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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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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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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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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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 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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Resident Psychic

I won't beat around the bush. There is no moot point. I can earnestly say I came for the coffee, and all I got was a lousy reading. No, no. Not true; I hadn't been to a psychic in a solid 7 years, and the last one I recall being an ex-priest who was homosexual and blind. He read these things that looked like tongue depressors. Anyway, another time, dear readers. Because now I was well on my way to seeing if coffee beans could very well tell the future, or, at least, if I'd let them. Hey, for a cup of properly brewed Turkish coffee, I'd do it. I'm no expert, if I could practically chalk up the amount of time I've personally attributed to Turkish coffee tasting, it'd be a solid 5 minutes and 37 seconds. My first encounter came at the residence of a professor in which I was thoroughly surprised and elated at the concept of an oily black liquid in a demitasse that was sweet and sludgy; the second, no less than 3 months ago at a local festival, where I had bought a cup and been disappointed substantially by something otherwise watery, scolding and lacking any appeasing flavour. In that past moment I had wondered if my recollection of the small cup almost a year ago was so good because I had accompanied it with a solid amount of port and tiramisu (made by yours truly). Fortunately, I can say it was a bad cup of coffee.

My psychic seeking side kick and I were ushered onto the balcony of a small apartment and told to have a seat while we waited for the crude to brew. There, as we did on the ride up, we wondered what, if anything, we could properly ask. When seeing a psychic it is best to be very articulate and smart with words. I liken it to being in the presence of a genie. Popularly, you only have 3 wishes, so choose wisely. Like we did in the car we thought about what we could ask, and what we would want to know. I had assumed that when having our fortunes read we would simply ask questions and have them answered based on what was left on the sludgy bottoms of our cups. But, like the poor saps that we are, we settled for the most generalized questions in career, travel and love; though in retrospect I should have asked why I had no direction in this life. But that's enough emotional pandering.

Haven gotten my things ready (pen and paper), the old woman stiffly pulled herself through the open door and gave us our respective cups. She said to take our time, in which I humbly obliged. I reckoned I wouldn't get a chance to learn how to make good Turkish coffee any time soon, nor would I find a coffee shop that sells it, and in trying to ask her where she bought the stuff only wondered how on earth I was going to understand the broken English that relayed my reading if I very well couldn't understand the broken English that was trying to give me directions to the store that sold it. It didn't matter though, because I was drinking something pleasantly creamy, pleasantly gritty, sweet on the tip of my tongue and chalky in the back of my throat. Perhaps a metaphor for life, though I'm never one to believe such trite cynicism. It is the tough people that outlast the tough situations after all.

As my company and I neared the end of our small, small cups we were interrupted from drinking anymore, our resident psychic telling us to leave the sludge; which for me, was a shame, because it was the sludge i enjoyed smoothing over my tongue like fresh concrete at the end of every past cup. If I could liken it to anything, I would liken it to just that: stone. Patchouli may be a more palatable analogy, but I could liken the flavour of the cup's sludge to nothing other than the smell of the air when rain hits the hot sidewalk, or when, as a child, my friends and I would see just how many stones we could put down our throats without swallowing them. Hey, some kids eat dirt, I sucked on stones.

Respecting the privacy of each reading, our old resident psychic escorted me off the balcony and into her dining room wherein which I was given the luxury of watching Turkish soap operas on satellite TV. She apologized that there were no other channels, but I took it in stride. Having grown up a devoted fan of Passions, I thought I could certainly get into a soap opera with a plot that revolved around a wedding celebration, Turkish women that were, to use the street vernacular: 'fine huneyz', and jealous men with large mustaches pulling guns on loved ones only to be shot in the back by hilariously stereotyped, old Turkish women. that really did happen. Man pulls gone, shoots man, long, long pause, points gun to fine huney, camera shows each back and forth from shoulders up, gun shot sounds, long, long pause, man drops, old woman in shawl and giant framed glasses stands over his limp body with glock (that means gun). Now, it was hard to catch up to the next show that followed, especially having never watched it before, but I'm pretty sure a black smith welded a woman's wedding dress. That's the impression I got when I saw him working in his studio and visited by some young woman after which he went into a back room and pulled out a box with a wedding dress. Did I mention how gorgeous the women were? Don't believe me? well here's the show. The Internet's a big place, and I can find anything if I try.

Now, I don't know if it was the soap operas or my recollection of the coffee, its sediment settling on my tongue as I drudged through it sweet creaminess, but I was getting excited. Maybe knowing coffee was in my future, maybe love, maybe money, maybe everything a psychic likes to humour customers with.

