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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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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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

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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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Liminoid

I’ve been saddled on and off with the label of hipster, or ‘original hipster,’ as my compatriots like to shamefully call me. It happens everywhere I go actually: parties, work, bedroom mirror. I guess it’s been a long time coming. I’m underemployed, thrifty, prodigal, polemical. I don’t have a funny moustache though, or any knowledge of folk music, or owls, or old furniture. I actually don’t have any furniture. I do have a couple Cosby sweaters though that I bought for a couple bucks. And I look good in them. I am a fan of Nick Wooster too. I’m not entirely sure that counts though. I also have a thing against Authenticity, as you all probably already know. Anyway, what I’m getting at is, if you gaze long enough into the abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you. So, I guess I’m finally paying for my mistake. And I have the Yeti café to thank for finally helping me to realize this. It was there, a space riddled with kitsch, a mess of retro furniture, folksy photos, novel paintings of Sasquatch in the wilderness, amenable recycled glass bottles full of water, vegan bacon, where I realized, while attempting to help Joey find love, that I probably am some weird, liminal, ultimate, self-shaming hipster. The fact that I’m calling myself one speaks even more to the fact. Terrible. But Joey and I love the Yeti café. We do. It’s weird. We’ve avoided it for so long. It wasn’t until our out-of-town friend, urban and beautiful, yearned for a place that jeered the whole neighbourhood of Williamsburg. So we went. Intending to shame it. But then we went back, and back again, enjoying the novel coffee options, the strange in glass presentations of espressos with foam, the rose water marshmallows, the affable counter attendee. Ironically, at the Yeti, Joey and I can just be. And get fed if we so please. Sandwiches, salads, quiche, even breakfast: eggs, bacon, pancakes, all doable in a small, manageable space. I’m absolutely thoughtless if I’m not mentioning the place’s baked goods either. All outsourced, but it’s not my prerogative to talk anymore about them. The Yeti knows where to get a good interesting thing, like protein breakfast bars, nutrition riddled cookies: spicy in aroma, light, and airy with puffed sesame seeds.  There’s fresh squeezed juice, homemade lemonade in mason jars, ready for anyone curious enough to crack them open. I certainly couldn’t resist the stirring infusion of mint and thyme. Unfortunately, mine was a jar of tart, chalky drink, semi sweet, devoid of what flavor the place said was in it. The sprigs of thyme were in the brew, but the flavor wasn’t, and nothing minty either. Still, it could be a good idea, provided it works.

Joey bought his usual cortado, this time charmed with a bagel topped with avocado, cheddar, bacon, tomato, and a garlic aioli that made the entire thing buzz. Without it, as far as we were concerned, it would have just been a sandwich, but that strange aioli made it a phenomenon.

Something a little more ambitious and liminoid called to me: the Vegan BLT. A good ol’ 7 grain sandwich bundled with a mix of lettuces- cabbage included- tomato, and avocado with vegan mayo: a thick, heavy spread, headier than non-vegan mayo. I can’t say I minded it. For something so meatless, it was pretty substantial. My only real qualm was the limp micro greens used to garnish the thing. Like I wasn’t good enough for fresh? Or maybe I’m too hip to care about it? Anyway, the vegan bacon was what really called me into a world of culinary performance and pretend. Flaked coconut was pan-fried, I assume with things like tamari, liquid smoke, or whatever else, to make a perfectly sweet simulacrum of what we all remember as the cooked backs of beasts. My sandwich had a generous serving of it too. And Joey and I were generously served, allowed to be as liminoid as we pleased, until, of course, we had to enter the real world and leave.

