Say Cheese

*Alas, CLOSED down.

Joey and I were despondent. Full of ennui. It was cool, muddy, clouds were rolling in, snuffing out the city with black. Hong Kong tea couldn’t even help us. We watched a couple sit alienated next to each other while we waited for our cups. It broke our hearts. We were lovelorn. What else could we do but ask complete strangers where to eat? We argued, we broke cardinal food writing rules. We went after places not even open a month. Went in, sat down, read menus, lamented, left. Defeated and driving in the dark.

It was near 9 o’clock before we saw Joe Fromaggio’s bright yellow lights calling us late into the night.

It was a nostalgic space for me; I recalled last summer on EI, pining for a waitress day after day, hunkering down with barflies, waiting for afterhours every single night. Its space still held onto some residuals of its old design: floodlights, polished tables, smooth wooden chairs. Only now, it was like the home of a newly minted urbanite trying to reconcile his own Thoreauvian guilt by adding rough wood paneling and forest greens, as well as kitsch that explicitly showed a bizarre obsession with cheese. Of course, this is Joe Fromaggio’s selling point. The name says it all. Sure, I thought it was something Italian, it’s everything cheese and novelty. Is there any other way to live? Not here. You can’t escape the stuff on the menu, but I’m not sure you’d want to. The combinations are a riot. Joey and I couldn’t stop laughing. Grilled cheese sandwiches, and even sushi, with macaroni; some with Sriracha, that popular pervasive internet hot sauce, a confusingly popular condiment for cooks everywhere; pastas, and sandwiches made with what the place wants you to believe are leftovers. If you’re in a good mood, you probably can’t wait to come back. I was already imagining what I’d get next time, before even ordering anything. We started by splitting an appetizer of sirloin spring rolls. Shanghai style wanton wrapped around burger beef, pickles, onions, and of course, cheese. It was a fantastic idea, and even more delicious. Savoury, rich and dripping with cheese, tongue tingling with pickles, so greasy it would put BP to shame. The worst culinary oil slick Joey and I ever came across. There was enough oil left over on our plates to fry whatever else we wanted. But damn was it fun and gluttonously satisfying. Next, Joey asked for deep fried risotto balls, fried darker than we would have visually preferred, but not enough to do any damage. We weren’t particularly impressed, however. Creamy innards sprinkled with bright green peas were bland and carried only with a stale pungency brought on by paprika. The dish was accompanied by a pasty marinara I thought raw and obligatorily peppered with spice.

My meal was one of many novel grilled cheese sandwiches on the menu. They called it the ‘Life Changer’: a peanut butter and aged cheddar sandwich sacked with bacon and sprinkled with, yes, Sriracha. I chose to accompany my entrée with a side of cheddar ale soup. Cheesier than I would have preferred too, it wasn’t reminiscent of a good chowder for me. A little too thick, a little too salty, and without any elements from the ale it was made with. It was a crying shame for a side.

My sandwich came to me on marbled rye, grilled golden without a hint of char anywhere on the bread. It worked well. Neither peanut butter nor cheese were stealing each other’s thunder. It was always a savoury bite of cheese, followed by a smoky bang of bacon, finished with peanut butter that lingered on the palate. And if you think I’m missing something, you’re right. The Sriracha, unfortunately, was barely there. It appeared once in a while, but usually when I peeled back a slice and scraped it off of wherever I could find it. A crying shame too, the sandwich really could have changed my life.

Joe Fromaggio

50 Westmount Road N,

Waterloo, Ontario

N2L 6N9

​

(519) 884-8558

Mon - Fri: 11:30 am - 12:00 am

Sat & Sun: 12:00 pm - 12:00 am

ANY PAYMENT

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Lil' Bit O' Heaven?

