The Authenticity Polemic

I woke to something very irksome on the culinary web today, which I suppose would serves me right for waking up if only to read and not watch cartoons like the manchildren of mumblecore.  

The fait accompli of said mush was focusing on one man’s journey to find authentic food and then recreate it. Though I’ve no qualms with any sort of recreation, I do, as you all know, have a huge problem with the dangerous snake pit of authenticity. Authenticity is like perfection. It’s a ridiculous, controlling concept. It’s a charmed circle. It might work with one painting that sticks around for a long while, and is the source of copy and profit. Adam’s rib too might be authentic, but a dish certainly can’t be. Or so I like to claim, because it comes and goes. That magic argument, using a little reverse Nietzsche, is made into manure.  But here’s my bigger problem with anything authentic in the food world: authentic food imposes imperialistic ideologies on the less fortunate; it Others cooks, and encourages modes of power. For one White privileged male to spend his time in other parts of an ‘exotic’ world only to come back to the West ‘looking’ for the real thing is a delusional theatric consumers love buying into, specifically because it buys into the Western ideal of the individual, which in and of itself is destructive, because while we cannot find any kind of autonomy from anything authentic because it is a mere fantasy, we continually shell out cash and look for it. Also, it’s lumped under the genre of travel writing, so it’s strictly for entertainment. At least until you decide to impress your friends with a recipe at dinner. And that’s only the political economy of it. I’m not depending on it for making my argument. 

My real problem? My real real problem is this: asinine tripe like this, from a White privileged centre, going out and looking for the authentic and then trying to conquer it, or policing it in a multicultural space couldn’t be more imperial and destructive, especially when you try to own the people doing it to survive through the act of judging the product they prepare as true to the abstract ‘genuine article.’ I hope people know this kind of shit is why museums and zoos exist. So France and Britain could just fight each other like babies and one-up each other by conquering lands and displaying anthropological war trophies. That said, know this: when you go into an ethnic restaurant, or read about a guy who’s going into an ethnic restaurant to see if they made the ‘real thing’, you are entertaining your novel whims, but also Othering those poor ethnic cooks, and rendering them invisible if they can’t do it. This is a huge paradox, aside from a huge slap in the face to the poor folk running their restaurant. Is the Thai cook not making Thai food? Did they not come from their native country and decide to cook their food to make a living here? So how can you argue authenticity when they made it in their land originally, albeit a little variably. That’s why authenticity’s a hoax, man. That’s why it’s so easy to control a submissive party by accepting them or shaming them; unfortunately, if they’re approval seeking, they’ll suffer for it. Unfortunately, if we’re approval seeking, looking for cultural capital to elevate ourselves through consumption, they will suffer, because we’ll judge them on ‘taste,’ not taste. What do these kinds of White shenanigans say for the Thai family I spent two tender years working for? Are they not authentic because something doesn’t taste the same? (A customer once complained the pad thai wasn’t like the pad thai in Thailand- little did he know, pad thai is a Western creation, taken in by Thailand- no peanut butter, no ketchup) Or is their food authentic because they are a specific ethnicity? What does that say for the Chinaman who can cook great, fantastic laab? That’s Othering, man. Ignoring the struggle of a person and disqualifying them if what they offer doesn’t benefit us. 

And if you’re all, ‘Hey, man, no, I mean ingredients are what make some dish authentic.’ Please. Take that shit up with the ghost of Barthes. I shamed an economics professor for trying to tell me Chinese food in China is better than Chinese food here made by Chinese immigrants, in front of a whole Chinese class, so I’ve no bone about doing the same to you. Save that authenticity garbage for 17 year olds reading Thoreau for the first time and somehow, for whatever dumb fuck reason, associating nature with what is real and true and genuine and autonomous. Please. Thoreau didn’t care about wilderness; that’s not why he left. He hated the political climate and wanted to get away from it and try and make his own, only to fail and come back. So, just as an aside, can we stop trying to associate the environment with human autonomy and spirit too? While we’re bringing up the subject. I mean, that’s like me leaving Waterloo’s people for Cambridge’s because, they’re more ‘real.’ Ha. It’s like going to the market to buy Canadian bananas. That’s bananas! It’s like going to China to learn real kung-fu, when everyone knows Mao totally mutilated kung-fu. He destroyed Shaolin, he burned down temples. Now you gotta go to Taiwan, or Japan and find secret masters. Do I sound ridiculous? That’s because I’m being ridiculous. It’s ridiculous! If someone’s good at kung fu, they’re good at kung fu. If they can teach you to defend yourself, then you can defend yourself. Nothing’s more right. And so I make the same claim for taste. 

