Almost Missed Connections

The culinary cries of a neoteric picknicker serendipitously pulled me back into my new playground of gastronomies. And while my language here sounds like a missed connection from the London Review of books, I’ve little doubt my conscience would have allowed for my just stopping and eating, and forgetting Willy’s Fresh Cut Fries, the seemingly selfsame kindred spirit of KW’s own David’s Fresh Cut Fries. Yes, I was smitten passing in the night, seeing its green shack lit up in the dead of winter, and lucky enough the next day to have a reason to visit, thanks to a new mouth to feed.

I quashed any curiosity for the chicken and egg debate: which came first? Dave’s or Willy’s? Did it matter? Does it, still? They’ve both their own kind of charm, and to discover which is more edible is an overwhelming task; one I no longer have the funds for. They’re both stick to your ribs food, and the day’s unnecessary storm gave me good reason to eat anything fried. There are some things I’m more fond of though: namely the nameless dog that circles Willy’s quarters, and that Willy’s is always open even in a winter storm. Heck, its fare is even cheaper than the menu says, and it shares its lot with a car garage, which enthusiastically led my company to believe it was a cover for something a little more dangerous. Pretty fantastic. But it’s not all roses. We were dashed by Newfoundland fries that were nothing but soft bread and gravy. No discernible stuffing, no cheese, no onions or peas. Our deep fried pickles too had us a little curious. Until I bit into my own I had wondered if what my comrade was eating was deep fried zucchini posing as a tasty gherkin. Sure enough, crunchy spears were there sleeping among plainly sliced courgettes.

Humble menu posturing aside, when we ordered our feed we were looking on wholeheartedly. It had all you’d expect from a trailer abstrusely anchored between someone’s yard and a brake and steel autoshop: Burgers, fries- prepared to your liking; poutine- of course; perogies, onion rings. Not to mention democratic inclusions of kabob, shawarmas, and gyros, which led me to believe that these items were Willy’s specialty, even more so when the cook suggested I choose a gyro over my company’s burger. And sure enough, I did, but not before bureaucratically making sure to include everything fried that I could in my order. Willy’s Platter was a meager appetizer that could pass as a good independent spot of grub. Fryer grease perfumed the air, and oil bubbled out sweet nothings while I anticipated tender battered chicken fingers (not processed!), capsule shaped mozzarella sticks stuffed instead with cheddar, deep fried pickles, and low-key zucchini slices yet again.

I was pleasantly surprised by my gyro though. Soft, forgivingly chewy pita wrapped itself around earthy cuts of shaved meat tossed with firm wedges of tomato, and crisp red onion, balanced by generous sprigs of curly parsley. Every bite was a memory of my informal induction into the culinary world all those summers ago when that kid from Hong Kong happily filled my stomach with sandwiches of beef and cilantro shoots. Willy’s may not have absolute gastronomic glory, but like me, you may be able to find a just little love in one of the strangest places.

Oh hai, doggie!

HOURS

No idea

ANY PAYMENT

Tweet

Two Plains of Culinary Existence

An apprehensive conversation about the viability of food trucks in Waterloo led me to the latest bandwagon. It took me days to track it down. And if not for the curiosity of my Chinese teacher, I would have never known it even existed. In fact, many passersby might view the thing with worry and discretion. Big, ambiguous, and black, nothing but S.W.A.T. is seen across its blocky, armored truck demeanor from afar. And the blithe pop music blaring from speakers surrounding it may make some think some psychological warfare is being used to draw out whatever terrors are taking root in the buildings of the parking lot it occupies. In reality, however, S.W.A.T. is just another of the city’s food trucks delivering itself in a nifty package with kind of nifty food.

Toting itself as curbside gourmet- like every truck so far- its S.W.A.T. moniker cleverly stands for Sandwiches with a Twist, offering food stand fare we are all oh-so-familiar with. Hotdogs, hamburgers, fries, you name it. However, what makes its food so Hallmark, in theory, is the riddling of all menu options with paradigmatic gourmet signifiers. There’s pulled pork, but with a brioche bun; a back bacon sandwich with a maple syrup reduction; a philly cheesesteak with provolone cheese; even a grody double entendre menu option equating food with touching yourself. Yes, high cuisine at its best.

