Two Plains of Culinary Existence

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

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

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

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

S.W.A.T. Food Truck

519-500-1561

Twitter: @SWATfoodtruck

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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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Not Like Nilus

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

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

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

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

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

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

Debrodnik’s Fresh Bake Company

(519) 888-8378

220 King St North  
Waterloo, ON 
N2J2Y7

MON-SAT: 11-7

ANY PAYMENT

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Damn Good Sandwich

Café 22 is the last bastion of culinary contentment my mouth hasn’t had the pleasure of terrorizing. Granted, it’s no restaurant, but it idles as the last obstacle in way of my own gastronomic mastery of all eateries the culinary landscape Uptown Waterloo has to offer. That’s right, by way of Café 22 I will have reduced Waterloo’s proud culinary core to nothing more than mere triviality. It won’t get any more of my money, at least until something else closes or something new decides to open up. Fingers crossed. You may pass the arcade by, unawares its upper level has turned into yet another parasitic delineation of rococo design pasted up into the contemporary spreads we find in so many clinical home décor magazines. But that’s as much as I’ll talk about the way the place looks. I won’t bring it up anymore. I won’t. Why bring this phenomenon of the third place’s aesthetic up again? It’s already been concluded. 

I have to admit though, its space, elevated on an upper level and exposed to the uptown through huge arched windows is very charming, and I felt very peaceful sitting during the dead hours of the afternoon waiting for my order. 

A catalogue of the European delicatessen, Café 22 offers a terra forma selection. You can have lasagna or quiche, soup or salad, panini or sandwiche, as well as every other kind of patisserie for a price that isn’t anywhere near competitive with confectionaries up the block. But to each their own wallet, especially with selections that offer you the chance to have as many fixings as you want in a sandwich or wrap. I strayed away this time from such a privilege, making the tough choice between a Panini or slice of quiche, deciding on the pressed sandwich of my choice: the Toscano. A pressed focaccia sandwiched over translucent slices of salty prosciutto, grilled and marinated eggplant, a fig spread, and slices of brie were paired with a side of obligatory mixed greens drizzled with a smattering of olive oil and herbs making not really a side, but existing as maybe something enough to beat some culinary bylaw of supplying a side in every overpriced dish. 

Normally, I’d rail against a sandwich costing 7.80. But not this time. The smell of grilled eggplant wafting in the air triggered my past romanticisms with food in my own grandmother’s kitchen. To the point, my sandwich was perfect. An easy yes to the best sandwich I’ve had in a long long a while. The focaccia’s herb’s earthiness only lifted the savouriness of the meat, the brie balanced the saltiness of the prosciutto which was both quenched and livened by the incredible plumy sweetness of the fig spread, a first for myself. The bread was crisp, had great hold, was light as air, and crisped consummately by the olive oil it was soused in to bake it, just like my grandmother’s. If anything broke my heart, it was that the fig spread was spread thin, I found myself biting carefully to preserve as much of it as I could throughout the meal. I loved it. I didn’t care who made the thing, where it came from, if it was ‘artisanal’, what factory turned it out- the bricolage that was this sandwich was fantastic, and whoever thought it up had remarkable taste. I’d get it again. I couldn’t care about anything else but this sandwich. Any drawback’s of Café 22 were forgiven in lieu of such a good. I forgot the pretense of space, the overly moist character of my macaroon, nothing mattered. No, no, I’m not saying the place is great, but I am saying the place has one great sandwich, and that’s reason enough for me. 

CAFE 22 
22 King Street South, 
Waterloo, ON 
519.603.5005 

Monday - Saturday, 9:00 am - 8:00 pm 

ANY PAYMENT

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There's a Fire

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Mel’s Diner 

645 Westmount Rd E, Kitchener 

EVERYDAY 6-9 

ANY PAYMENT!

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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 Good, the Bad, the Burrito

When I asked Daryl, one of my many brothers in culinary arms, to humour me with his lime marinated chicken burrito, he said to me, in his most appropriate, fatheaded voice: ‘It’s a tumultuous sunrise of vine ripened tomatoes.’ A beat. We both knew he could do much better. Mainly because, though there were tomatoes in the thing, they were a small part of it. That, and there was nothing tomato about the chicken.

	Ain't he handsome?