Seek food not because it’s authentic, because that doesn’t mean it’s literally better! You can allude yourself in thinking that yes, but just seek for tasting good. Period. And there’s the other variability, and even I’m disqualifying myself. Everyone’s palate IS different. Food writing’s just flashy rhetoric, sprinkled with a little bit of credibility. Anyone can eat and say something tastes good or bad. But how well can they convince you? Get out there and eat. Or don’t, but please don’t support any notions of authenticity so some patronizing White butthead can lord his tongue over poor immigrant workers depending on free family labour and illegal workers. Life’s hard enough as it is without categorizing cooks into authentic, not authentic. Can we all PLEASE stop eating the Other? Can we just strike ‘authenticity’ from the lexicon? Call me a communist, but at least I don’t have to listen to another fathead tell me he’s better than me because he had ‘authentic’ poo soup. At least then, I won’t have to see another old Thai woman cry in a corner, knife in hand. 

-w

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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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Weezee Cooks: Tamarind Fried Chicken

Some years back on a late, cold January night, after I told the louts I worked with to go home, and re-cleaned a supposedly clean kitchen, my old Thai employers approached me in the wee hours of the morning: ‘Weezee,’ they said, ‘Our friends are coming here tonite- could you cook for us?’ It being 1 am, and me loving my job more than anything, I gave a jubilant, ‘Yes.’ Uncle told me what they wanted, and also told me to fry some chicken wings. Easy enough. Still, in my early years of cooking, I did a whole lot of doubting. I had no idea how to make good deep fried chicken wings, besides throw them in the fryer. That was more or less it. Uncle, on the other hand, showed me how he liked them. How he wanted the batter, and how he wanted them fried. Ever since, I’ve tenderly made them the same, unorthodox way. It was a good night. Late, but happy- and some Thai doctor, no matter how many times I said no, stuffed a 50 in my pocket for doing such a good job.

Some odd seven months ago, I went out to eat with my mother at a familiar Thai-Vietnamese restaurant and ordered tamarind chicken wings. A combination I had never, up until that late moment in culinary life, heard off. They were good: sweet, tangy, tart. I liked them a lot. So much so, I bet my mom I could make the same thing, maybe even better. And, as is my mother’s job to prevent her son’s ego from getting too big, she called my bluff. After that, we more or less forgot about the whole thing. That was, at least until last night, when I was bumming around one of three fridges and found a pack of chicken wings frozen and ready to ruin. But I say ruin with total temerity. Consider it a cool kind of valley speak, ‘ruin’ meaning: elevating to a level of pure radical. The trillest tamarind chicken wings in all the land. Here for me, and here for all of you. The ingredients are easy, the process a tad time consuming if you aren’t privileged enough to own a wok stove. But if you have the patience, you can, like my real uncle says, cook no problem.

Serves 3 (or 1 hungry bro)

Ingredients
12 chicken wings (y’know? The ones you get in club packs? They’re like 2 inches long)
¼ cup tamarind concentrate
¼ honey
1 clove of garlic (minced)
1 tablespoon of fish sauce
½ cup flour
1 teaspoon of pepper
1 teaspoon of chicken stock powder (I know, right?)

Enough vegetable oil and a wok to deep fry the suckers.

Lime and spring onion to garnish.

Directions

Generally, I like to fill a wok with oil and keep it on low heat so I won’t have to wait as long later to make it hot enough to fry in; when I’m closer to cooking, I change the temperature to medium high heat. Anyway, I reckon if I’m doing stuff in the meantime, I may as well be productive. Chicken wing woking takes a lot of timing and speed, after all. Also, I like to let my chicken wings sit out and reach room temperature. This ensures even cooking when fried.