To me, S.W.A.T.’s truck stands between a plain of high cuisine and what we affably call ‘street meat.’ Does it teeter more in one direction. Obviously. Will I say which? Heck, no. I will say this: it’s alright. I’ve eaten enough hamburgers and poutines, and I’ve taken a pretty decent sample in my culinary investigations. I made S.W.A.T. part of the research. I got a poutine. A plain old poutine: gravy over fries and squeaky white curds. Was it anything different? No. The gravy was thin and familiar, and the curds didn’t melt, even in 29 degree weather. But no censure here. It would have been nice to see it with a twist though.

My sandwich? The Pulled Weiner. That’s right, that double entendre. I couldn’t resist. A footlong slathered with creamy coleslaw and, of all things, pulled pork, packaged in a soft white bun. The footlong, a shriveled thing, slit down the centre, definitely reinforced the metaphor. It looked like it went through a beating, but it didn’t taste bad or burnt. The coleslaw on top? Showcased by a powerful tang, almost winey, no doubt from the vinegar. Either way, it was familiar to every other Carolina coleslaw in every other way. The pulled pork was salty and smokey, familiar too in all barbecue bill of fare, but far from being the opus of the dish. No flourish, no fantastic spice to elevate it to curbside ‘gourm-eh,’ as is patriotically stamped as the truck’s motto; just, as far as I’m concerned, curbside gour . . . meh. And it’s a crying shame too, there’s so much to work with, so much to have fun with, but no flavours  that really pull a dish up out of the dreg of streetfare. The food truck in the city walks a fine line. The idea is novel, but if customers don’t flock feverishly to them, what good is it having them around? Especially when it took me days to track something like S.W.A.T. down?

S.W.A.T. Food Truck

519-500-1561

Twitter: @SWATfoodtruck

Tweet

The Pizzaburger

This is not a lazy review. So when I tell you that Joey and I decided, after a long afternoon of ghost strolling the city, that we unanimously (maybe a little divertedly) decided to go to Boston Pizza, it wasn’t without good consideration. Yes, Boston Pizza is famous. So franchisy, it’s an absurd theatric to even bother to give it a review. Blue collars love it; foodies despise it. For cibos, it remains a very guilty pleasure. And I should feel nothing but shame for deciding on it. But Joey is always a good centre for reason and perspective. I’ve reviewed franchises or chains in the past, certainly not nearly as prolific, but what right do I have to deny myself the curiosity of Boston Pizza’s latest pastiche, he says? Besides, Joey and I have been so culinarily curious for the past month we could no longer risk the mutual shame of being those dudes who talk about doing something, but never actually doing it. Losing face is something my Old Master taught me never to do. Ever. That’s why Boston Pizza gets a review. More specifically, why one novel item on Boston Pizza’s menu gets a review. Because one item and a side of fries is all we can really afford. We have debt, we have mortgages, we have condominium investments, and while our assets remain frozen, 14.99 is as much as we’ll feloniously pay. If television hasn’t already told you, or if you’re too cool for television (or the internet), you may not know about the pizzaburger. It’s everything it sounds like. Even though your mind may interpret the name as beef on a pizza, or pizza acting as burger patties, think harder- it’s a kind of panzerotti. Actually, it’s entirely a panzerotti wrapped around a hamburger. Why it wasn’t called a hamburger panzerotti? Joey and I will never know. But don’t worry, we e-mailed corporate. We’ve yet to hear back. Yup, the pizzaburger just might be the obelisk of food novelty. Why else would anyone venture to pay a solid fifteen dollars for something no larger than 6 inches in diameter? Apparently though, when it comes to choice, the pizza burger isn’t novel enough. It only comes in two variations: bacon and pepperoni, or three cheeses. Guess which one we chose? Never mind, I’ll tell you. We ordered bacon and pepperoni. We reckoned there was enough cheese in the mix anyway. Guess what, again? We were wrong. There was also very little sauce, which came as no surprise to the waitress. She said it was the most common complaint; even more common than the pliable premade burger patty clammed inside the chewy wrapping. It sounds less appetizing than it was. Surprisingly, the dough was slight enough that it didn’t overpower the actual burger, nor did it absorb every bit of flavor. There was that slight tang from the usual stock pizza sauce. You know? The kind you taste at every pizza place? With that kind of spectral pepperiness. And what could I say about the cured meats? Pepperoni, bacon: the meatiest combination of dopamine inhibitors in culinary medication. Salty, savoury, smoky. I couldn’t help but lather the entire thing in ketchup. Joey refused to bastardize anything though. To each his own. And when it comes to Boston Pizza’s pizzaburger, I can’t think of a more poignant phrase to use in this situation. 