The Yeti

(519) 744-4643

14 Eby St North Kitchener, ON

N2H2V5
 

Tue - Fri: 9:30 am - 5:00 pm

Sat: 7:00 am - 4:00 pm

Sun: 10:00 am - 3:00 pm

ANY PAYMENT

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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

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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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An Abject Existence

Lately, life has furnished me with a rather abject existence. Without any culinary compatriot by my side, I’ve found myself free to chase whatever culinary novelty without the slightest inconvenience. And the city’s only policed food truck has occupied me with a fun game of cat and mouse that no doubt those with work will find very inconvenient, especially when the city dictates when and where a food truck will go. Certainly, these particular dynamics make the food truck a frivolous venture unless eaters are free and enthusiastic enough to chase them down, especially if trucks are prevented to really go where the mouths are. The Schmuck Truck seems to be the city’s harebrained pilot project, testing to see if food trucks can be a viable business in our mid-sized city. Good for us, I suppose; especially good for the Schmuck Truck, privileged to monopolize, for now, on what seems to be a cosmopolitan trend. But I’m not losing any truck with the city’s culinary social experiments, finding it preoccupied my time for at least a day. I hope customers don’t have to compromise their location for it, or any food trucks in the future; otherwise, they’ll all run out of gas. But that’s enough of my lazy vehicular puns. Yes, the Schmuck Truck is a novelty for everyone obsessed with purchasing experience and consuming it through travel; but it also offers us what it considers gourmet options worthwhile of the chase, introducing different specialties as much as it can, and wants. That said, its changing menu is small, so that already gets a gold star from me; and its effort at gourmandizing food in a truck is reason for interest. Whether it succeeds or not is the other issue.

There’s typical salt of the earth fare: French fries, hamburgers, pulled pork sandwiches, elevated with creative haute cuisine combinations. I appreciate it all. I wouldn’t expect any less from a food truck. And I wouldn’t expect not to pay a marginally similar price to fixed restaurants. We can dream about the food truck bringing us cheaper meals with all the same pizzazz, but even the streets are rented.

And, of course, as challenging as my taste buds are, I opted for the most lofty entrees. A shrimp remoulade rice bowl: a kind of cold rice noodle salad with a peppery, tomato mayonnaise sauce, shrimp, coriander, and a smattering of lazily chopped vegetables; and an artichoke and spinach grilled cheese sandwich, packed with chopped artichoke, cream cheese, asiago cheese and mozzarella.

All in all, burgers and fries may have been better. Gourmandizing, at least for the items I got, seemed too challenging given the space they were made in (I assume, anyway). The remoulade in my bowl was flat and sour, and there was no cilantro to be found. I would have liked the usual uplifting Asian flavours that the dish attempted to mimic; things like lime juice, lemon grass, and of course, cilantro. It was an unfortunate combination which’s simulacrum just didn’t work. The rice noodles, purposely served cold, were unfortunately subject to being droughty and hardened. Some call this al dente; a stranger called it undercooked. It may work for pasta, but years in a Thai kitchen taught me if rice noodles are cooked and refrigerated they need to be blanched and cooled again if eaten cold because they dry out. The shrimp however, was the savoury savior of the dish- tender and adding flavor to an otherwise bland and sour dish. Micro sprouts added a great fresh earthiness, but weren’t enough to really draw attention away from what was wrong.

Our grilled cheese, sandwiched with rye, had me looking at it leerily. A deep brown had me wondering if the bread was burnt; but the forgivingness of rye absolved any suspicion. My qualm, and the stranger’s I shared it with, was that everything was overpowered with nothing but cream cheese, which was a crying shame, because there were a lot of great ingredients to be showcased.

Luckily, the Schmuck Truck is a fluid thing, and an option can be here today and gone tomorrow, so too can defective meal options. So if you find yourself on the verge of an abject existence, even if for a day, for the sake of novelty why not try and track it down? You never know, our dear city may never see another food truck again.

CASH ONLY

FOR DIRECTIONS AND TIMES CHECK ITS TWITTER: @SchmuckTruck1

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Accusations as a Gastronomic Good-For-Nothing

It’s been a good year, I imagine, since Cheeses Murphy first read the review I wrote about them. I also imagine they’ve been stewing in my words ever since, angry at me for what I considered an honest review.