Mix the dry ingredients together. Take your wings and throw them in. If they’re a little wet, even better. What makes uncle’s batter so phenomenal is that it’s tacky, doughy, and gummy. No dusting wings in flour here. That said, take your chicken wings, and mix them as much as you can in the flour. Be tough, try and get the flour wet from the wings. If the wings are covered and not sticky, but dusted, you’re missing the mark. That said, you can just dust them too. You’ll just have a lighter batter. But a good, tacky batter- not a wet one used for fixings like tempura or onion wings- enables the sauce to stick to the wings even more effectively.

After a thorough mashing, put the wings aside.

In a bowl, mix the garlic, honey, tamarind concentrate, and fish sauce. Easy peasy. Set it aside.

Check the wok’s temperature (or whatever pot you care to deep fry in- just so long as the wings are completely submerged). If you have a candy thermometer, even better. If not, just drop a piece of gummy batter in and see if it floats to the surface. If it does, you’re ready. But before that, make sure you have somewhere to set the cooked wings. I like paper towel over a wire rack. Next, gently place the wings in the oil. Don’t crowd whatever pot for the sake of not cooling the oil too much. Fry 'em. 


Wings will usually sink to the bottom and anchor up. When they’re closer to being finished, they’ll puff up and float a little. To be on the safe side, let them fry another 30 seconds after that, making sure they reach a deep golden brown. Use a spider or slotted spoon to move them around and fish them out of the hot oil. Place them on the paper towel and cook the rest.

Unless you have a second wok, this next part can be tricky. When all the wings are done cooking, drain the wok of all oil into a pot- I don’t care where you get it- but move fast. Wash the wok, and thoroughly dry it. Unfortunately, none of us have the luxury of a wok stove with a hose overhead, and a wirey brush we can use to quickly rinse it with (those were my salad days).

When it’s clean, put it back on the heat and heat it to the highest setting. Conventional stoves don’t even begin to match the heat of the wok, so you never have to worry about burning a thing. What you do have to worry about is losing all that heat quickly; that’s why it’s important to stir-fry quickly and have everything at hand. If you don’t have a wok, you can just as easily use a pan.

To test the wok’s sizzle, drop a bit of the sauce in the pan. If it sizzles furiously and you’re afraid it’s too hot and will burn and evaporate and become gummy fast, you’re ready. Drop all the sauce in, immediately after that, all the chicken wings. Coat whatever way you can. Toss the wok, flip with a slotted spoon, just coat those things and let them caramelize. If you can char them, congratulations: you have one hot wok. This step takes you no more than a minute. If you want a wet sauce, use less wok time. If a dryer sauce, more.

Plate, garnish with a lime wedge and slivered green onions, and enjoy. Sweet, salty, tart. Fantastic. Who needs any Ben Thanh?  

Love,

Weezee

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また一番！

I'm the #1 Ontario blog on Urbanspoon! And I owe it all to you, my lovely readership. I thank you. I will honour this for as long as it lasts.

Thank you, comrades.

-w

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I'M ON TUMBLR!!!

I have a tumblr. site now- y'know, for those of you who hate reading and just love pictures. Times they are a-changin', right? Social media, right? Modality, right?

CLICK HERE!!!!

-w

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The Infamous Gastronomer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Love, 

The 'Infamous' Weezee

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Call To Arms

A Table for Maple is the epiphanic name of a 'local foodie's' blog which, to the trained, critical, culinary eye, appears as nothing more than a blog rhetorically pandering with a bombardment of instagram photographs nostalgically turning the author into some individual of some charmed, experienced circle. Obviously, this is a dangerous thing, because Maple, whoever she is, is just that. A foodie. Not a journalist. Not a food writer. And it's this irresponsibility that makes food writing a laughable thing, and a destructive thing to the poor restaurants who do their best to serve, but have individuals eat, without perspective, or proper knowledge, and post their thoughts about the place on their blogs. But I won't go into that. There is no need. Not in Maple's case. Her short sentences, her pandering photos- all obvious contemporary requisites appealing to the market. Again, flashy rhetoric. But the red flag for me, was Maple's 'To Be Reviewed' page. A page of restaurants the foodie wishes to review in the future, if not already, which explicitly states at the top

 '*Not interested in chain restaurants.' 