I’ve shared a neighbourhood with Homestyle Diner my entire life. If I payed it any mind at all, it was at the discretion of knowing friends of friends who worked there. And it wasn’t, in fact, until Joey told me that a friend of a friend of ours was currently running the place, when we both decided, much to our facetious enthusiasm, to hurry and give it a try. Yes, to me the place always seemed a dying animal; a routine place with little appeal except to the regular crew that came in and out over and over again. But my culinary travels in our gastropolis have given perspective and patience to my once young and arrogant palate. Homestyle Diner is a strangely romantic place. Its décor may scream grandma kitsch, what with its sponged turquoise rose coloured walls, plastic plants, and wall art for sale. Joey described it as a showroom for old ladies that don’t know it’s a showroom; but I assure you, the space is part of the charm. In regards to what Homestyle Diner offers to eat, it’s trivial. Because what it does offer to eat is some of the most affordable and well to do fare I’ve had in a good while. From breakfast, lunch, to dinner, you can have it all, focused with the food of Americana. I did notice a shrimp stir-fry option on the menu though, which I dare anyone to eat; but breakfast was what I was after. I advise all of you reading to look for the same. And if you’re a little short for breakfast, don’t worry, Homestyle Diner has an absurdly affordable deal for 3.95. Unfortunately, Joey and I missed the special by a half hour (8am – 11am), so if we wanted to, we had to pay an extra dollar for a load of fixings like eggs, bacon, hash browns, pancakes, you name it. Still, don’t worry too much, because breakfast lasts until 4, if you really have a hankering for it.

I was resolved to stay a little more ambitious; and though all the hollandaise options were tempting, I decided on an omelet packed with bacon, sausage, and ham, accompanied with toast and 3 of the most satisfying pancakes I’ve had at a breakfast place. Does that speak to my experience? I don’t think so. They were fantastic, crispy on the outside, airy and light in the middle. None of that gluey, saturated batter that sweats by the time it gets to your plate.

My omelet was an interesting assembly too. Beaten eggs were cooked to a crepe like thickness, and wrapped around a medley of meat combined with melted, I’m afraid to say, processed cheddar. Still, it was kind of a guilty pleasure.

It was a strange decision to me, and I would have liked the inner workings mixed together with the egg, but nothing chanced nothing earned, I suppose. In retrospect, I’ve no complaints- breakfast is a very forgiving thing, after all. And if that wasn’t reckless enough, I did myself the good deed of having dessert in the morning; one of the many pies made in house at Homestyle Diner. A more than affordable 3.95 had me awaiting a choice custard blueberry strawberry coulis slice with a dollop of pillowy whipped cream. A balmy, buttery sweetness maintained the base of the pie with an even sweeter topping of confit fruit. And the serving was more than generous; so much so, I still catch myself fantasizing about it. Sure enough, Homestyle Diner is a little bit of serendipity. It’ll be a sad day when I’m forced to leave it. But, until then, I’ve a lot of spare change, and a lot of pie to eat.

Homestyle Diner

504 Albert St  

Waterloo, ON

N2L 6J8
(519) 725-5048

EVERYDAY 8am – 8pm

ANY PAYMENT

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A Little Less Ubiquity, A Little More Feed Me

The need for a quick bite led a fellow cook and I to the abstrusely windowed Grill House. Located in another ubiquitous strip mall, its windows were pasted with the clinical close-ups of the hardy salt-of-the-earth cuisine that inspired its name. Inside, its composition appeared as a compilation of the fast food place. More panels of the clinical close-ups of the Grill House’s fare, hardy but clean wooden tables and chairs with a shine, deep amorous reds and foamy browns, a fridge stocked with soft drinks, a counter, a grill- all just out of view- and a glowing signboard showing each and every more than affordable option. Options that share roots in popular Americana and great Mediterranean medley. Hamburgers are certainly a choice, and yes fries too; soups and salads also. But it’s Grill House’s great grilled meat entrees that make it worth visiting. From Souvlaki to Gyros, Schnitzel, and sausage. Heck, there’s even strip loin steak. Maybe a little ambitious for a midday meal, but still very compelling, provided you have a hankering for anything Paleolithic.

And being the big boy that I am, the gyro was the choice on my agenda. Lamb and beef were served in a pita with onions, tomatoes, and a very very mild tzatziki sauced I likened more to sour cream than the tangy herby dressing we’re commonly used to. No matter though, because it didn’t stop me from ordering a second. And if two gyros didn’t seem filling enough, I made my sandwiches into an even bigger meal. Paying homage to the place’s fast food roots, I added a side of fries, and absolved any gluttonous guilt by adding what I assumed was the soup of the day. A supposed unique daily option prepared with fresh ingredients (so the menu says). When it came, however, it seemed nothing more than an unfortunate canned appetizer, loaded with carrots, celery, attenuate chunks of chicken, and those broad, flat slippery noodles we are all very familiar with. I was a little disappointed, but I soldiered on.