It’s been at least four months since some slandering words were thrown my way for that same review. But I reckon everyone’s had enough time to cool off. That said, I was never really angry in the first place. I couldn’t care less. Still, if my trivial career in food writing is on the line, even in the slightest, I reckon I should do the folks at the Princess a turn of service and give them a second once-over, with perspective, so we can all get away from the smoke and mirrors of branding, flashy rhetoric, cool trends, and Kelly Kapowski. So we can all focus on grilled cheese and all of its manifestations. So expect no flash from me. This is straight and to the point. And this time, to be sure I wasn’t acting from any position of bias, I brought two more mouths with me. My gastronomic bro: Joe, and a second accomplice, who is indifferent whether or not he remains nameless. But he did, after all, buy our sandwiches. Buddha knows Joey and I couldn’t have done it alone, so it only made sense to have a mole. So I’ll spare his handsome self and his handsome name.

I’d like to say much has changed. It’d do my heart good to tell the world Cheeses Murphy took my criticisms and elevated their grilled cheese even higher. Their angry lamentations to me implied that I was being unfair the first time; that, maybe, it was a bad night; that, maybe, I misread the situation. I had no qualms about hoping so. So when Joey and Nameless and I put all those grilled cheeses on the table we were ready to put my foot in my mouth. You could cut the suspense with a butter knife, or Joey’s anti-climactic words when we unwrapped that first sandwich. They were poignant, honest, full of truth, and that’s why I liked them. Because they didn’t have to come from my mouth. Joey’s surprise was an elegy to what I had said disapprovingly in the past, and this time for more or less every sandwich we ordered- which was every sandwich on the menu. Who would have thought four words of, ‘Fuck, man, that’s burnt’ would have described our grilled sandwiches’ bread so fully. And yet, there they sounded. Burnt, oversaturated with butter that slicked your fingers and gave an unwelcomed, greasy sheen to the tinfoil they were wrapped in. Chewy crust, bread that easily lost any kind of crunchy bite given to it on the grill because it was sodden and heavy with butter. We could feel our thighs getting larger. We were all in agreement; we would have liked a lot less butter. There’s something to be said when you can squeeze a sandwich’s bread and it oozes.

My second frustration came with uneven toppings, yet again. A year later. The only reason why any kind of accusation as a gastronomic good-for-nothing might have irked me. In retrospect, I should be relieved that I wasn’t delusional. Still, I can’t help but be a little dissatisfied; feeling that Cheeses Murphy’s poor quality control and my telling you about it will work against me.

 

Our Pizza Sammich, topped with mozzarella, pepperoni, sauce, and black olives was anything but. Not enough sauce to taste, only enough to colour the inside a faint orange, 3 halves of black, briny olives, and squeaky pepperoni that was cured, but not cooked as far as I was concerned. None of us liked it.

The Cheese and Chong, arranged with ground beef, cheddar cheese, fresh cilantro, and chipotle sour cream was the one we liked the most. But the one I would have liked more if the cilantro wasn’t all sprinkled to one side. Again, a whole year later. To add insult to injury, it did nothing to flavor the thing. It was lost. What good is fresh cilantro if you can’t taste it? If it does no good to cut through strong cheddar, and buttery bread? The chipotle sour cream did combat this overpowering saltiness with a little spice and balmy deluge, and that was something I could appreciate. Still, without cilantro, it felt too heavy, especially with all the butter.
 
The Sticky Frenchman could also learn a lesson about balance. Brie and caramelized apples seem simple enough, and yet, you could rub the things together and hear them squeal. The apples weren’t so much caramelized as they were glazed in a syrup. Still crisp, not soft. And normally, given the other textural dynamics of the thing, crunchy could do good against soft, but not here. Everything was too wet. Buttery collapsible bread, syrupy apples, so sweet they overpowered the brie, and salty everything else.