Yet, poor Maple does just that. She lists chains and has visited chains, and makes no apology for doing so, even when I requested she change her interests (feel free to check our twitter conversations). Obviously, a dangerous thing. Because clearly, Maple doesn't do her research, and assumes she knows what's what. That something's originally placed, when in fact it isn't. Not only is Maple a bad food blogger, she's a bad journalist, and has little integrity, because she'd rather post a reply of 'Nah' so as to not bruise her own ego, or justify her actions by meaning 'non-local corporate chains', whatever that means. But if being really picky, there are still some on her list. I can think of two. And I will name them if you ask me. That's the biggest red flag of them all. She doesn't care about being honest, or restaurants, as far as I'm concerned. She only cares about herself.

So what do we do? Well, I can't do much more than what I've done, which is bring attention to it. It's up to you dear readers, to suggest Maple have some integrity and reassess what she aims to speak about, without elevating herself to a more worthy authority by 'being local', and caring about 'local' business, because she's not. She's lost in a Bourdieuian mess of cultural capital. Trying to join the ranks of people hypnotized by ecologism, which is today's worst kind of consumerism.

I implore you all, please help before it's too late.

Love,

Weezee.

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Something Wicked This Way Comes?

The same Sogo Cuisine I ate at all those months ago, or a mere facsimile, riding the coat-tails of Chinese name superstitions? I hope, for Sogo's sake it is. Because when things get big, they very well may get bad, especially when they're placed in the University of Waterloo's plaza.

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Better Beer

About a month and a half ago I wrote a piece about the Region’s beers. Unfortunately, the publication only published about a 1/3 of the information, so in an attempt to absolve my guilt and make amends with the otherwise excited breweries, I’ve compiled a list of tastings for the four most popular beers from every brewery in the Region, the beers being tasted being inventions of the breweries created on location, and nowhere else. No merged companies, no bought recipes, strictly recipes and beers made within the Region, all with their own qualities that make them worthwhile brews. I’ve favourites, but I won’t disqualify the work of each brewery, my taste being experienced, but also subjective. Feel free to seek me out and ask me personally, but I won’t do that here. My goal is to get you excited about your beer drinking life. The 20 beers I’ve tried run the gamut, from light to dark, hoppy to smooth. There’s even a group of beers with little alcohol content for those of you interested in nothing more than flavour. Over the course of 4 days with as many comrades as I could find, I compiled short beer tasting lists based on ‘appearance,’ ‘smell,’ ‘taste,’ ‘mouthfeel,’ and ‘overall’ opinion. And not to worry, these beers are very accessible, located all over the city at local bars and the LCBO. If you didn’t know, now you do. So enjoy whatever bit of summer you have left with a brewski; better yet, enjoy the rest of your days in Waterloo and the region with all the brews they have to offer. Thus, I implore you all: stop buying those brand name beers! You have children in your own community who are going skunky! Father Flavin doesn't have the stamina to drink them!

Gold Crown Brewery Ltd.
71 King Street North
Waterloo, ON N2J2X2

Lion Lager-5%

Appearance: a bright amber lager with average effervescence and white head that dissipates quickly.
 

Smell: typical of lighter beers, no real distinction, with a light hops aroma as well as some fruitiness.
 

Taste: Fruity with a slight bubblegum note. Hoppy with a clean rounded brassiness at first, but changing to a grainy character, reminiscent of bananas and cream.
 

Mouthfeel: A claimed full bodied beer; average with mellow effervescence and some creaminess.
 

Overall:  A beer for gentle drinkers. No abrasive finish; familiar to most.

Wheat Beer-5%

Appearance: cloudy turbidity with bright yellow display; and head lingers for a couple of minutes.

Smell: brassy and seltzer like with heavy citrus notes.
 

Taste: Salty qualities at first transform into creamed oats with a mild hoppy finish reminiscent of carbonated soda.
 

Mouthfeel: full bodied with a very smooth finish.
 

Overall: Another for drinkers who enjoy light beers but with thicker, oilier qualities. Mellow, but also savoury.

Honey Brown Lager-5%

Appearance: Light caramel pour, thin head, little effervescence
 

Smell: coppery with some saltiness, lost by pint’s glassiness.
 