My gyros arrived in considerate kitchenware for otherwise humbling proletariat cuisine. Still, I appreciated the effort of large, clean, white, fancy plates. It was professional enough. But when am I ever after that? Tumbled against two wrapped sandwiches was a small pile of golden fries, crisp on the outside, white, fluffy on the inside. I was a little crushed that the portion wasn’t larger; I even felt cheated, but then remembered the meal’s small expense.

The pitas were warm and chewy, smattered with fresh vegetables that cooled the senses, especially against thin salty slices of indiscernible beef and lamb. Each piece resembled a strange bacon; there was, unfortunately, nothing shaved off of a spit. It was all only a mere processed facsimile of meat. I couldn’t complain too much, however; convenience seemed to be a necessary leitmotif of Grill House. I novelized the whole thing by treating my fellow cook and I to a piece of Krempita. One of two desserts offered on the menu. A sturdy, vanilla custard sandwiched between two gram crackers and dressed with a fruity coulis made for a well balanced finish to our lunch. If anything sweet killed us, it was our choice of beverage.

I could appreciate Grill House, if only because it offered diners something other than burgers and fries, although those are all still there.

Grill House

1-825 Weber St. E.,

Kitchener, ON

N2H 1H5

(519) 744-7455

ANY PAYMENT

   

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Damn

Public Kitchen and Bar is wasted on location; and though I’m abraded by its dining room’s pinache, reminiscent, to me, of the first apartment a freshly minted university girl graduate passionately decorates with retro and white, I can’t help but worry if its kind of cuisine is being overlooked as it situates itself in Kitchener’s more quiet neighborhoods. But seeming cosmopolitan and stranded may be the only thing that works against the poor little tapas bar. It’s certainly not the food. And though I can’t help but argue that people would prefer it in the deep down depths of the city, especially if they want to drink and eat and drink some more, the better part of me knows eaters will have no scruples about making the uncool trek to its little strip station.

Beggarhood makes me a scrupulous gourmand, but Public gave me no excuse for some of the tastiest food I’ve had in the city’s haute circles. Yes, tapas are usually a little pricey, but for a generous hour Thursday and Friday nights you can have some of the most aggrandized dishes for a ridiculously reasonable price, and maybe a little something extra to splurge on. 

Splurge I certainly did. I got everything I could, a heaping bowl of mussels for two in a bright sweet Romesco sauce, a cassoulet of white beans and stewed pork, bruschetta, patatas bravas, all at 5 dollars apiece. It was almost cruel getting everything I did for so little. To absolve my guilt, I added rolled taquitos with an avocado mousse. It was a lounger’s dream.

The mussels were the favourite, brought out first and accompanied by thin crisp twice baked fennel speckled bread. Saffron made it glow, red peppers and tarragon (I like to imagine) made it sunny and citrus like; and a mysterious sweetness had me flabbergasted, challenged by its flavor and in love with elements that made it Asian in its phantasmagoria of taste. The cassoulet was nostalgic. Creamy stewed beans and tender pork hock infused the dish with a smoky savoury flavour my company and I were fighting over.

Next, our bruschetta, riddled with vegetable ratatouille and garnished with pecorino cheese, cubes of salami, and a pungent ramp pesto had me a little leery, if only because the pesto looked too fresh for something available only a month out of the year. Still, it was another incredible dish, with mellow tender vegetable compote cooked enough to maintain body and bite. I liked the chewy alien texture of the salami in the medley, the softer bread, but would have preferred something a little warmer in my mouth if only to prevent the cheese from becoming a little elastic. Still, it did nothing to ruin the thing.

The patatas bravas were certainly the heartiest. Crisp potatoes dusted with paprika were paired with a simple aioli sauce that left a distant brassy finish on the tongue; and though the dish had an otherwise bland pairing, nothing stopped us from dipping our potatoes in everything else. Unorthodox? Don’t ask me, I don’t know. But I liked doing it. And playing with food didn’t stop there. 

Our taquitos, rolled and stuffed with chorizo and Oaxaca cheese, came with an assembly of avocado mousse and spicy oil painted on the plate. And taking the small but potent side salad of cilantro, lime, and peppery arugula, gave us eaters a fun food palate to paint, combine, and create with. It was something neither of us had any objections to enjoying. I’m almost conflicted with the ever changing menu; sad to see good things go, but excited to see what else the place can cook up. For the city’s only tapas focused bar, I don’t see the necessity to change, but I certainly see the passion. Regardless, I am privileged to have tasted the effort.