Then there was the Lumberjack. Thick cut, supposedly smoked, ham that had no smoky quality about it, gruyere cheese, and mustard. Surprisingly, I didn’t mind it too much. Sadly, the ham’s luke warm quality distracted any eating away from the other warm appendages. The pungent gruyere, the mild mustard, which was fun to taste in the undergrowth. I saw potential for something better, if only the ham’s spongy quality didn't make me cringe as I chewed it.

Everyone was on the level with the Cheeses Murphy bacon-jam and cheddar cheese sandwich. Super salty and sense numbing with bacon and strong cheddar; we were strangely satisfied. Or armed to the teeth with PBR. We couldn’t tell if we wanted it to be sweeter, or if it was supposed to be, for that matter; still, we accepted it, nonetheless. The overpowering saliferousness of cheese, butter, and bacon could make anyone comatose, and with chewy, saturated bread, it became a paradoxically comforting mess.

And there you have it. More perspective. Another review. All and all, for the Cheeses Murphy crew. It’s in the past. We can forgive ourselves. We can all move on and eat. My soul can finally rest. My voluptuous stirrings for Laura can still stir. Say hi to her for me, Cheeses Murphy. Tell her I still love her. Jackie, too. I’m happy she’s healthy. I’m happy we can all let this pass.

Cheeses Murphy
46 King St. N. Waterloo
FRI & SAT 12-330AM

CASH ONLY- tax included.

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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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Not Like Nilus

I couldn’t help but lament to Joey about our city’s saturated cafe market. It seems lately no matter where we find ourselves, there’s one on every corner, staring us brazenly in the face, knowing they can strong arm any spot their owners feel like paying for. Day by day, I feel myself urged more and more to crowd multiple pastry shops, bakeries, or cafeterias into one review, feeling that their differences don’t really matter. If the height of my grief seems too aweless, likening the café as the English student of the restaurant world might be offensive enough to make you understand. I won’t say that when someone’s at a culinary impasse they decide to open a café; but again, it sure does seem like there’re a lot of cafes with nothing spectacularly different about them.
 

My grief was at its height when Debrodnik’s Real Bake Company seemed like any other place. Another bakery or café in another plaza, bombed with illustrations on its windows advertising fresh sandwiches and what not. It too even holds up a little part of the aesthetic bargain. You can believe there’s a wall to sit against festooned with the fanciest decorative floral print wallpaper. You all know the next word I’m going to utter too: rococo. Luckily, it’s reserved to a single space. Beyond that is a more humble area with no spectacular colour schemes, just sandwich tables, pastry fridges, and playfully framed wall illustrations. Beyond that though, a spectacularly playful and spunky menu of simple, yet very creative sandwiches which, in hindsight, were carefully considered and work. How could a poutine sandwich not have been? Or a mini quiche in a bagel? If you’re reading this with any kind of my usual acrimony, please don’t, because Debrodnik’s is a fantastic change of pace. With meatball sandwiches, deep fried cinnamon buns, and proverbial black and white cookies, Debrodnik’s brings us workable comfort food, junk food, and good food. Yes, there are also fresh deli sandwiches. It’s an eight item menu, and I hope it never grows. It doesn’t have to, especially when it’s matched with some of the most creative pastries I’ve seen in a while.

Joey and I mowed down on a meatball sandwich and a gut busting poutine packed in a Kaiser, aptly named, ‘the Gut Buster.’ Weighing in at over one pound, a chewy Kaiser with an immaterial doughnut like sweetness was stuffed with fries, cheese curds, and more fries. Then, topped with gravy, it was carefully pressed together, ensuring its cheesy scaffolding would hold. And before you think something so carbo-loaded couldn’t work, guess again. Crispy fries, cheese curds that actually melted (in a poutine, heaven forbid), and spicy gravy matched the texture of a Kaiser that was buoyant and without all that flakiness we are always sadly expecting. Not here, however. Debrodnik’s creates a novelty sandwich that won’t be novelty for long; it’ll be Canon. 