Taste: brassy with fruit notes, changes to a meaty hops midway through, slight finish.
 

Mouthfeel: medium body with a wet finish due to little effervescence
 

Overall: average lager, sometimes unappealing with mild carbonation and mellow hops.

 

Wuerzburger Lager-6%

Appearance: sturdy effervescence, with a deep gold body, surprisingly lighter colour than Honey Brown.
 

Smell: cobwebs, somewhat musty with mild roasted malt notes.
 

Taste: roasted flavor that is mildly earthy, but good malt character. Satisfying finish, hoppy enough to balance the dull earthy flavours.
 

Mouthfeel: effervescent and full bodied, but sometimes feels wet.
 

Overall: for savoury drinkers. Roasted malt good for those who like the qualities of a stout but don’t want the strength.

All available at the Huether Hotel on Tap

Brick Brewery Co Ltd. 

181 King Street South
Waterloo, ON

Red Baron Premium Blonde Lager-4.8%
Appearance:  pale blonde, aggressive effervescent pour. Head disappears quickly.
 

Smell: light sour quality with a hint of spice.
Taste: salty- sodium like. Very mild hoppiness, clean and crisp but becomes winy.
 

Mouthfeel: light and effervescent; thin bodied.
 

Overall: Very light beer with average qualities. Wet and winy. For those who like beer flavor without effervescent aggression.

 

Traditional IPA -5.2%
Appearance: battery, glossy head. Thick with staying power. Amber coloured body. Head is yellow pearl
 

Smell: Strong fruity character with bubblegum notes; somewhat musty. Estery quality left on breath.
 

Taste: strong and brassy hops. Grainy if allowed to linger on the tongue. A slight finish, with lingering brassy/bitter after taste.
 

Mouthfeel: full bodied with an aggressive effervescence that easily coats the mouth.
 

Overall: palatable once accustomed to its somewhat harsh aftertaste

 

WATERLOO ORIGINAL DARK 5%
Appearance: deep molasses colour, like cola, with a head that’s coffee coloured; oily in complexion
 

Smell: meaty and buttery notes, roasted quality on the breath, changes to nut.
 

Taste: Overly metallic at first sip with a smooth estery quality. Not fruity. Strangely, no malty or roasted notes. Eventual change to briny, sour notes.
 

Mouthfeel: not as heavy as expected. Slick and gassy.
 

Overall: Mellow and not to overbearing on the tongue, reminiscent of club soda. For drinkers who want to appear tough with something that resembles a stout.

WATERLOO AUTHENTIC AMBER 6.8%

Appearance: amber coloured body, off white head.
 

Smell: mild and winy. A tad salty.
 

Taste: Winy and nutty. Very straightforward for strong alcohol content. 

Apparitional eggy after taste
 

Mouthfeel: average bodied
 

Overall: Unfortunate strong alcoholic content, otherwise good focused flavours.

Beer available all over town.

Wellington Brewery
950 Woodlawn Road West
Guelph, Ontario, Canada
N1K 1B8

Boot chuck IPA-5.5%Appearance: glossy, honeycomb coloured head, with deep amber body.
 

Smell: salty, meaty, but disappears rather quickly.
 

Taste: hoppy with a slight malt, and very slight fruit note after taste. Winy if left to sit.
 

Mouthfeel: medium body, chalky after taste, smooth finish.
 

Overall: a well balanced beer, no remarkable aromas or flavours, usually lost in favor of its hoppiness. That said, it’s reminiscent of what people think a beer tastes like. I think enjoyed as a break for drinkers of strong beers but who still like that hoppy characteristic.

 

TRAILHEAD VIENNA LAGER-4.5%
Appearance: thin head, disappears quickly, gold liquid, effervescent
 

Smell: Oaty, verging on grassy with a light hops
 

Taste: apparitional in alcohol character, quickly disappears and leaves an almond after taste. Flavour changes to something grainy part way through.
 

Mouthfeel: smooth and gassy, medium bodied
 

Overall: smooth and effervescent; a good natured pale ale that actually has character and staying power. Might be a treat for those used to the mellow qualities of lagers.

