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When you inevitably find yourself making a day of visiting (what’s left of) St. Jacob’s Market, you may give glance to the antique stores and other outlets surrounding the cusp of it. If you’re like me, you may take a lifetime to slowly approach every building if only because you take a long, long time in life gathering interests and acting on them. Years ago, I spent a good portion of my time antiquing, looking for anything made in Occupied Japan. I found like, two teacups. Anyway, after that, and more recently, it was a serendipitous interest in cosmetics that had me looking for supplies in the bulk store next to the antique store. I know what you’re thinking. And you’re probably right. Anyway, most recently, not a day or two before, I was told about the eatery sharing the space with both places. Yeah, I saw it in the past, and acknowledged it. But like I said, it takes me a long time to act on interest. Don’t live like me, kids. Otherwise, you may regret having stayed away from the Crazy Canuck for so long.
That’s right, as thick as the name may sound, it’s cozier and more welcoming than you’d think. Its crew is small, and quintessentially Canuck, humouring me with nicknames like ‘big guy’ and ‘bud’, enduring my indecisiveness, and having nothing but earnest at my embarrassment for not knowing what chomo (chocolate milk) means. The menu’s eclectic, and I can finally say that and mean it. The space, almost as much; seasoned with Canadiana, with a single wall of record sleeves of anything classic rock and Canadian: Kim Mitchell, Rush, Max Webster. License plates from every province, snowshoes- Its identity encompasses so much of what I have always xenophobically believed when I think of my own cultural identity. Why? I don’t know. This is a food review, not a psychology study.
It was a tempting menu though. It took no shame in deriving its ideas from every culture it could think of. From taco pizza, to pizza poutine. I finally settled on the day’s special: A sliced beef hoagie with a posturing, and therefore hypnotizing, mango chutney coleslaw; pizza poutine, not poutine pizza, and what the place called a ‘snowshoe,’ for dessert. Between you and me, that’s what I was waiting for.
I lazily waited for my casserole of fries covered with meat sauce, two seasoned slices of salami, and baked mozzarella, reminiscent, of all things, of a chicken parmesan. I laughed tenderly to myself. Beside it, my hoagie, which, if I didn’t know any better, was a slider smaller than my fist, packed with resilient steak slices and topped with slaw. My enthusiasm for the thing waned as much as its old bread, which absorbed the flavours of the air from the fridge. Mean to say, but no less true. Its coleslaw, a little too curried with the yellow stuff and distracting from the idea of mango chutney made into a vibrant salad. The cabbage was limp and too fermented to cherish any good flavor. In two bites, it was gone. I couldn’t reconcile whether I should have been happy or sad that it was gone so soon. But that was as bad as the meal got. I treasured my poutine. It wasn’t anything in the forefront of poutiness, but I’m damned if I didn’t love its tangy, peppery, savoury meat sauce, or its crispy fries with an indescribable malty flavor. The weirdest association, but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. It was rich, it was hardy, it was mouth filling. If the Canuck couldn’t do poutine, I guess it would have been a culinary hoser. But culinary hoser it was not.
And my snow shoe dessert? Let me tell you: a deep fried fritter in the shape of the footgear, topped with vanilla icecream and rained down on with cinnamon and sugar, floating in rich raspberry coulis. My adulations were embarrassing, but I couldn’t help ooze over crispy dough with a tender, airy, chewy inside. I chopped off pieces, went after my ice cream before it listfully melted away, mashed everything in the coulis, licked the plate clean. After that meal, I reckoned the Canuck’s food could make any guy crazy, because by the end all I could think was, O Canada!
Any payment
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Sunday
10:00 am - 06:00 pm
Thursday, Friday, and Saturday
10:00 am - 08:00 pm
Years ago, in my more conservative culinary days, I would have done everything in my power to expel it from the collective culinary conscience of local eaters. ‘Fair trade? Whatever,’ I said. ‘Eating local? Who needs it?’ It was all a mere ruse. I thought nothing of the eaters seeking those conventions. Slavoj Zizek in my heart, I thought they were nothing more than degenerates; they’d all turn into monkeys.
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However today, as if by some act of serendipity, the motley crew of handsome dudes and dudettes at Seven Shores have charmed my ruddy heart and have me wishing that I was privileged enough to work alongside them. Not because of its campaign for eco-eating, though I cannot deny the merit in that. But because of its crew’s swift work ethic and drive for mastery over food that spreads an infectious charm any customer will come by when seeing the passion in what is being made, whether soup, sandwich, confection, or coffee: the masterwork of the place. There is no resistance against a customer’s opinion, only humility.