BOSTON PIZZA 
597 King Street North 
Waterloo, ON, 
N2V 2N3 

(519) 880-1828 

Sundays: 11:00 AM - 12:00 AM 
Mon - Thu: 11:00 AM - 1:00 AM 
Fri - Sat: 11:00 AM - 2:00 AM 

ANY PAYMENT

Tweet

Oh, Hey, More Poutine

If the food adventures of hyper happy Italian John Cattuci haven’t already acquainted you with Stratford’s poutine palisade, Boomer’s Gourmet Fries, then you’re likely living under a rock, or likely me, who doesn’t give a flying fuck and rolling doughnut about any food tourism show the Food Network hashes out because you got enough of that sad shit in graduate school. So was it any wonder why I was publically shamed asking who the hell the dude in all the photos was? The answer is a resounding: no. Was I impressed? Only because I never thought television paid any mind to the backwoods of Southern Ontario. When Cambridge is on national TV though, I’ll be really blown away. Was I ashamed of myself? Not in the slightest. I was there to eat. Maybe a little against my will. But Joey wanted poutine, as per usual, and so did my future ex-girlfriend (or wife, Universe willing). So I couldn’t not oblige. Contrary to popular belief, I am a gentleman. Besides, our last trip to Stratford, the home base of Boomer’s, and Joey’s mystery poutine in a Styrofoam cup had me wondering where the hell the thing came from and why he paid near 7 dollars for it. This was one more gastronomic dog I could at least put to rest.

And of course Boomer’s name precedes it, thanks to television; but there’s a reason it was on television, and that’s because it makes fantastically creative poutines, or ‘gourmet fries.’ The joint’s aesthetic may communicate otherwise, but the bougie sentiment of gourmet certainly sticks to some, if not all, options like, well, cheesy curds on poutine (yeah, I went there). There are burgers too, among other things. I’m sure they’re just as fantastic, but my stinginess requires me, in my heart of hearts- until I’m a real person, making real money- to stick to eating as little as possible without feeling the belly-ache of portions I hate to pay for. Hey, we’d always like a little more for a little less, but this isn’t America. Boomer’s isn’t America. It’s a place that makes some of the best poutines around though; some that look like martinis topped with onion rings, toothpicks, and olives, others like strange bowls of spaghetti and meatballs. All tasty, all interesting. Joey and I bought poutine topped with goat cheese and basil oil (a kind of quick pesto); but Joey, having discovered we made the same choice, immediately changed his mind for a black bean and chili fries concoction.

So there they were in front of us all: my stacked fries, bottomed out with gravy and dolloped with a cool ball of lush, tart goat cheese, drizzled with an elixir of potent oil that easily flavoured the entire dish. I wanted more, thinking the golf ball of cheese and the tincture of oil couldn’t cover the whole mix. Joey showed me otherwise, swapping mine with his and turning it all to prove that a little went a long way. The oil was vibrant, almost visceral, peppery and hot, made savoury by the gravy and cheese. If I didn’t like the idea of gravy with it before, I did then. A landslide of refried black beans deluged every fry. The more I ate it, the more its spice warmed the back of my throat, the more the cumin lingered on my breath, creamy but paradoxically gritty, absolutely reminiscent of all those strong, familiar South American flavours. I couldn’t have liked it anymore. But Boomer’s is far from perfect. My piety for coleslaw had the place losing a little points. It was briny, but a little too lime like for my liking. So much so, it had the bizarre quality of lemon soda about it. It was crude, a little too fresh, not as stewed as I would have liked. Clearly, fresh crunchy coleslaw isn’t my thing, but hey, what can you do? John Cattuci might have something else to say, but his isn’t my mouth, and lucky for me, I don’t have to worry about pandering to avoid being fired. That’s already happened anyway, and I survived. Obviously, after this review, Boomer’s will too.