 

WELLINGTON SPA Special Pale Ale-4.5%

Appearance:  off white head; thin; dissipates quickly; amber colured body
 

Smell: nutty, hoppy aroma
 

Taste: crisp, winy flavor, apparitional floral flavor, but very slight. Dry light finish
 

Mouthfeel: thin bodied and dry, syrupy when reminiscing.
 

Overall: pungeant and crisp ale without much complexity. Becomes easier on the palate as one goes through. A good transition beer for those looking to go from mellow beers to ones with more character.


WELLINGTON COUNTY DARK ALE- 5%

Appearance: brown head, dark amber body
 

Smell: brassy, smell, a little salty, roasted malts when opening, quickly disappears
 

Taste: hoppy and winy, with the appearance of some malt notes. Roasted notes linger on the breath afterwards.
 

Mouthfeel: unexpectedly dry, average body.
 

Overall: expected a denser body, and less winy qualities, but then again it is a dark ale, not a stout. Falls short of roasted qualities I would like to taste; however, as a dark ale it matches its character. For those who would like ales with more complexity, but no strong finish. What’s appealing about this is the roasted quality on the breath afterwards.

Availability
SPA - Jane Bond, Borealis, Rum Runner Pub, 271 West, Ethel's Lounge, Kick Off Sports Bar, Lancaster Smoke House
Trailhead - 271 West
County Ale - Duke of Wellington
Boot Chuck IPA - This is a limited edition beer, we don't know for sure where it will be on tap as of yet.


FandM Brewery
355 Elmira Road N.
Guelph, Ontario N1K 1S5

STONE HAMMER PREMIUM LIGHT- 4.2%

Appearance:  thick head, pale white, pale yellow body, effervescent
 

Smell: hoppy and creamy, winy on second smell, nutty on third
 

Taste: exceptionally grainy with great oat notes, very light and winy at first, turns to grainy. Very smooth finish.  Cereal notes remaining on breath
 

Mouthfeel: thin bodied, dry, yet wet part way through.
 

Overall: A surprisingly savoury light beer, with good discernible flavours. Recommend if you want a light beer with deep character.

STONE HAMMER PREMIUM PILSNER-5%
Appearance: thin head, pale, with yellow body that is rather effervescent
 

Smell: hoppy, with fruity undertones
 

Taste: very winy and wet; crisp with aggressive winy finish. A resinous note lingers on the breath after a couple sips. Some oat qualities.
 

Mouthfeel: medium bodied, dry puckering finish.
 

Overall: A typical lager at first, astringent and rather winy, but with an interesting resinous note that is unexpected and well received. Recommended for those who like strong pilsners with a little character.

 

MACLEAN’S PALE ALE-5%

Appearance: amber body, light amber body, somewhat turbit pour. Mild effervescence. Offwhite head.
 

Smell: savoury with fruity notes. Apparitional nuttiness and syrupy quality.
 

Taste: nutty body, first sip, winy taste and resinous finish. Becomes more vinous throughout but resinous quality remains after finish. Mild fruit notes
 

Mouthfeel: fullbodied with dry finish.
 

Overall: A good natured ale with some complexity beyond typical spicy, hoppy qualities that make it seem vinous or winy.

 

STONE HAMMER PREMIUM DARK ALE-5%
Appearance: dark amber body, light brown head, dense and matte
 

Smell: sweet and worty, very syrupy.
 

Taste: malty with strong hoppy character, followed by a nutty, resinous finish. A mellow vinous quality exists in the brew. Not at the forefront of the flavours. Changes to astringent salty quality with resinous finish. Malt on breath
 

Mouthfeel: full bodied with chalky after taste. Dry qualities.
 

Overall:  Recommend for those who like the qualities of stouts without high alchohol content.

 

Availability
Aside from LCBO and the Beer Store
Angie’s Kitchen — 47 Erb Street West
Black Hole Bistro — 31 North Caroline Street
Bloom Conestoga College — 108 University Avenue East
Hogtails Southern BBQ — 645 Laurelwood Drive
Kick Off Sports Lounge (R) — 170 University Street West
Oliver and Bonacini — Conestoga Mall, 500 King Street North
University of Waterloo Gradhouse (R) — University of Waterloo Ring Road
Waterloo Tennis Club — 50 Central Street

 

Grand River Brewing
295 Ainslie Street
Cambridge, Ontario, Canada N1R 3L3

Mill Race Mild-3.5%

Appearance: burnt caramel body, light brown head, thin.
 