When it comes to coffee, nothing but truth and artisanship, something the joint stands firmly behind. The horde is honest and will tell you the better coffee choice of the day, provided you ask. From drip to pour-over to the fabled Chemex Coffeemaker, if you’re lucky enough to come on the days one of the young adherents decides to bring his own in. That’s how much they care.
Yes, it’s a huge claim to say Seven Shores offers the best coffee in town, for there is no right or wrong when it comes to the science of connoisseurship, only mere speculative opinion. And yet, if I am to choose any durable standard for measurable taste I’d be a fool not to say nothing beats the brews at Seven Shores. You can even buy the beans yourself if you like it that much, the place is just simply happy having changed your life a little. But the buck doesn’t stop at coffee. There’s a bevy of other beverages, like smoothies and super smoothies (an intriguingly expensive specialty), cold drinks and potable potations offered from the place’s market shelf full of fair-trade and organic products, and even takeout from the menu. That said, there’s a lot to stuff down at Seven Shores, and the menu, combined with what is being baked or offered at the time can be a little overwhelming, but a myriad of choice might be your only problem. Either way, the help has no problem holding your hand through the process. And teasing you about it. That’s right, the prices are fair, and the humour is free.
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I was invited to try a latte to start and have the Miso Sesame Tempeh Wrap: a simple wheat tortilla wrapped around meaty marinated wedges of nutty tempeh, stuffed with carrots mixed greens and, of all things, cashew butter. It seemed an odd combination, already disqualified in my mind, but that first bite cautioned me against my own prejudice. Yes, dear readers, I was humbled yet again; apprised of my spoiled self decadence. Cashew butter and vegetables in a sandwich? Who thought such a civilized combination could exist between a savoury preserve and fresh mélange. Not this dude. Accompanying that was a miso tapenade for extra flavor. A dark dipping sauce of what I assumed was miso, soy, sugar and sesame oil, the side offered a good buffer against a dryness that characterized the roll. And though I could appreciate the sentiment, I felt the wrap was enough to stand on its own.
Next on the dish was the side salad of the day, a coleslaw I couldn’t get enough of. A pungent medley of julienned cabbages, peppers, and root vegetables, the dish was enshrined by a homemade dressing of extraordinarily well rounded sweetness, accenting those Asian inspired flavours of the wrap, and tempering the fermented characteristics of the fresh cut cabbage. I daresay it was my favourite part.
To quell my gluttony further I asked for any baked goods, eyeing the banana bread and what the place called Marg’s Magic Bar, a palmed sized square with a graham cracker bottom and all the nostalgic fixings of the goods our moms’ used to bake us in our youths: nuts, chocolate chips, oats. I blushed at the first bite, the salty, buttery base ablated my sharp demeanor, and the sweet bits quickly picked me back up. Even its burnt edges had me curling my toes. I didn’t care that some might not like it. I did.
However, my banana bread had a mild sweetness accompanied by an unpleasant balminess one finds from using notably over ripened bananas, but its crisp exterior and moist interior more than made up for it.
Ironically, you may be pressed to find a place to sit, especially since Seven Shores has expanded into a larger space. That said, you might get lucky, and be able to pony up the dough to rent out the new community room for whatever venture. One thing’s for sure, regardless of its move away from its older folksy convention of space in place of a homier and more cosmopolitan design, it still manages to maintain its mission of fostering a sense of not only community but, I think, good connoisseurship.
Seven Shores Urban Market & Cafe
10 Regina St. N Unit 4.
Waterloo, ON. N2J 2Z8
Monday to Friday 7am to 6pm
Saturday 7am to 4pm
Sunday - Closed "Spending time with Family & Friends"
All methods of payment
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Quandary, young masters: do you really know where your food comes from? As I found myself at the most unholy of holies: the St. Jacob's Farmer's Market in quest of beeswax because I apparently make cosmetics now (day creams are a lot like dishes), I passed a stall full of lovely farm folk braying like mules and shellin' out the deals, specifically a quart of raspberries for a price my poor ass would consider a deal. I thought: wow, Ontario grown raspberries in September on the cheap, hellz yeah!
I was excited, elated, pushin' louts out of the way, eying every quart to see which had the biggest, most voluptuous, least moldy berries in the room. Unfortunately for me, I looked up only to find the beams surrounding the structural integrity of the stall stocked with boxes sans produce. That is, waxy empty produce crates that once held things like strawberries, raspberries, grapes (wait, what?) all from places other than Ontario. At least, that's what them there boxes dun told me. Damn. I mean, I still bought the berries, because as I've mentioned I'm not a political eater, I'd eat a dolphin if I got the chance. In fact, I someday plan on eating a dolphin. I don't anthropomorphize animals. I eat them.