PUBLIC  KITCHEN & BAR
295 b Lancaster Street West
Kitchener, Ontario N2H 4V4
(519) 954-8111

Thu – Sat: 5pm-1am
Sun: 5pm – 10 pm

ANY PAYMENT

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Two Fat Italians

Late last Sunday night I was awoken by a cumbersome phone text from Joey. My bizarre yearnings for searching out comestible spots in the city had Joey developing the same kind of sense of wanderlust. His particular request had me a little uncertain, especially when I considered the late hour at which it was texted. But my urge to stir up trouble had me tempted and saying ‘yes,’ seeing if we would be as serious in the morning as we were late that night.

Now, as much as I fear regret, I fear the acquiescence of my words even more. That’s why when Joey expressed his gut’s feeling for another day in Elmira, I stuffed caution down my stomach. We had gone before- to a place I thought was so bad it was good, no doubt- and I figured I could redeem myself of any kind of assumed acrimony I had last time with a much more patient review from the same town. (I wasn’t angry last time. Just so everyone knows.)

Thus, we went, parked our car on the downtown curb, and cased out all the digestible joints. And when our acquiescence for sitting still became too much, we did what we always do: ask whatever teenager working behind a counter about where they liked to eat. The Dollar Store is our preferred watering hole. 

Our clerk suggested Candies Burger Suite, a place we passed entering town. A place Joey couldn’t stop making candy jokes about. A place I couldn’t stop making grammar jokes about. A place which’s fries our clerk couldn’t stop talking about. It was an easy choice. Any spleen from the two of us came from the cold and having to wait a few hours before Candies’ reopened, which we managed to pill with some donuts, too much pie, cookies, and soda. A gluttonous lapse in hindsight, but we never have any real qualms about eating like two fat Italians. Or greedy ones, for that matter.

So when Candies’ reopened, there we were, waiting in front of its screen door, excited about entering the 150 year old Georgian, Regency, Victorian, Italianate- whatever- home, and stuffing our semi stuffed faces. It certainly had the backbone of a diner, and the space of a cozy home, which made us both feeling more than welcomed, even if a little puzzled at how to place the fun décor. I said a manifestation of the B52’s song ‘Love Shack.’ Candie said it was Gothic Moroccan with a kind of hippie theme. Baroque lamps and leopard print booths in one room, colour splattered wooden chairs in another. ‘You can never have enough colour,’ Candie said. It was the kind of place you imagine girls with a lot of New School tattoos going. You know? The ones you dream about. Who love burgers and fries. And poutines. And coleslaw: the ambit of Candies’ menu. Everything’s made fresh. The burgers are only beef, the potatoes are cut and deep-fried to perfection, the slaw stewed in its own delicious juices. Even the stuffing’s are local. 


Becoming the suckers for variety we are, Joey and I spoiled ourselves with a slew of options. I got the pulled pork poutine, and the cowboy burger; Joey, the Taco Poutine, and the Candian with back bacon and cheddar. We were musing having two big brewskies on the side. Alas, not yet, but maybe someday.

Swooning over a vestige of Elton John, it wasn’t long before Joey’s stunned face had me laughing and crying. In front of us were two steel bowls: mine, piled high with golden fries, cheese, pulled pork in a crimson sauce, and crystalline onions; joey’s piled with fries, cheese, seasoned ground beef, salsa, sour cream, and a red pepper, shaming all the sundae’s that romanticized our yesteryear . This could have easily been a big boy’s dessert; that is, if all the sweets we ate before hand were considered our dinner. Joey dove in and had no complaints. My fries were perfect. Hands down. I’ve no qualms about saying I’ve spent a good four years in front of a deep fryer, and these were the best chips I ever came across: crisp on the outside, airy, not oily on the inside; when rubbed together, they sounded like hay. Any fry conglomerate would gush. Joey agreed. He spent that work time with me too, after all. My shreds of pork only made the dish better. Tender and moist and slathered in a rich, sweet savoury sauce with a little spicy kick, my pulled pork shared all its reminiscence with baked beans and molasses. Did I mention the cheese melted?