Boomer’s Gourmet Fries

26 Erie St  

Stratford, ON

N5A 1B2

(519) 275-3147

Tue-Thurs: 11:30 am- 6pm

Fri: 11:30 am- 7pm

Sat: 12 pm- 6pm

CASH ONLY

Tweet

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.

Tweet

Still Burgin'

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

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

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

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

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


ANY PAYMENT
45 Duke St. West in Downtown Kitchener.

Hours: unknooowwwnnn.

Tweet

There's a Fire

Not more than two years since that hallowed of diners, Mel’s, went up in smoke in the great university plaza fire of 2010. I recall the plumes in the sky during twilight that night, riding my bike, trying to clear my head of the vice grip of a thesis that attempted to analyze cooking shows as a kind of food pornography using Deleuzean theoretics. 

Granted, though I never really was a staunch supporter of the place, I knew it held a flame in the hearts of all the students that depended on it for late night bites, or morning after binges. Yes, lest we forget, Mel’s Diner was a moderately okay place. So, you could imagine my intrigue when I spotted such a simulacrum elsewhere in the world. I hoped it belonged to someone else. Someone fired up enough to exploit that honored name. Why? I kind of like being the bearer of bad news, especially to the patriotic. We live in a culture that feeds on drama, after all. Think: reality shows. Think: Glee. So, you could imagine my trepidation. Yes, I was doused with disappointment. It was Mel’s reborn, but in the vast wilderness of development and big box stores. 

There it was, brand new, looking fresh with photos, strangely enough, from its old location, hung on its walls, not damaged in the slightest. No yellowing, no broken frames, no fixed glass. As if nothing had ever happened. I was having a Twin Peaks experience.

Calm greys, navy blues, neon pink lights, and glass tiles decorated the space, making it seem to me a more elegant place from what it was before. The red booths were still there too. I liked it. Yes, Mel’s deserved its new location, it deserved a little self respect; it deserved its antithesis crowd of octogenarians. No rowdy students here, unless you read this and decide to go. Know this: if you do, you better have a way of getting there. But don’t let that deter you, it seems more nostalgic as a destination farther than a stone’s throw away, as if located back in time. That also said, I was no veteran of the Mel’s before it. This visit, for me, was a kind of baptism by fire, because I had no recollection of price; I had no recollection of menu; my only recollection was that it was a popular breakfast place, and if you want to know about any deals, you better bring a seasoned veteran, because they don’t tell you about them on the menu. My company made it his business to ask about Mel’s Favourite, an affably affordable 3.99 breakfast platter of eggs, pig, and toast. To the point, he had no qualms about the stuff, and from my end, it did look pretty alright. 

I went another route, opting for a monte cristo sandwich, stacked with ham, turkey, and cheese. That, and the best iced coffee around, or so the menu insisted; a huge claim, in my opinion. Though not unappetizing, it was far from setting the world on fire. A familiar syrup stirred with ice was all it was, sweeter than I would have liked, but ironically tempering my salty meal quite well. Not that that is a particularly good thing. The dualities of Mel’s seem to rest in the appetence of salty and sweet. Translucent fries crowded my plate, sodium bearing against whatever earthiness the potatoes wished to impart; no doubt a symptom from dusting every single batch fried and thrown into the fryer’s shared oil. The ham in my sandwich was no different, nor the cheese, its glassy edges making me wonder how old it may have been. And as I peeled it off, I wondered about the lukewarm, chalky, dry turkey that thickly set itself between egg battered bread that was so soft it needed not be softened by eggs at all. But hey, who knows such food lore? Who cares about standards? Mel’s exists. And, as I was cheerily told, I, as well as all of you, can rest assured, for someday that old lot will be rebuilt with Mel’s third incarnation. And if you can’t wait, you can always come here. I can only hope however, that Mel’s tries a little bit harder. Because you know, moving three times is as bad as a fire.  

Only thing worth photographing, quite frankly. Ain't he handsome?

 

Mel’s Diner 

645 Westmount Rd E, Kitchener 

EVERYDAY 6-9 

ANY PAYMENT!

Tweet

Ch-Ch-Changes

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

Tweet

Food Glorification

Look, Mom! I'm part of the media Hegemony.