So I wondered, where did these berries come from? In my old cynic age, I didn't even bother to ask, because even if they had said Ontario, I would still have been skeptical, because the last thing a woman in a bonnet needs to worry about is if someone's gonna be angry about being able to buy something cheap and home grown. I don't think Mennonites are too political; they're back to the landers, yes, but their priority is survival, not anti-captilast, consumer fruit ethics ensuring the environment is saved and migrant workers are getting paid for their good work. They're no comfy chairs to sit and sip espresso with around. The poor people at the market are probably buyers and sellers, taking produce from suppliers and selling them to you, the nostalgic shopper who thinks the market somehow connects you to a more authentic genuine form of reality, a sentimentality of the Bourgeoisie, who even 200 years ago were trying to find their authentic selves, thanks Henry David Thoreau. And you know what, merchants gladly play the game so they can get hacks to continually buy their 'better' stuff. Now, not all parts of the market are like this, but I'm willing to argue that when it comes to produce, there certainly is a huge discrepancy there. You can usually find out what is 'locally' grown by the price, which is even more proof that the suppliers don't care about the environment, but the size of their wallets. The food doesn't come from afar, and a lot isn't organic. In fact, it'd technically be cheaper to buy closer to home. The paradox, however, is that it's not. In fact, when you buy you are supporting the luxury of being able to say you support a cause that elevates you to some social level above those who shop at the grocery store because food's less expensive. And the merchants know they can do that to you, because you enter into some universal, unquestioned agreement. Maybe you can barter, but maybe not. Are you really supporting the farmers? Truth-be-told, they'd probably grow things and sell them elsewhere; they wouldn't go poor, and they wouldn't starve and die. So let's all be a little leery, shall we? Or not, I don't care. Everyone who's anyone knows how much I dislike the market specifically because of all the social-cultural-class-whatever pandemics it reinforces. I make a note of complaining to it at least once a year. There is no point in going unless you want something on the cheap (rare), or just tasty, or unfindable elsewhere (terrible word choice); other than that, it's all a bunch of, wait for it, beeswax.
Know this Dear Reader:
Staying up until 3 a.m. watching a shock Japanese film entitled, Tokyo Gore Police is always an awesome idea. It is however, not an awesome idea if you plan on getting up early the next morning to visit a patisserie. "Ugggghhhh, patisserie agaaiiinnnn!" Now, now, I didn't visit the place after all. I planned on it, but I didn't. I, instead, got distracted with company, visiting cafes, picking up pants, wandering downtown, kind-of-grocery shopping, harassing company's family members, schmoozing with chocolatiers, AND visiting patisseries. Anyway, I didn't even visit the place I wanted to visit, on account of the fact that it was just another chain- and I got lost.
But, I assure you I won't allow my poor sense of direction to effect this entry. At least not that much.
So, on my way to another patisserie, aptly named La Patisserie (I know), I recalled all those specialty food stores my sister told me about. Especially one that, apparently, had a patissier or chocolatier, or sushi chef. It had a sushi chef. Who,conveniently, helped out with the preparation of every other food: casarole, canneloni, you name it. Now, it's a sure bet that in Kitchener-Waterloo (in the well to do places that is) there is always one specialty food store: David's gourmet, Dave's Gourmet, Donna's Gourmet, Donna's little sister Gourmet, Someone's Gourmet who's name starts with "D." Sure, a year or two ago it seemed like a good idea, but good god man, now it might just be an eye-sore. And anyway, I'm not here to plug the peasant food of Sicily repackaged as specialty and decadence (there's that word again!). If you're rich enough to buy the stuff, good on ya; if you're ignorant enough to assume it's probably the best around and the price is just justification of that, I'm sorry. Don't be offended, I go too; sometimes to people watch, other times to pretend I'm in some kind of food museum where the packaged food is expensively priced specifically to prevent people from buying it. Somewhere, I'm sure.
Casa Mia doesn't fall too far from that tree, save, of course, for its amalgamation of cafe and deli and specialty food store character. I think the others just have delis. No wait. It's more or less the same wherever you go. Casa Mia did have an open concept cafe though, tastefully decorated with backyard furniture, I'm assuming because they sunk the last of their budget in that chocolatier from Zurich. Hey, that's what I was told. Until I asked, after parusing the pastries and asking the brutally honest cashier where the guy from Zurich was. His response was a simple: "We get our pastries from suppliers." "But the supplier's from Zurich right? RIGHT?"
My friend wanted some pepperettes. I wanted a chocolatier.