By the time I was glazed over my friend had finished her reading and I was on my way to the balcony. Having finished my coffee before all the crazy soaps I was given the specific instructions to place the saucer over the top of the demitasse and hold the cup with both hands, fingers over the saucer's now flipped bottom, and thumbs under the demitasse's bottom (or was it the other way around?). After, I was to flip the cup over and let the sludge, and the rest of my future settle. I was asked my birth date and to give my left palm, stretch it out, and wait for the resident psychic to pair my hand up with the diagrams in what looked like an old worn out paperback. Guess what came next? I was really hoping for something dope to happen; unfortunately, I was saddened by the news that I would have 2 kids in the future (though after noticing the grimace on my, the psychic comforted me by letting me know that I don't have to have the kids, but will have the kids. Dang). I would have a long healthy life (dang), and was with four women, 2 really breaking my heart in the past, and for that reason am very adverse to loving anyone else- ever. Spot on psychic lady, spot on.

She had informed me that I had grown up being afraid of heights, and though accepting her claim having no real experience with the stuff, I recalled while driving home that I did in fact hate the idea of heights, always refusing to clean the eavestroughs at home and never accepting the invite to climb the roof for fear of falling. I traveled short distances recently, I don't like big cities and one of my friends continuously beats me with a stick. She even showed the figure with the stick in the residue on the inside of the cup. I've been a dropout in the past, and present (which confused me) until I also realized last night I had given up on school in the new year. Damn, she was good. Aside from that, I'd have a wonderful career, but in order to succeed need patience, which I do not have. I am, according to her, very stubborn. I'd also live near the water, but with real estate prices, I don't know how that could possibly work out. Seriously.

She said she saw me at a gathering (strictly metaphor) and that everyone was watching. Many people, she said, are jealous of me. I couldn't understand why. I didn't see it, and when I doubted it, she showed the cup yet again, and aside from the thick sludge on the bottom that she said was my neurotic worrying, she showed me a part on the canvas of the inside that looked like peeks and valleys with dots in each one- people with eyes, she said. Watching me. Always watching me. I'm smart but have terrible esteem and feel myself weak though I am very strong. She kept coming to this point throughout, as if it really irritated her. She couldn't understand why someone like me was. I was flattered. Then again, it could have been the coffee. Somewhere along the line she asked me who 'D' was, and I couldn't for the life of me figure it out. I still can't. She also saw a woman- not tall or short, and with sandy coloured hair who 'like' likes me. Whoa. Unfortunately, according to her, I don't like her. Alas.

The culmination of all this love talk led to her grabbing my right index finger and telling me to wipe a specific spot on the cup and show me my smudged, coffee beaned index. She asked me who a woman named 'C' was. Again, I had no idea. I didn't know any. And if I did I was confident I weirded them out. We would, she so bluntly put it, fall in love. That's right folks, big victories in love soon enough. I also had to learn to say 'no.' Because it had been a personal vocation of mine to always say 'yes' to people, though I always act as if I'm refusing, which explains my poor progress in life. Maybe the saddest part of the reading was that I was too trusting and that I shouldn't, she informed me, ever trust people. And with that, I wondered how I would ever fall in love? And one last time, I was berated with why I was so down on myself. She assured me that if I was positive, if I believed in myself, in a couple months' time things would change. My life would change, everything would change. And that if anything ever brought me down, to write it down and throw it in a river. I tell you this, dear readers, I would like her to be right, but there are the generalizations I'm leaving out, and my friend feeding her a lot of my life before I went in for my reading (which is no fault of her own, the poor jeunesse thing). We had a lot of the same things said, and I could have very well taken it as hocus pocus, or mumbo jumbo; but I could also take it as being two sides of the same coin, and if I'm to start believing in myself, I should start with that.

We thanked her, paid what we owed and left, but not without remembering to look for a place that sold Turkish coffee by the bag.

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Hipster Sophistication

If you ever find yourself in a bind about where to eat, feel free to ask a stranger. Everyone likes to think they know what they're talking when it comes to eating, simply because everybody eats. But does everybody really EAT? I say this with conviction, dear readers. Does anyone ever really think about what they're tasting, or merely that what they're eating tastes good? More importantly, do people think about why they think a place is worth eating at? Atmosphere, taste, service, price. Aw, yes, the obvious things we think about when it comes to dining out; but what about what the things or places we choose to eat at mean for those who hear about us eating at them?

I’ve been to the Princess Café many a time. However, never to eat, only to drink insurmountable amounts of coffee and what I’ve discovered late in life, and much to my chagrin, to be Italian hot chocolate. Even my poor Calabrese mother never heard of the stuff. So while in a bind about where to eat after having been shooed out from another place because I had no cash on hand, I simply asked the first stranger I saw. They said, “I like Princess Café.” I responded, “I like turtles,” thanked them and went on my way. If I were to have any more fun, I’d have to sternly remind myself not be picky and go. To be honest, my frequency to the place left little to my own imagination, but if my experiences there were merely limited to coffee, hot chocolate, hilarious poetry slams and debates about whether the girl at the counter looked like Miley Cyrus or Kat Dennings, then I should at least give the food a try, even if only once.