Our Meatball sandwich was a close second. Crammed with roasted red peppers, mozzarella cheese, parmesan, tomato sauce, and a meatball the size of a little girl’s fist, we couldn’t believe it stayed together, but the sandwich’s creator knew a thing or two about balance.

And if we weren’t comatose enough, we made sure we would be by the time we left, finishing our visit off with a raspberry mocha slice- a cake stacked with rich raspberry mouse, cake, mocha mousse, and a brownie like bottom. A little rich for our fat selves, with a mousse a little more jellied than we would have liked, but a creative ensemble nonetheless. Next was the choux pastry baked black and white cookie topped with, what else? Black and white frosting. Cake like, but with body, it reminded me of so many of the pastries my grandmother shoves in my face. But the deep fried cinnamon bun was the favourite of the bunch. With a crispy exterior cased around a soft chewy inner bread laden with cinnamon and sugar, and coated with a thick heavy frosting we had to stop and put it down, think of how good it was, and pick up where we left off.

Debrodnik’s is the kind of stuff we dream about, see on TV, hear about on cosmopolitan food trucks, but anchored in a locale we can always come to visit. A place I’m wishing I kept a secret, what with its inexpensive and great food. Food, as far as I’m concerned, that easily shames every other blazeh bakery around.

Debrodnik’s Fresh Bake Company

(519) 888-8378

220 King St North  
Waterloo, ON 
N2J2Y7

MON-SAT: 11-7

ANY PAYMENT

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I Can Remember It For You Wholesale

Thank goodness for Joey, because I know nothing about anything shawarma. Though the Levantine ritual of packing meat in a wrap and selling it in as many competing hasheries in Waterloo as possible has existed for as long as any Canadian Chinese food place has, I’ve never taken the time to go in, order, and see what the buzz is all about, largely in part because I could never come to terms with the price for something so simple. That said, the only perspective afforded me in regards to the shawarma, the falafel, or the gyro, all came in retrospect to what the shacks in the University of Waterloo’s campus court plaza’s bodega of culinary delight has to offer. Joey too has his own understanding. His understanding being that Australia has the best gyros, shawarmas, ‘whatevers,’ he has ever eaten. And who am I to deny it? I know nothing of the sort.

Highland Halal Shawarma had us both hankering curiously for whatever it was that drew people into its small corner. Aside from our usual sniggering at anything food and anything attention grabbing, we figured the traffic must have been some indication that Highland Halal Shawarma was doing something right.

Its menu’s small, its food inexpensive. No meal will run you over 10 dollars. And if you deny yourself the option of a combo and stick to the puritan disposition of its wraps, you’ll have a bite that’s even cheaper, but just as satisfying. Before I took a bite this was my favourite thing about Halal Shawarma; before its tiny space, before its two stool bar on-looking a parking lot crossed out by iron, before its mirrored walls that make an infinitely small space look on, humorously, into infinity. But I’m not complaining; I liked it. I liked the white noise, the bright lights. It was a space that stirred in me all the fantasy of food joints in big cities. When I went in, I could pretend that when I went out something big and urban was waiting, steam rising from sewers, people smashing elbows- not sprawl and neglected suburbs, not strip malls. Just me, Joey, and whatever shawarma was. Whatever cheap shawarma was.

Joey was first up; he knew what he wanted. All the fixings on the side, cautioning me that he fills his own pita because some people really load up his wraps; that, for whatever reason, doesn’t sit right with him. I was indifferent. And, of course, lacking any perspective I ordered a falafel wrap (5.30) and a shawarma wrap (6.64), as well as the novel, yet not for faint-of-heart, Ayran than-koto yogurt drink, making sure Joey got one too.

