was a portrait of a cockatoo. And if we weren't already strung out on sugar, it might have seemed delicious.
Afterwards, on our way out, having left our work on the table, we tried, as best we could, to decide on a reasonable name. We went through a myriad of possibilities, eventually settling on the powerful name of Bruce Willis, us both being a fan of The Fifth Element, she because of the story, me because of Bruce Willis' beautiful, bleached blonde, receding, yet faded at the side, haircut. We left it at that. We took some pictures, we went home, we went to sleep, we carried on.
Now, about two weeks later, this same friend, having missed Bruce dearly, and consequently me, came for another visit, with the surprise of non-other than an homage to our deceased keeki friend. She could rebuild him, she had the technology. And she did, with more than stellar results. I asked if she went to some kind of pastry academy, she said she thought about it. I said it was marvelous. But what is it I'm talking about?
Why, a cake, of course! A full cake, not just one slice of cake, or mashed up cake on a plate painted into the picture of a tropical bird - oh no, a whole cake, icing and all, made in the image of a cockatoo with great plumage! The cake's side beautifully scripted with none other than the name BRUCE WILLIS written the whole way round, multiple, multiple times. It was dazzling, and delicious. Custards, jellies, spongy goodness, a beautiful portraiture. If only you could see the textures! I mean, really SEE them! I almost regretted cutting it! How on earth did I become so lucky as to know all these magnificent kinds of people? First egg tarts, now this? If only Bruce Willis himself were there to share it with us. Someday, dear reader, someday.
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