My burger was another oeuvre. A good, soft bun covered a savoury patty which’s flavor was elevated by the smokey local ham that sweated over it. I can still remember the smell. But as far as I was concerned, Candie’s coleslaw was the magnum opus. Sharply brined and seasoned, of all things, with pickle juice, and dill, there was no boring balminess, no overpowering puckering. It was the most balanced and gracefully flavoured slaw I’ve ever had, and she made it all by her lonesome. I loved it so much, I took more home and wondered when I’d get another chance to trust Joey’s gut.

CANDIES BURGER SUITE
75 Arthur St S
Elmira, ON
N3B 2M8
(519) 210-0399


MON-FRI 11-9
SAT 12-9


CASH, DEBIT. NO CREDIT.

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The Infamous Gastronomer

In attempts to fulfill my misspent twenties and thereby cross off whatever section on my life's bucket list, at least until Ms. Wu beckons me back to the hills of Gukeng where I can continue working on the family's tea farm, I found myself applying for whatever job lay in wait in Waterloo's culinary landscape. You know? To pass the time.

Luckily, someone told me Princess Cafe was giving employment a go, and while I was leery of my ability to procure work with the place, I couldn't help but elbow myself into applying for whatever mediocre, underemployed position it offered, but just until I get the call for delivery driver at Boston Pizza. 

Looking more familiar than I probably should have, I said my hellos, handed in my extensive resume, and waited if there were any other questions. There was.

Its proprietor, sporting his everyday dracule haircut, and his habitual short sleeve plaid shirt combo, asked if I was the guy who wrote food reviews. Now, I WAS a guy who wrote food reviews, I don't know if I was THE guy, but that's a different beast altogether. Anyway, I complied, humoured him with a 'yes,' and then had his assurance that he would never hire me.

I asked why? He said because I wrote about Cheeses Murphy, and then reiterated, I'm sure in his mind with something a little wittier and gastronomer shaming, that he would never hire me.

I probed further. I asked what exactly he didn't like about my review, and he responded with a resounding, "It's cunty. It's just cunty. It's cunty." Over and over, and over again. As an aside, I hope he's a feminist trying to reclaim the word, otherwise, that's total slandering, innapropriate, and sexist language, and I hope every woman who goes there questions his use of the word.

What I would have preferred was an honest explanation of why my articulate, honest review, written almost a year ago, was so dissatisfying beyond ascribing it with such a hateful word.

I respected his opinion, even in lieu of his scenester, Ramones sweatshirt wearing employee cowering in the corner and snickering as if also trying to shame me like I'd just been served with the illest hook. But I felt I really didn't do anything wrong, besides give a good honest review, unless otherwise admitting not to. I humbly left, saving my smile for the exit, because when I did leave, I felt nothing but infamy. The people cared, maybe only when I disagreed with something they did, but they cared, and that made me feel pretty good about myself. 

But my own infamy aside, what would have actually shamed me and impressed me about Princess Cafe's owner would have been a genuine response as to why he felt my review wasn't an honest assessment. In an ideal world, attempting to hire me in hopes of changing my opinion about the food, or showing me how good the food really is would have really changed my world view. In a more civil world, after a solid year's time of holding a grudge and hoping for the day where the place gets to confront me, I would hope they would, after assessing my review, ask me instead to try their food yet again, because we really got off on the wrong foot and it's really improved. But if it's not their ego, it's mine. And it's a crying shame. My review was harsh, I admit, so harsh that there was rumour I had shut it down months after- and I didn't bother to ask them about the review I wrote about the actual cafe almost two years ago, which could be just as harsh, I don't know. Again, I think it's honest. And I'm sure as I left, he and his employee had a good hate fest, stewing in their juices about how I'm some sort of 'cunty' food writer who thinks he's all that. I'll accept that as a good possibility; but it's a small sacrifice if it means they did consider my critique and used it, even if not admittedly, to improve something as novel as a grilled cheese sandwich, which, again, should be phenomenal if you're going to sell it to inebriated undergrads at 3:00 am. Bridges . . . you never know where you're gonna burn 'em.