 

Lobbed in front of me and cuddled in a paper bag were two separate wraps, each in two even smaller paper bags. In each, warm pitas cocooned snuggly around respective fillings of fried chickpea patties and chicken- shaved from a conical spit. Any other fixings were up to the eater; they could include brightly pickled turnips, radishes, pickles, and the lesser more mundane everyday vegetables.

My resilient, chewy pita counterpoised the chaotic stuffing of crispy chickpea falafels, slippery pickles, and spicy lip puckering hot sauce. It was a fun thing to chew, and a great way to manage fillings that have a potential for making a big mess, especially when a falafel as perfectly crisp as mine gave way to a soft sumptuous cumin centre. My tender shawarma was no different. Its tender meat, a savoury hot roast against cooling pickles pulled up again by a humming hot sauce was a great first experience. Our tart yogurt drinks too. We both wondered if they tasted as sour as each other’s. They did. We laughed. We loved it. Sour and savoury quenched with even more sour and savoury. Staring out into the parking lot, it was a good way to spend a lazy Saturday afternoon.

HIGHLAND HALAL SHAWARMA

(519) 741-8300

200 Highland Rd. W.

Kitchener, ON N2M 3C2

Tue-Sun 11 am - 9 pm

ANY PAYMENT

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Purity and Danger

*Enjoy this old, old post- that for some reason wasn't online. It is now. And check out Thrive. Menu changes all the time! My allusions to Academia... not so much.

To be honest, I wasn’t sure if it'd be worth setting foot in Thrive Juice Bar. My own eating prejudices did a good job of reminding me that a trendy and upscale place may not necessarily equate memorable, worthwhile food. More often than not, the food could be redundant and echo the meal options of so many of its counterparts today. It took a lot of guts to enter. If it wasn't the look of the space or the clientele within that made me feel undeserving, it certainly may have been the feeling that I wouldn't be satisfied with what was offered, and I don't like to offend. But hey, that's what menus are for, and since last week's good, almost serendipitous, food venture I figured I just may be able to make it a twofer. Or if anything, feel a little cleaner.

Thrive Juice Bar sets itself in the nitty-gritty of the Bauer lofts. And yes, I'm being ironic and misleading, though I can't see why not, especially in an area that was planned as an 'indoor market place' with a 'vibrant lifestyle of dynamic community.' But my job isn't to debate the semantics of cultural space, only the food that tries to match it and construct a fantasy lifestyle. Otherwise, Thrive Juice Bar is the perfect thing to deconstruct.


Beyond its exterior's glass walls not only do we view a fantasy screen of what our dining experience could be, but how we have access to a kind of social elevation by merely buying clean, healthy shakes and the brand products that are placed on the place's shelves (in case you need a healthy colon) and flat screen television over the bar. Its straight lines, mute grays, sleek blacks and shiny trimmings do good to express its clinical influences, and from there communicate to customers just how sophisticated Thrive is, mimicking the restaurants I know exist in the world but can't afford. This is merely just one symptom of today's trendy food scene. Empowering that dynamic is the space's placement of green. The sign with a leaf dotting the 'i' of the place's name, the bamboo plants growing out of glass centre pieces- all come together to signify that if you come in, you can very well come out feeling clean. It's those kind of things that make a devout eater a little wary.

I sat myself down at the bar making note of the intrusively loud music that echoed throughout the lofty space and asked the 'cook' behind the glass separating us if they offered food, not just drinks. Luckily, they did. It was food for clean living, and though I may already be exhausting the idea in this review, it's not without due cause. With expensive blended drinks full of energy boosts and proteins I know nothing about, as well as wheat grass shots with orange chasers, you better believe there's going to be an array of vegetarian and vegan meal options for a particular charmed circle of eaters. No meat though. I can respect that. Meat’s dirty. I sensed that the notion of liking to eat any animal compromised a little self purity and came with a little danger. I myself was grabbing my collar when one of the servers asked me after my meal if I was a vegetarian or vegan.