The Works Gourmet Burger Bistro already has a reputation that precedes it. So when I say that I’m unexcited by the place, I don’t expect anyone reading to really pay me any mind. You can’t fight the Man, after all. Ironic, too. Especially for a place that hypnotically delivers a persona of society’s liminal degenerates. You know? The cool, laid back people that don’t get caught up in all that urbane ostentation? The kind of people that drink from Pyrex measuring cups and live in their parents’ sheds, listening to old Randy Newman? The admired burger eating Thureauvians who’ve attained personal autonomy by being ironic, or thinking they’re ironic and eating seemingly repulsive combinations that are not really bad. Well, The Works- as well as a little bit of the commodity fetish- makes you think you can too. It does it with its Brownfield, car-pot atmosphere; its visceral, oscillating menu of choices that make it a testament to the consumerist anxiety of too much choice. That is, it is as rhetorically transparent as glass. That is, everything on the menu could have easily been listed and customers could choose their toppings instead of having everything spoon fed to them. But what fun would some 6 burgers and 70 topping variations be? How else could the franchise pander with sophomoric highfalutin titles like ‘Limp Brisket’ and ‘Dare Ya Desserts,’ or the Othering and Orientalizing: ‘Sum Yung Guy’; let’s not forget “‘The Beat your meat’ Burger” for all those haggard masturbators who work up an appetite.

Crappy Tire. Crappy Burger.

Me? Well, as curious and intriguing as all the choices were, I opted for a tooth shattering, lung collapsing shake, blended with caramel, peanut butter, and Oreo cookie crumbs. With a consistency reminiscent of the glue we used to eat in our childhoods, but thicker, it was a wonder I drank as much as I did; too rich for the rocky road in my blood. And at the request of one herbaceous cohort, I opted for a meal as unfactory farmed as the place could manage:  a veggie burger with gluten free bun and sweet potato fries, transformed into what the menu aptly named, ‘The Crappy Tire.’ I can’t be more poignant than that in this instance. Set in front of me on what looked like an aluminum flowering pot- or trough- was a burger topped with a ring of pineapple, slice of balmy brie, whose odor rose generously to my nose, and a limp, flaccid, slice of lettuce, which I happily removed. The burger’s sweet and spicy sauce was nothing short of familiar, its sweetness overpowering and plumy, but nowhere near spicy at all. Sopping out, it eventually made the rubbery bun a slimy mess to eat. The pineapple was tender enough, and without any fibrous demure; and the brie? I can’t complain. But I can complain about the pliant demeanor of the paddy itself. A combination of parsley, onions and whatever other treacle is made to fashion a vegetarian paddy, it lacked the savoury notes I was looking for and made the whole thing a textural mess. The fries were okay; thinner than usual, but well suited to the stubborn nature of a yam’s creamy composure, making for a crunchy and smooth bite. 

Will I argue the price? No. Will I argue you don't want to pay for it? Yes. Because in a city that offers a lot of burgers and burger agency, I hope The Works isn’t depending on its franchise’s reputation, or quality control. But what does my opinion matter? I’m a 27 year old living with his mother.

The Works Gourmet Burger Bistro
(519) 885-6000
92 King Street South
Waterloo, Ontario

Everyday
11 a.m. - 10:00 p.m.

Tweet

The Food of Our Forefathers

We all hold on to summer in different ways. I can’t recite a sappy list, because I don’t really know what other people do to pay homage to the sappiest of seasons, and to be brutally honest, I’ve no ritual myself. I’ve been sojourned in this city my entire life, and at the end of every summer I find myself piously stuck to working whatever job I have without making plans to travel or camp or cottage. So this morning as I rose, late as usual, and partial to the idea of going out for Korean I thought to myself, how in the world could I honor the readers that give my meanderings through food land the once over, especially when they find themselves back in the cool, sweaty grip of fall, creeping a couple weeks away? What was cliché and summery? Sappy, yet aestival? (That also means summery.)

Hamburgers.

That was my answer. I pride myself on my own gastronomic sense- how I can write about food and make it culturally poignant, and not only an issue of mere eating for the sake of saving money and filling stomachs? If you find yourself starting school and saddened by that fact, yearning for the previous months you spent not going to school know that this review is here for you. Let it warm the cockles of your summertime heart (there’s a phrase I’ll use again). I’ll even join in the nostalgic fun.