Smell: malty, syrupy, very close to molasses . roasted. Strongest malt of all beers tried.
 

Taste: Coffee like; an apparitional savouriness resembling rare steak. Coffee on breath- smell changes to caramel cream near end; tastes unfinished, as far as 3.5 % alcohol content goes
 

Mouthfeel: full-bodied, oily, starts out that way but disappears, nothing to back it up. Smooth finish, rather wet.
 

Overall:  a faux stout for those who like malty qualities without the alcohol.  Guenther says like an IPA. Either way, geared towards those who like the flavor qualities of beer more than typical hoppiness. A unique light beer.


Galt Knife Old Style-4.4%
 
Appearance: honey coloured, off yellow head, dissipates quickly.
 

Smell: mild hops, malty and acidic (vinegary), reminiscent of mustard.
 

Taste: hoppy, savoury oats, with a brassy aftertaste; mild fruitiness, like bananas. Hoppy finish.
 

Mouthfeel: full bodied with bitter hops at back of throat with finish.
 

Overall:  a well balanced beer with strong flavor notes at the beginning and hops that linger on the back of the throat after the finish. Tastes great at room temperature.

 

Hannenberg Pils 4.5%

Appearance:  pale thin head, dissipates quickly.
 

Smell: fruity. Creamy at first, but then sour, and rather skunky. Sulpher quality, like sour milk. Head goes, turns grainy. Hoppy.
 

Taste: fruity at first, smooth finish, grainy at the back of the throat. Nutty on breath.
 

Mouthfeel: dry, medium body, smooth finish.
Overall: like a pale two row malt with a very distinct malt. A good pilsner.

 

Plowman’s Ale 4.7%

Appearance:  dark amber colour, eggshell head, dissipates quickly.
 

Smell: syrupy, roasted caramel notes upon first opening. Changes to a mild fruitiness.
 

Taste: sour and brassy on first sip. Very hoppy. Apparitional burnt caramel quality throughout, hints of vanilla and coffee.
 

Mouthfeel: very dry, medium body, harsh finish, syrupy.
 

Overall: too much hops, not a lot of room for flavor. Similar to Mill Race Mild, but more hoppy qualities; suggest chilling. Hops throws everything out of balance. By the time you get into the complexity of flavours the hops wipes them out.

In the LCBO right now: Galt Knife Old Style, Plowmans Ale, and Pugnacious Pale Ale
 

Beers are available on tap at Kick Offs, The Grad House UW

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Weeds Are Food Too!

Years ago, a farmer told me about purslane, a weed I had likened to aloe vera, which was in fact not aloe vera; I had only called it aloe vera growing up not knowing what it was. Today, I noticed the weed rearing its assumed ugly head in the popular discourse of foodie-ism. Otherwise it is bitter, flat in flavour and nothing more. Some say it can be salty and have a mild citrus taste. this, I do not know. It is always bitter to me and always has been since I was told I could eat it and reckoned, during my naive years of gardening that I may as well since it took the initiative to root its way through my vegetables. I don't need to tell you about purslane's popularity today, and how, I'm sure, it'll probably be put on the haute menu somewhere. Until then, it remains almost secret, placed in Chinese stir-fries and old womens' Greek salads. Nonetheless I am grateful it is there offering a little bit of serendipity. 

I recall the day I picked it out of the basil patch growing by the back door of my uncle's restaurant; he met it with an unrelenting confusion, as he did with most of the things his youngest nephew showed him. Why not pick the basil? Why bother with a weed? Alas, my uncle's from a time of classically trained, haute eating- which certainly had an affect of leaving people out of the dining room and creating anxious- social eaters. Oh I wonder: why bother labeling it a weed if it only keeps people away? Purslane's an example when labels really do damage. If there's anything the relic of purslane does, it's remind people to be grateful for the food that is at the end of our forks; again, another little bit of serendipity. And though my uncle may still refuse to eat it, like he does ramps (claiming they have no taste), I will be forever grateful for the oddest bit of food in my city's otherwise urbane gardens. It beats dandelion (something super bitter) and certainly garlic mustard, a weed with limited use as far as I'm concerned. Purslane may seem like the glorification of a staunch foodie or proletariat eater, but I take it always as a reminder to be forever grateful for all the food around me, because it reminds me that there is always food around me, there to be eaten, there to tell me that duck confit can seem a little ridiculous if it somehow convinces you to leave other food out simply because of some label that denies it access to the table. Yes, purslane's a weed, but it also contains more omega-3 fatty acids than any other leaf vegetable (or fish)- and that may be the most health conscious I get on this blog. And if that's the case, is there not merit in all food? Is all food not worth eating?