Attritional with his second attempt, Daryl did what he could to wow me with as much rhetorical bravado as all his years as a Sous could muster: ‘A tequila sunrise bathed in cilantro.’ A much more meaningful depiction, I thought. Still, I would have been somewhat more articulate. Perhaps, like looking at a tequila sunrise while bathing in a pool of cilantro? He disagreed, and I realized I’d become, like my professor pointed out to me years ago, a terrible concrete thinker, devoid of moving metaphor. When I think about it, a sunrise made out of tequila bathing in a sea of cilantro seems more flavourful than some dude watching it and sitting in it. Unless of course, cannibalistic urges make you in to that sort of thing. Aw, food. How divine.



Holy Guacamole isn’t anything out of the ordinary. And yet, as roundabout as it may seem, it does offer some unique character. Namely, that it is an assemblage of Tex Mex (how’s that for metaphor?). In its modest space of green tiles, warm coloured walls, spicy food photos, and hurried painted ceiling, it borrows from the conventions of this town’s sandwich assembly hideaways but with, you guessed it, Mexican sandwiches: or tacos, or burritos, or quesadillas, or whatever you call them. ¡Caramba! You can even get everything in those foreign wraps without the wraps themselves! Just a bowl full of fresh, Mexican fixin’s. How’s that for alliteration? How’s that for all you carb counters? You can even opt for wheat flatbreads. But I feel like I’m losing focus. The fixin’s are fresh. I can say that much. Holy Guacamole can say that much. Never frozen, always fresh. Even the bits of corn for a topping. Sweet kernals of corn. I believe it. Heck, I ate it. It’s simple food. Easy in its composition, civil in its choices. Quick food for vegetarians and omnivores alike. Daryl and I both thought the vegetarian option could be as satisfying as any meaty meal, what with choices of lettuce, tomatoes, red onions, cilantro, cheeses, jalepenos, cilantro lime rice, refried beans, black beans, sour cream, burrito sauce, hot sauce, a guacamole with a buttery texture and calm stoney flavor that uses its avocado character and nothing more; a good way for allaying any overpowering spiciness that may combine with it. And I can’t forget a typical, but well balanced salsa, furnished with ripe tomatoes, diced fine (thank Dios), cilantro, red onions, and lime juice. More impressively, the servers knew well enough to squeeze the juice out of it before putting it on my spread or otherwise have my burrito a juicy mess. But that didn’t affect the overall flavor of any of it. In fact, it was the pungent favourite of my first burrito. A packed roll of marinated chicken and choice fixings that I begged the help to choose for me. Cilantro lime rice, refried beans, cheese, burrito sauce, guacamole. A Fixing of flavours lost in the lake of Texcoc itself. Take that metaphor, Daryl.

Daryl and I agreed, the chicken was a little more minced than we would have liked, but still stayed true to the flavor it advertised itself as having. Daryl loved the rice, I recalled wanting it a little less cooked, the gobby nature of my burrito being too soft for my liking, though still kept in check by my wheat wrap. But this is no fault of HG. That’s what I call it now: HG. No, no. It takes some consumer responsibility. HG can be a very empowering place. Offering you the option of making your own fare. The choice, and fault is all yours. Still, with fresh ingredients and bright, pleasing acidic flavours, it takes a lot to screw up. My advice? Treat whatever future wrap like a good pasta sauce. Simple, and focused on one discernable flavor, or a few that compliment whatever meat goes in it (or roasted vegetables).

My second round wrap consisted of the Mexican pulled pork. A burrito that felt right in my heavy hand. And though intentionally packed with pulled pork, still not messy. My only qualm, maybe even Daryl’s too, once I convinced him, was the not unflavourful, but unwelcomed processed flavor used for the pork. It was a strange familiarity of nameless spices, hot, peppery, chalky in composure, perhaps earthy in fantasy. Like the stuff you get in packs for taco meat. If we’re wrong and unfamiliar with the flavours of chipotle, we firmly apologize. But we have experienced and vagabond-like palettes. Or at least we like to think so. But the worst is over and very difficult to come by. Fear not, dear eaters, you’re in good hands at Holey Guacamole. Repent, and the spirit of Tex Mex will set you free. Free from all those gyros, subs, and pitas you’ve had in your regretful past.

	The End. (I've always wanted to write that in company with a pretentious food photo.)

