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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!
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10:00 am - 06:00 pm
Thursday, Friday, and Saturday
10:00 am - 08:00 pm
*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*
Wayfaring for food with Joey has once again taken me to the farthest reaches of the region’s culinary landscape. But dread not fellow eaters, because I still managed to keep my iron stomach in town, though this particular place may be a ways in our culinary pond. Still, if you are like me, the chancing culinary type, you would risk wandering somewhere far for something potentially good, as Joey and I do, and always seem to be doing lately, our meandering mouths aptly choosing a place that suits the wilds its situated in. I’m talking about the Rabbid Fox. Not particularly wild, but in the wilds of Kitchener, as wild and suburban as things can admittedly get. And as wild as the place allows its actual essence to be, its selling point being that, as rabid as the fox is, it has a ‘twist.’
The flushed aroma of beer hit us hard, and the patrons at the bar would have otherwise intimidated us if we hadn’t been, by some act of Providence, dressed for the occasion. Yes, Joey and I fit in well, what with his handle bar mustache and my thermal undershirt button-front combo. But that’s enough small talk.
There’s nothing particularly rabid about the Rabbid Fox, unless you consider its attempt at pretension, because behind its manifesto one will discover, as I did immediately walking through its proletariat sports bar decorated with lethargic, unwincing browns, hockey jerseys, and flat screens commingling with a dining section that can only remind a person of those large mysterious mansions we see while driving in the countryside, no doubt belonging to misanthropic surgeons, that the Fox is just a gastro pub. Certainly, the butcher paper tablecloths and silverware combination cements the conception.
And, like all gastro-pubs, the Fox does everything it can to coalesce the best of the two rivaling sibling worlds that have existed ever since the birth of the Market. So much so, that the special of the day was escargot; combine that with poutine and you might have some sort of sibylline utopia. I’ll never know.
Nevertheless, you can have a hardy, but well thought out meal for just under 20 dollars. I can’t deny my interest in all of the things I wanted to combine on the menu, offering trivialities and house specials which did catch Joey and my fancies.
We started with the saganaki appetizer, a Greek cheese flambéed in an anise flavoured liquor, contrasting salty and sweet powerfully by way of melted, curdled cheese mellowing in a wonderfully reduced syrup of liquor. If we were patient, we would have taken our time to dip our flat breads in the stuff, but we were having too much fun piling cheese on bread and chewing away. I had to settle for dipping my knife in the stuff when all was good and done, it was that fantastic.
Next, I was misdirected by the waitress into trying the bar’s special Po’Boy sandwich, stacked with sliced beef, cheese, caramelized onions, deep fried pickles (the coup de grace), and a creole sauce. I had high expectations that fell too short for it, and all Po’Boy sandwiches in this town, because I’ve never really had one I’ve enjoyed, simply because they’ve never been done well. My bun was soft and warm, my beef, boiled, fatty and bland, which did no good to balance the textural quality of the bread. The caramelized onions too were weak and squeaky, with no real flavour. Half way through I found myself pulling out my deep fried pickles before they lost any composure, but I’m always a sucker for the things. I thought maybe the dipping sauce it came with was reason for its dull composure, but it just made it a salty mess, visually reminiscent of some oil spill somewhere. Too bad.
Now, the Fox’s locale may make eating there forgivable, but I can only hope my bad sandwich was the only bad undomesticated thing on the menu.
THE RABBID FOX
123 Pioneer drive,
Kitchener, ON(519) 748-2404
Mon - Tue: 11:00 am - 11:00 pm
Wed - Sat: 11:00 am - 1:00 am
Sun: 11:00 am - 10:00 pm
PAYMENT: VISA MASTERCARD DEBIT CASH
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