For what it was however, Casa Mia was a nice place; most specialty stores feel small and stuffy. This one was spacious; whether on purpose or not, I'll never know. Service was good, maybe because at 10 a.m., it wasn't busy. But I couldn't complain. So, we visited the quaint little "cafe" section- and I use that term loosely- remember the patio furniture? We visited the baked goods, the espresso machines, the Swiss, or Swedish biscotties. I can't remember, I was just amazed they even existed. Eventually, we ordered. Pecan tarts and capuccinos. The tarts . . . tasted like sweet, buttery tarts. Generally delicious. The capuccinos, equally so. What else is there to say? They have some good suppliers? At least the pastries looked good, but what was the point? Where was the magic? I bet a chocolatier does work there, I just asked the wrong guy. I bet.
So, after some talk about mutant engineers and vagina dentata, my pleasant company and I were off to none other than Sablétine. Unorthodox, I know; but I was talking about it too much. How could I refuse? At least this time, near 12 in the afternoon it was empty. And we were foolish enough to awkwardly gawk and stay long, sitting on their lovely IKEA-esque chairs in front of their IKEA-esque tables (to use the French). Take that Casa Mia. It was like a tea party. It was like Alice wasn't the creation of some tight-wad creeper who liked children, but the trendy creation of an Austrian furniture designer, who just thought guys who worked too long in hat factories and had strung out rabbit friends, rejected from Trix casting calls, were so passé, and preferred quiet afternoons sipping peppermint tea, eating sweet breads and talking about The City and fathers who built skate parks for their otherwise spoiled and disinterested kids. You probably can`t make the connection, but don`t worry, you`re not supposed to anyway.
So, back on the subject of eating: we did try a sweet bread made with orange water smothered in an almond topping which I ignorantly mistook for a cookie. Should I even use the "D" word here? Is it really that necessary? I can only liken the flavour to its snooty French roots. That and the raw aroma of tea leaves. When you smell them, of course. Something I find remarkably appealing. That may be a terrible comparison, but I couldn't describe it to my friend either. It was friggin' remarkable. But we had business to take care of! We still had another patisserie to visit.
So we drove . . . way too far, in the wrong direction. Yeah, I took urban studies once. I was more interested in the people though. We weren't lost. I just didn't know where a particular street was. If anything, it was lost. And we were downtown. Kitchener. Past that, even. And that only meant one option: Hong Kong plaza. Grocery stores. Shelves with Asian celebrities put on boxes of coffee biscuits. I made it up to my driver by buying her some mooncakes and Thai coffee, and with funny anecdotes about the woman with blonde highlights in her Vietnamese hair. And then we visited Nova Era. I know, right? Only to ask directions though. Don't worry, I was the only one looking stupid. Especially when I stopped outside to take a picture of a new all you can eat sushi place that was opening next door. Expect that adventure in the near future.
My friend suggested we visit her sister. Harass was the operative word. I was game. But not before ducking into Kitchener's weekend market, if only for a few minutes, which, not unexpectedly, turned into a long few, because we got distracted with free samples by the granite-counter-top making husband of a chocolotier. Take that Casa Mia. Trust me, I would have taken alot more photos, but I was having too much fun. Plus, free chocolate.
But finally. Finally, we left, and decided to leave that other patiserrie for now, or for never.
Seven Shores Urban Market and Cafe was our final stop. Let me set the mood: hippies, fat heads, yuppies, freeters, buddha, red walls, organic food, gold diggers, old guys. Coffee. Fairtrade. Sisters. Me, mouthing off to sisters. Oh, and some guy named Ronnie Hawkins. I'm sure the food was great. But we were both too full to eat anymore. I just came to meet someone's sister, and someone came for more coffee. But I'll still plug it. It's a great place to people watch, and feel responsible for the environment, and impress girls who care about the environment, and take photos obnoxiously while people try to seriously discuss the state of clear cutting in the Amazon. And maybe gives alms to Buddha, who I'm pretty sure has no idea why he's associated with environmentalism and fairtrade. It's a long way from detachment and convolution. And that's about as convoluded as I can get in this post.
And that was more or less my adventures in food land. Got up, meandered patisseries, went to market, offerred coffee to buddha, went home, went to work. You're pretty glad though, aren't you? You didn't have to listen to any trite dribble about food and restaurant conduct. Why would anyone want to anyway? Psh.
Casa Mia Deli & Cafe Inc.
7 Father David Bauer Dr.
Waterloo, ON
(519) 725-2272
Kitchener Market
300 King Street East
Kitchener, ON
519-741-2287http://www.kitchenermarket.ca
Seven Shores Urban Market & Cafe
8 Regina St. N. - Unit 5
Waterloo, ON. N2J 2Z8
519-342-0916
http://www.sevenshorestrading.com
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