So, I guess this is goodbye, Princess Cafe. I can't particularly say I'll miss your acrid coffee, your flacid cappucinos, your platitudinous paninis. I will however miss the chance to be a part of your team if only to contribute to the improvement or passion that is desperately needed in your food, not just part of a cafe that depends on rhetoric, and Rotello decor. I'll especially miss Laura, the girl behind the counter who I'm pretty sure doesn't work there anymore. Yes, Laura; she was like a sexy cross between an un-crazy Miley Cyrus and even sexier Kat Dennings. Oh, the hours I spent in that place reading Japanese and pining away for any bit of conversation with her. So Laura, if you're reading this, get in touch, I'd like to take you out for dinner. Maybe for grilled cheese. Until then, I'll have to lament the fact that I'll have to get a grown up job with my two graduate degrees, diploma, and fluency in multiple languages. It's tough, but I'll get through it, thanks to the Princess Cafe's stern, woman shaming, proprietor. Again, I thank you, まだまだ強くなれる.


Love, 

The 'Infamous' Weezee

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The Guanaquita

I can’t contextualize Guanaquita Restaurant’s space as much as I’d like to. It’s a hodge-podge of South American culture. I think. It’s a static space of South American otherness. El Salvadorian otherness, actually. It’s a deep lofty dining hall where one could easily have lived. Today, I interpreted it as a room of micro-table culture. At one end, before its discoteca, it manifests itself as a veranda where diners can look out onto the city. Beyond that, before its bar, exists those reminiscent place settings of thin framed chairs, multi-layered tablecloths that echo some transferred Mediterranean place settings, all before it phlebotomizes into a warmer, more well lit stucco dining area where booths with protruding wooden columns have orbs of light resting on each one of them. After that, it becomes Appadurai’s ‘bazaar of thingness,’ full of obsolescent items used to decorate the space, proliferating in excess with photos of piers, books on shelves: space fillers. My dining companion likened it to Narnia meeting Dawson’s Creek. It was poignant. For a humble El Salvadorian restaurant starting out, it was on the mark. If its walls could talk, they wouldn’t ask for admiration, only mouths to come in try some good, honest food. 

Not too renowned in this city, El Salvadorian cuisine rests in some quiet corners and begs for dabbling mouths. Simple tapas make each restaurant more than any meals that could be served, and what makes a place like Guanaquita Restaurant so enjoyable is the fun you can have with food. If it’s your first time, and it’s not breakfast, give traditional dishes like pupusas, tamals, enchiladas, and pastelitos your tongues. It’s these dishes that make El Salvadorian cuisine such a treat. But if it is breakfast, definitely have it at a place like Guanaquita. In all my experiences, El Salvidorian breakfasts have been some with the most finesse. Inexpensive and hardy, they include not only typical choices, but odds and ends pertinent to the cuisine, like fried plantains or beans, without, believe it or not, all of the oily residuals greasy spoons leave with us.

More than affordable, Guanaquita’s menu comes with many options, appetizers, entrees, and desserts. But I say forgo all that in favour of every single tapas on the menu, offered by way of the restaurant’s own Guanaquita Platter: a visually sparse looking plate of pupusas, tamales, enchiladas, and pastelitos, but a powerfully filling thing paired with tomato sauce and my absolutely loved Salvadorian relish: a simple coleslaw; its mild, tart flavor is accented by the oregano used to give it a cool, earthy quality I can never get enough of. The pupusa was, and always is, however, my favourite. A thick, pancake like tortilla stuffed with pork, cheese, and green peppers, its playful texture and charred aroma make it, in my mind, a holy trinity of El Salvidore’s cuisine.
 
The tamal was another first for me. A corn dough mixed with chickpea, pickled jalepeno, potato, and olives made for a thing of complex flavor, busy flavours, complicated even more by the leaf it’s steamed in. Texturally reminiscent of polenta, the vegetative flavor from the leaf added a whole other, brave, element of flavor.

And if you want the play of culinary tourism to hit home, treat yourself to a thrifty glass of Horchata: a percolated glass of rice milk flavoured with cinnamon and sugar that tickles the back of your throat with its smooth, yet chalky peculiarity. And if its sweetness still isn’t enough, go for any and all desserts. Everything’s so well priced you can eat a lot for under twenty dollars and still have your fill, like the plantain patties: deep fried fist sized dumplings stuffed with plantain and custard that oozes out as you shatter a caramelized exterior, dusted with sugar and harmonized by the meaty fruit’s tartness and the custard’s creaminess. Did I mention how inexpensive everything was?


Guanaquita Restaurant
273 King St. West UPPER
Kitchener, Ontario n2g 1b1
 

Tue - Fri:  10:00 am- 9:00 pm
Sat:          9:00 am- 10:00 pm
Sun:        10:00 am- 8:00 pm

ANY PAYMENT

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