Love,

Weezee

Yes, comrades, this familiar looking clover is the thing.

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An Apology

Gentle Readers,

Blogger's new format has me scrambling to figure out how to align photos- because, y'know? The last format wasn't frustrating enough. I don't know how long it will take to figure out. Until then, I'm sorry for the bad formatting- I know that is no apology for the professionalism of this blog- probably the only credible thing in my life. Regardless, it does good to absolve my guilty conscience for the time being.

Yours,

Weezee

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On Hog Tails

At the request of my mother, whom I respect dearly, I am making note of Hog Tails Barbecue- mother of the Lancaster Smokehouse, which I thoroughly enjoyed. Straight and to the point: Hog Tails lacked finesse. The coleslaw was runny, too peppery, the pulled pork saturated and sweet, the onion rings salty beyond belief and the Texas Fries a gelatinous mess of congealed gravy and more salt. I had a light-bulby moment. A) that Hog Tails needs better quality control, and I hope to the food gods that the Papa Hog Tails is equally involved in both space, because the 12-15 year olds cooking in his kitchen can't cook. AND B) On the note of the kids cooking in the kitchen- the food probably tastes so horrible because these young cooks grew up eating processed shit and assuming that those addictive sodium, sugary flavours are what equals good cooking. Sorry, young masters. Wrong. And if any of them went to cooking school, I'm doubly sorry. And I'm sorry to my mother, whom I said was being paranoid, having urged me to take her to the Smokehouse because cooks cook differently. I dismissed her insight, but it turns out, it was a very valuable one and taught be a very valuable lesson. That cooks can drastically change the same dish with the most minor mistakes. Also, the cornbread sucked. It was metallic and sodium-y- a symptom of too much baking powder and soda. And that's as about as informal as my writing will get.

Best,

Weezee

Hog Tails BBQ
519-888-9911
645 Laurelwood Dr., Waterloo ON

Mon - Wed: 11am - 8pm
Thurs - Sat: 11am - 9pm
Closed Sundays

*Don't eat here. It's sole purpose seems to be mere profit. It is neglected. Let the Chinese neighbourhood kids eat here and assume this is what Western food tastes like, just like white kids who assume fortune cookies and chicken balls are what Chinese food tastes like.

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The Toxic Other

This morning on television I saw a chef make what he claimed was an Asian soup. An udon soup. As far as I'm concerned it was a bastardized version of Asian cuisine which had as many different blurring flavours as possible, and which just muddied it up and made it an exotic Othering dish for the Whitest of eaters. Now, as per usual, I'm a staunch supporter of nothing authentic, but goddamn if I wasn't shocked. This 'chef'- I think his name was Rob Fini- is no chef in my mind. Why? His coup de grace was drizzling olive oil into a bowl of 'udon soup.' Why? Because, he claimed, it looked good.

Fuck flavour, fuck focus- just put flavours you call 'Asian' in a dish- ginger, soy sauce, fish sauce, mint, coriander, basil- call it Asian. What the hell's the point? There's nothing there you can appreciate, mainly because there's nothing there to focus on. Now, I've been to Japanese hole-in-walls in J-Town in Northern Ontario where the Japanese chefs make dope fusion cuisine between Italian and Japanese, like an udon carbonara- that shit was dope. It was simple and it had focus.

Rob Fini- if that is your real name- you're a playboy- not a chef- or at least, not a good one. Go write a cookbook for rich White women. As far as I'm concerned- you don't know how to eat.

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Beeswax!

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.

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Resident Psychic

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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