When I was a young adherent of the Dane Cook of martial arts (that’s Karate, for those of you unfamiliar with the way of the fist), it was a ritual of my father and I after every class, every Saturday morning to visit Sonny’s Drive-In: a hamburger joint. Now, I don’t think my father brought me because he really thought long and hard about how much I’d love hamburgers. I think it was just a way for him to visit the owner (whom I’ve come to know as Sonny, though that name is no part of his identity at all), one of his many friends in the food business. If I had any memory of the place it was of my strange attachment to the nameless arcade I would always play. If memory serves, I operated as some big, hyper-masculine shirtless blonde man wrestling tigers in a coliseum. I never got further than that. But I played it. Every weekend. After every class I more or less got a whooping in.

That was some twenty years ago. Now, as an old man, and anonymous, and without my father, I found myself venturing there, thinking about how good the hamburgers must be, because the otherwise outmoded lot that is Sonny’s Drive-In is still getting business to this day. I know this because I’ve always been around, passing it by, observing.

Although I didn’t expect the place to change in the least, I at least expected someone there to happily greet me. That is how I biasly constructed the memory of my past. So, if anything changed, it may have been Sonny’s disposition, because he was still there, working hard and serving customers, older than ever; now in the company of a faceless employee working the fryers and decked out in a white uniform reminiscent of Americana’s hamburger shop past. Yes, everything was the same. The steel counter, the sneeze guard glass where you’d choose the toppings for whatever hamburger or hot dog you wanted to eat, the red tile, the glowing menu board where clip-on letters and numbers were used to spell out items and their prices, even the chocolate shake machine was still running, albeit eerily. The arcades were different though, and the ceiling too: brown painted faux wood floorboards now lay overhead.

There’s nowhere to sit in the place, only a legless table attached to the glass wall that looks out onto the modern world where one can stand and eat, and maybe cry over the fact that they can’t be part of a more nostalgic, genuine, naïve time when Marty McFly got his mom to fall in love with him.

Whatever.

For me, Sonny’s was a scary place. I’ve never been more intimidated ordering a hamburger and fries and soda in archaic cup. Though customers were coming and going, ordering food and telling me I wouldn’t be sorry, I could tell I was getting on the helps’ nerve critically looking over a menu that ran the gamut from hamburger to hot dog to fish and chips to scallops and fries (probably the most intriguing choice on the menu). And you’d be hard pressed to really find any kind of deal or combination plate like the ones that accompany most burger joints. You just pick and choose from the menu and whatever the cost is, the cost is. Still, it was a little cheaper than most conventional places. And with that, I placed my order, and took Sonny’s taking my dirty money and handling my burger thereafter as a sign not of poor standards, but of his tender regress to a safer time in our forefathers’ history when food sanitation wasn’t a big deal.

Again. Whatever.

So, a little standoffish, I went along the line, chose my toppings, had my items placed in a greasy paper bag and went outside to the weathered picnic tables, imprinted with the word ‘Sonny’s’ and carved hearts with monikers such as ‘Dave + Sarah’, and ‘F and A Forever.’ I could only imagine how hard my food would be to stomach.

Now, there are typical things to expect when eating a hamburger; charred, savoury meat paddies; soft, starch ridden buns. Usually, these generalizations are found with every plain paddy when eating out. I expected it with mine. However, there were some flavours I just couldn’t understand. Like a paddy that seemed a little sour, and pickles that were rubber, and all too squeaky. If not for these characteristics I may have very well said my hamburger was okay, but that there was nothing special about it. Still, in a city with so many places offering the good ground round, the only thing that may make Sonny’s burgers sellable might be patriotism and some notion that its hamburgers are somehow authentic, having earned their burgery place after so long.

The fries too were typical fare, though I admit better than the fast food chains we’re used to going to. Not scrawny and brittle in the least, but hardy and firm, crunchy if eaten immediately out of the fryer. But again, this is matched by so many. If there was one bit of serendipity about them it may have been the flecks of batter that managed to land in my box (runoff from the fingers of deep fried fish). This was something I thoroughly enjoyed, though unintended, obviously, by the cooks.

Maybe I was trying to recapture the past, or maybe I created the memory that my past was pretty dope, though I can’t for the life of me remember how stellar the food at Sonny’s was, and maybe there’s a reason for that. After all, twenty years ago, Sonny was a lot younger, and so was I. Perspective certainly may have been lacking. Now, I was a mere bald stranger. Certainly, I could have reminded him who I was, but why break an old man’s heart? More importantly, why break mine, especially if he didn’t care? For now, I’ll pretend Sonny is a man who loves the people he serves, not a man who can’t retire because his food shows no greater competitive value.