I started my venture with a gander to the dessert fridge, ignoring the prices placed in front of the pastries like chocolate truffle cake, strudels and mini cheesecakes, knowing that if I looked at the cost first, I wouldn’t even bother. I did my best to get excited dear readers if only to assure myself that a substantially small piece of chocolate cake or mini cheese cake was worth the five dollars and twenty five cents; and yet, I could do no such thing. All is not lost though, because for those of you with an uncompromising sweet tooth, there are affordable goodies like two dollar cupcakes and strudels, and if you’re lucky, even more affordable sweets the next time around, the desserts having a rotating selection every now and then.

Having come to terms, I approached the counter, asked for a small cappuccino, and chose from what at first glance seemed like a limited menu of Panini sandwiches, pastas, soups and salads. A fair selection, considering that the place’s main identity comes in the guise of a café with specialty coffees, teas, and even rotating house wines and imported beers. A diamond in the rough, in this humble eater’s opinion. But what absolves the Princess Café’s apparently limited menu selection is the number of variations one can get from the Panini sandwiches they serve. The salad selection is acceptable and the soup is always changing.

Having been unsure of what was more filling, soup or salad, the server suggested, seemingly unexcited by my question, to try the vegan soup of the day. I figured hey, I’m somewhat socially responsible. I could go without meat for one meal. Forget that my deodorant probably had animal fat in it, or that the air filters used to clean the dust in my home most likely depended on the fine hairs of a cow’s carcass- at that moment in time, I was going meatless. With that, it was a resounding yes to said vegan soup- though I had no idea what “vegan” tasted like- and “the original vegetarian” Panini. A sandwich snuggly stuffed with roasted eggplant, red pepper, tomato, artichoke caponata (a fancy food buzzword for briny artichoke spread), pesto, basil (I dare not say fresh in the middle of February) and brie cheese (albeit a mild tasting one closer to that of mozzarella).

Thus, I took my cappuccino and found a seat. I’ve had many cappuccinos in this town, the majority from ubiquitous coffee chains, and the same goes for London Fogs, the cappuccino’s English cousin (Earl Grey with frothed milk), and if there is something worth noting about the Princess Café it’s that I’ve come to enjoy their London Fogs to a great degree. Quite frankly, they’re the best in town. The cappuccinos, however, can be hit or miss. The strong foam that stood on its own paired with what I would expect to be a strong, clean roasted espresso was unfortunately acrid and ashy, a symptom of an improperly cleaned machine. Alas, unfortunately for us as customers, some places’ dishes depend on the skill of each individual cook, not the leadership skills of the manager who would otherwise push to make sure that their staff all cooked consistently. So it goes, dear readers, so it goes. And it’s one thing when we depend on the foam, naturally sweetened in the frothing process, to sweeten our cappuccino, but it is certainly another when we depend on it to dilute the bitter flavor of what tastes like over-brewed coffee. Luckily, there was sugar nearby.

	'Gotta brush up on them camera skillz

Still waiting, I took in the scenery, an echelon of hipster sophistication: retro-posters placed in frames, stiff, white rococo chairs recycled from what may have been some twelve year old’s garden party, old tables, and paisley kerchiefs used in lieu of disposable napkins. I could appreciate the sentiment because it catered well to a young crowd enjoying a new trend of ironically consuming old and out of fashion things like coffee mugs from the 80s with terrible decals, and to the old who enjoyed coming in for a sense of nostalgia within its warm red and white walls.

It was then when my meal came and snapped me out of it; a humble array of soup and glorified sandwich, accompanied by a thin, quartered pickle. Now, my ancestors tell me a Panini should be hot coming off the press, lest, I suppose, there’s a good reason for it not being so. I can only assume that the Panini, being a hearty bread, needs such heat to soften it up for consumption. However, this was not the case with my sandwich. Conveniently, the local bread used for the dish was soft with a good amount of bite to it. Not too little to become soggy immediately with all the balsamic, briny ingredients in between, but not too hard to be tedious to eat. An overall good pairing with the vegetable ingredients, also being soft. I wonder however, what the bread would have been like with the cured meats that accompany other sandwiches. For 6.46 alone, I would have liked something a little larger. As for the ambiguous vegan soup, I could only guess what gave it its earthen flavor. I say earthen and not earthy here, my soup having the flavour of something edible, yet still in the ground. I did my best to ignore this one dynamic of flavor in lieu of the soup’s curried aroma, combined with its peppery taste, and strong nutmeg like overtones, all supported by that of what I assumed to be a base of either carrot or some kind of squash, giving it its orange colour. As an accompaniment to my Panini, the combo came to a resounding 8.10. Reasonable.

Finished, the café’s host, in a brief moment of time came, saw my empty plate, and conquered, taking it up and cleaning my place immediately. From there, I up and left, paying my dues and paying a good 14.25 (tip included), wondering who I could ask about where to eat next.

The Princess Café

519-886-0227

Mon-Sun 11:00 AM- 10:30 PM

46 King St. N. Waterloo

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