Thrive's no place for the faint of wallet either, the reason probably being the ‘clean,’ ‘healthy’ food you're paying for. Either that or the clientele they expect to attract is in an area built for bigger wallets. I've said before that palettes influence the food we eat; well, the same goes for social class.

When it came to 'eating' at Thrive, my conjecture was that what you were seen eating was more important than what you were actually eating. Don't get me wrong, the food has merit, but I couldn't help but wonder if it suffered from the residue of Nouvelle Cuisine. Regardless, it's a smorgous board for the health conscious eater. Vegan soups, vegan hamburgers, big green smoothies (8.99), melon salads, Japanese beans, vegan pad thai. Any association with green and clean, they have it. Although, they do have something called a dirty rice bowl. A good attempt at badassery; however, in the end, clean and good for you.
Mine would be a small meal, I knew right away. But maybe it could be salvaged by the healthy ingredients that were loaded with supplement powders. I started off with a kale Mojito. A Hemingwayian paradox in a place that, I'm sure, favours peace, good food and clean living; not fighting, fishing and- well, you know . . . What would Papa think' if he came here and asked for a Mojito made with kale? Either way, stuffed with fresh kale, lime juice and zest, as well as fresh mint and organic cane sugar and coconut water I was still interested in seeing if it had any life to it. I'd like to say it did. And even though it didn't have any unappealing kale flavour, I was kind of disappointed that it didn't taste a little original. I could taste the citrus, the mild mint, and a general sweetness expectedly given off by the sugar cane. No coconut though. In terms of having those general Mojito flavours, it hit the nail on the head. But again, I was expecting more. Setting my drink down and watching its ingredients separate into two homogenous parts I waited after I ordered an 8" oblong spelt pizza. I'll save you the suspense of its shape because I think the menu may have been referring to the size of the plate. Topped with sun dried tomatoes, artichokes, basil, arugula pesto and a mozzarella I've no urge to remember, the dish was a whopping 9.50. The spelt crust may have been a bad choice on my part. Resembling the dry, hollowed caverns of an unevenly baked flat bread it lacked that firm bitey that comes with the ideal pizza crust. And the attempt to drizzle olive oil over it did nothing to alleviate this flaw. Since there was no bread between the crust to absorb the oil and soften it, it just made the thing feel slippery and wet. Still, if there's anything to mention about the crust it's that it didn't lose its crisp constitution. The pesto was surprisingly bright, and the bitterness that is usually a big part of arugula absent, negated no doubt by the lemon in the sauce. This also worked against the pesto however, because in an attempt to hide any bitterness, the nuttiness that usually comes with arugula’s pungent bite was gone, and so was any nuttiness that came from the almonds used to make the sauce. To top it off, there was also an odd burnt underpinning to the pizza’s flavour, though I couldn't see any markings on the bottom of the crust. Maybe I was missing something. Ingredients were notorious for getting away from me, the cheese doing little to hold anything together. And though I can appreciate a little cheese on pizza- too much being a bad thing- too little can be just as bad, drying out and having a gluey texture doing nothing to lock any moisture in or keep ingredients on. I would have liked more cheese, and less oil if anything.


Near 20 dollars later I was still hungry. I had a desire for the desserts the television offered me, but thought I better cut my losses. Thrive's heart is in the right place, its drinks offer a lot of options, and its menu a pu-pu platter for healthy eaters, there being a little bit of something for everyone- from Korean BBQ tofu to, Ruben sandwiches. So, don't let me deter you; if anything, let your wallet.

Thrive Juicebar 
(519) 208-8808105-191 King St S
Waterloo, ON 
N2J 1R1 

Mon-Fri 9-6; Thurs-Fri 9-7; Sat 10-5

Any Payment

*Original publication 03/2011

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University Pub Showdown

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WILF’S
The Hawker

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

Poutine

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

Wings

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


THE BOMBER 
The Warrior

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

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

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

*originally published in The IMPRINT Mar 30, 2012*

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