Sonny's Drive-In
(519) 884-1750
256 Weber St N Waterloo,
ON N2J 3H6

ANY PAYMENT

SUN-THURS 10 am – 1 am

FRI-SAT 10 am – 3 am

Tweet

Looking for the Itis

Spending eight hours in a theatre space on a Saturday with the more or less jeneuse can do strange things to a man- like slowly chip away at his esteem as the odd teenager riddles him with insult after insult about age and hair loss, making him question Antoine de St. Exupery's child praising novella The Little Prince. Why, oh why Antoine, are adults so bad? Last time I checked an adult had no real qualm about getting strung out on cheeseburgers, unlike the vegetarian advocated, healthy eating kids I seem to frequently come in contact with. Oh goodness, what happened to the days of shakes and malts, and melts and shaky malt melts? I'd love to take Sally to the sock hop and local burger joint after, but now she's talkin' about yoga after class and that new vegan cafe that opened uptown. Too bad, because I was really looking forward to make-out point.
Looks like it'll be me alone tonight, and some open-faced paddy melt displaying its edibles (give it whatever meaning you will.)
Luckily, that wasn't the case; luckily, me and the other overworked, underpaid adults/grad/PHD students were itchin' for some "ITIS" inducing re-fried, deep fried anythings - and shaky malt melts too!

Now, every time I drive home from my weekly Chinese class (conveniently placed above a quaint little noodle shop), I pass along multiple strips with myriads of food spots; more than usual, not as many as the literal strip malls of restaurants in Markham, Ontario. Anyway, one place always catches my eye. I don't know if its because of the name, or the strange giant mystery stain that resembles Our Lady of Fatima on its sign.


It's the name. Definitely the name. Wimpy's. Wimpy's Diner. 50's & 60's. Unique Style. Good food. Only good? Ah well, I'm easy. We'll deconstruct this some more later. Quite frankly, I can't believe the place exists. Not with a name like Wimpy's anyway. Why name it Wimpy's? Well, that's a very good question. Historically, the owner wanted to a create a name that would lead people with low esteem into a place where they could blow all their money in attempts to feel not only empowered, but powerful, strolling through Wimpy's like Clint Eastwood strolls through saloons. Really. But, not really. But really, that's the only logical fantasy I could think up. It was clever marketing, what can I say?

Now, I'm not big on diners. They're all pretty predictable as far as I'm concerned; overly priced food, "kinda" diner music (sure, Abba existed in the fifties. Totally. Or at least, diners existed in the seventies. So then, technically speaking, Jay-Z is diner music too.), and an atmosphere ripe with the greasy mist of not only fried food, but the sweaty men who cook it. Strangely enough, those stereotypes we see on television are alive and well in the diner space. All of this in combination with the rather run down, stained looking walls, and old photos and records of celebrities riddled across the room. And we musn't forget the proverbial red booths. It ain't no diner if there ain't no red booths. The same goes for those ridiculously luminescent red and blue neon lights. Which, quite frankly, I enjoy, whether in a diner, or the window of any local adult video store. I swear, sometimes I think that kind of decor is not there for the sake of having a themed eatery, but just as an excuse for looking half-assed.


But I digress. I digress because although most diners may appear that way, Wimpy's is far from the norm. Sure, it has a jukebox, and records all over the walls, and pictures of "the King," whom of which I was so lovingly sat beside. But what really caught me by surprise was that it was clean. So clean in fact that its atmosphere almost feels cold. A little too clean for a diner? Maybe. But I wasn't complaining. It was refreshing. I could breathe. And from there, I could eat!