Holy Guacamole
519 513-2495
8 Duke Street East Kitchener

Mondays thru Wednesdays from 1100am until 600pm
Thursdays and Fridays from 11am until 700pm

Any payment

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Cheeses Murphy

The culinary underbelly of Kitchener-Waterloo has been whispering a sibilant buzz these past two months during the dark hours of Friday and Saturday nights; and though the streets are usually humming with the most ritualistic of drinkers, there are circumscribed spaces that attempt to cater to good food and good eating for the mass of hungry, maybe even lovelorn, individuals that saunter out of any club after the doors have closed.

I always hear things. We always hear things. And I had it on good authority that the obscure, cleverly titled Cheeses Murphy, an ambitious attempt by the folks at the Princess Café (unless I’ve otherwise been misinformed) to elevate grilled cheese sandwiches, was something I had to try. And, aside from my dictatorial culinary underpinnings always looking for places that focus on small menus which attempt to master a kind of fare, I was baited by its short hours of operation: Friday and Saturday nights, from midnight until the wee hours of the morning. I won’t bother to wonder why not longer, if the grill cheese is as good as people say it is.


The operation happens behind the ticket booth of the Princess Cinema twin, whereby customers are herded into the lobby while each one lines up to take his or her order from an appreciated and focused menu dealing in grill cheese and nothing else. You pay an even six dollars per sandwich, unless you get the simple classic which is four, and watch as the counter attendant does the run around to tell the two grillers in the locked down Princess Café what you ordered, but not before handing you a small card of kitsch so they can call you out when your order is ready. Did you order ‘The Sticky Frenchman?’ Well, if your card is that of NBC’s poster child for teenage sweethearts, Kelly Kapowski, your order’s up. An entertaining way to amuse the hot messy masses that come in and have a hankering for a sandwich which’s title is as sexually charged, I assume, as the sticky Frenchmen they plan on going home with. Did I mention they sell dipping sauces? No ketchup though.

Yes, cherished readers, novelty seems to be the backbone of Cheeses Murphy. An unfortunate dilemma I played out in my mind as I read a menu full of rhetorical flash therein. I wouldn’t otherwise seem so harsh if I didn’t have the perspective of knowing the food, that statement in itself being a dooming epitaph. Cheeses Murphy has great potential. A funny menu with funny titles, even clever item altercations alluding to even more popular culture, like the “inception”: a grilled cheese sandwich put in any other grilled cheese sandwich, making it, hypothetically, that much more delicious, metaphysical, and expensive.

Unfortunately, each sandwich is made with plain white bread; perhaps an adulation to that cherished cheese dream of the Great Depression, but I think a lazy copout for potentially better fare that could be paired with more finesse and character in our culinary age. Because in my mind, brie cheese and caramelized apple deserve more than the processed mushy bread that lacks any artisanship, texture, or body. I’m civil when it comes to paying an arm and a leg for something as trivial as a grilled cheese sandwich, so long as its ingredients play the part. But I’ll be brutally honest: searing a sandwich and skimping on ingredients does a faux food stand no good. And I’ll be even bolder by saying that pandering to an alleged inebriated, starved, late night crowd is no excuse for subpar food of Americana. My only fault may have been coming sober, thereby maintaining my scrutiny. The bread could have been crisp, but was saturated by too much butter, which, oddly enough, did nothing to prevent the crusty edges from being dry, stale tasting appendages. Were these symptoms of old bread? You be the judge. Combine that with skimped stuffings, other than the cheddar cheese, and you get a sandwich that has the potential to choke down your throat, and become nothing more than a salty afterthought.

	Bizarre, right? Don't be alarmed, nothing more than propaganda to convince you what you're getting is worthwhile.

When I ordered the namesake of the place I expected my sandwich to be a grandiose spectacle of balance, satisfaction, and sandwich progress. Imagine, a grilled cheese with bacon and jam? Sounds odd; strangely adventurous, even. Unfortunately, the nameless jam and spattered bits of bacon did a poor job of fostering a good reputation for the sandwich aptly named Cheeses Murphy.
And its South American inspired companion, which I looked forward to eating (when I was recommended it), may have reminded me of the familiar flavours of a taco, but still fell short, the choice of white bread for a canopy giving it an unfamiliar and bizarre mouth feel. And the butter that greased its sides did no right by something filled with ground beef and chipotle sauce, a smokey, earthy cream that did a moderately good job of balancing saltiness, but still fell short. The coriander could have quelled all the guttural brawny flavor of spice and meat, but unfortunately it was haphazardly sprinkled to one size. Although, I have the strange feeling that even if not, it still would have fell short.
If I’ve anything left to say, it might be that at 3 am, Cheeses Murphy may have a monopoly on its hands, so long as its customers are in the right frame of mind. Take from that whatever meaning you will. But with fare of ill-matched ingredients and poor textural qualities, I’m willing to bet it’s not too hard to put together.