Wimpy's has a typical dineresque menu: breakfast, lunch, dinner; burgers, fries, shakes; Italian food- wait, what? That's right, amongst the cluttered menu of onions rings and cheese steaks, there is, snuggly tucked away in the deep recesses of its laminated pages, a substantial array of pasta options. Imagine: pasta and coleslaw, together at last. My Louisianen cousin would be in heaven. Was this a joke, I thought? Or a clever ploy to lead people to ordering other things. Perhaps it was a bet, for shits and giggles, and whatever other reason someone decided to put pasta on the menu. To take weekly bets and tally up how many people ordered pasta from a diner called Wimpy's, the winner raking in more winnings than the place sees in profit from the pasta items. Hey, I know, and now you do, that restaurants often place certain items on the menu to lure customers to their more popular/doable dishes. I was willing to bet that if I ordered the pasta, they would have said they ran out, or red lights and sirens would have gone off, and those tacky secret service agents from the 50's would have come out of somewhere and taken me to a holding cell somewhere- or a spaceship. Maybe the same one Elvis flies. But the pasta wasn't the only anomaly on the menu. Things as strange as McCain French Fries were put down (for 2.99 mind you). Why any place would sell a brand name food item? Sure, soft drinks I could understand- you can't make a soft drink from scratch. But french fries? Luckily, my friend opted for the regular fries. Touché Wimpy's- your clever menu strategizing wins again. She did indeed get the regular fries.
But before that, being the nostalgic suckers that we were, we opted for those symbols of all American diners everywhere: the malt (3.49) and milkshake (3.99) with option of egg (.79). (Do raw eggs still give you food poisoning? I've got 20 hours left of the 48 hour food poisoning limit, so I'll keep you posted.) We didn't share straws. Flavours are vast; if you have a malt, you mix it with whatever soft drink they sell. If you have a milkshake, you choose whatever artificial flavour they can dish out- banana, strawberry, chocolate, baby, whatever. I opted for banana. And let me tell you, it did justice. I had no trouble sucking this thing through a straw, and the flecks of yellow were a testament to the egg I demanded they mix into my merangue quality milkshake.

After shooing the waitress away three times we finally decided what to order. It was a toss up for me, my friend was bent on getting a pound of chicken wings. I, like the girl I am, didn't know what dress to wear, nor what item to order: veggie burger combo, or delicious philly cheese steak (in theory)? Now, seeing as to how I would probably never visit Philedelphia, I decided I'd follow through on one of my personal promises to order a philly cheesesteak in either Philedelphia or a quaint little diner.

So, after ordering, and after 20 minutes of waiting, ironically (some karmic consequence, I'm sure, after consistently telling the waitress I wasn't ready to order), the food arrived. Delicious french fries, and- delicious french fries, and . . . moderatly good chicken wings, which should have tasted like barbeque, but were overpowered by the sauce's acidic, vinegar like flavour. And speaking of vinegar, the coleslaw that so lovingly came tucked under a nice slice of pickle, must have went to school with the chicken wings, not getting as good grades in vinegar-ology, tasting rather bland and absent of that rich mayonnaise twang you come to expect. Nothing of the sort there. Not at all. Subpar at best. But it was, in all fairness, only a side dish that came with the main meal: my philly cheese steak . . . homey.


Now I either built up the deliciousness of the philly cheese steak in my head from years of listening to Redman CD skits about philly cheese steaks or Wimpy's philly cheese steak is, like the diner's name, wimpy (how many food reviewers use THAT in their Wimpy reviews? Huh? How many!). A combination of roast beef, sauteed onions and chopped (somewhat bitter) green peppers topped with what was probably mozarella cheese on an awesomely generic hot dog bun, the cheese steak was nothing out of the ordinary. I did finish it though - for 8.49, who wouldn't finish it? And what was I thinking while finishing it? How I wished I had ordered the veggie burger combo, because after eye-balling all the other customers around me who ordered things like french toast, huge hamburgers, melts, and what have you, I was jonesin' for something far more satisfying. To the point, I was still hungry. And that strung out hamburger fix I had attempted to quash - still there. Still inside me right now as I write this very entry, and I'm willing to bet it will still be here when I go back to the theatre tomorrow, unless I'm quick enough to stop off at a McDonalds before hand.
So, will I go back? I'm thinking maybe. I'm thinking of giving Wimpy's a second chance, only because the hamburgers on the menu look so delicious. Then again, my friend summed up the place in one epiphonic moment that only an English graduate student could wax so poetically: "If the food was better, this place would be cool." Truer words, truer words.
One thing's for sure, Wimpy's certainly did live up to its name. The question is, can it redeem itself the second time?

Wimpy's Diner

1470 Weber St E
Kitchener, ON ,
N2A2Y5
(519) 893-1458
 

Tweet