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

CASH ONLY- tax included.

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Prodigal Sandwich

Years ago, in my most exuberant days of discovering the joys of eating, I was made a sandwich of cold roast beef and cilantro- shoots, roots, and all. At the time, I thought nothing of its frivolity. A mere sandwich made by my friend- that kid from Hong Kong- to quell the growls that surged up from inside us both. We were, in fact, on our way elsewhere to go eat, but wanted something, for whatever reason, until we made the trek in my unreliable, yet affordable and inherited, minivan. To me, at least at the time, and before I was forced by the big-wide-world to have any kind of culinary perspective, food had rules. Recipes and dishes were strict, natural, black and white things. Fusion did not exist. There was a reason I found my cilantro and beef sandwich boring, and that was because it wasn’t natural, as paradoxical as that sounds. Of course, there were a myriad of reasons why it was boring. I didn’t appreciate its flavours, and as a kid from a heritage of rich food, it tasted bland.

Now I reckon if I had eaten a sandwich from Givral Deli that very day I would have understood the transferability of food much differently. It would have been the sandwich that opened my eyes. And in a sense, it did the very same thing today. Ironically, sandwich shops to me today are dull, redundant things, overpriced and patronizing (again, ironically) with things like prepackaged cookies, potato chips, and whatever else. These are conveniences we are used to, and dare I say, doomed to depend on when we want a foot-long. Givral Deli, on the other hand, offers a great alternative with choices that have stood ground for a long, long time.

I won’t bother to tell you why you shouldn’t let the space conclude Givral’s quality, because so many of my foodie forefathers have already written about its green marbled vinyl floor, its green paint chipped walls, its long corridor leading out back, the charming boxes of eggs laid out in front of the counter and the loads of beauty creams behind it. The atmosphere is a pretense we’ve used too many times to judge the quality of a food hole. Let’s save such trivialities for the big cities where such dynamics matter, but not for Grival, please; because it need only depend on its unmatched fare, and even that may be an understatement.

You’d be foolish to never visit Grival Deli at least once, though with the price of a submarine sandwich being 3.25 at most I can’t see why you wouldn’t want to visit all the time. Even though it offers a mere nine sandwich options with a similar flavor base, I’m willing to bet you’re capable enough, food-wise, to fall in love with at least one choice. And if that’s not enough, it offers other Viet street options, like spring rolls and steamed buns bigger than my fist, stuffed with fixings like pork and mushrooms, made by the proud owner herself. If I hadn’t already ordered 5 of the most inexpensive submarines in the world moments before, I certainly would have opted for a bun or two. But now I have a reason to go back.

Though a tight menu, it runs a thoughtful selection. From sardines, to buttery barbeque pork in a special, ‘juicy,’ sauce. Each sandwich is filled accordingly with julienned marinated carrots, wedges of cucumber, red onions, and cilantro- stems and all. This was reason enough to understand those people in the past who’ve railed against the urbanity of putting lettuce in a sandwich, especially when there are so many other kinds of flavourful greens. It’s because of these Vietnamese staples that each sandwich is bright and uplifting, and brought down to earth by the hardy meats placed within, whether the sardine sub, stuffed with whole deboned smelts and flavoured in a simple and light mayonnaise that doesn’t overwhelm in the least, but balances it perfectly. Or whether the chicken teriyaki sub: slathered in an amber caramel coloured sauce that is sweet, salty, and smokey, sprinkled with heat from chopped chili peppers. My only qualm may be that the chicken teriyaki comes dangerously close to flavor with the chicken ‘satay’ sandwich. Then again, it’s understandable that my palette became muddled by five of nine sandwiches with similar fixings. But again, it’s this strong foundation, a signature of Vietnamese flavor, that builds such strong fare. And if you’re worrying about the bread, don’t. At first, I thought the crusty buns were too much to bear, having been spoiled by the soft buns of our conventional sandwich sellers; but after letting each warm hoagie mellow with its own stuffings, I was left with firm, chewable bites.

My sandwich of choice? The cured pork sausage sub. Wedges of pressed pork similar in nature to those cured European sausages we eat so often. Imparted with garlic and pepper notes, the meat gave the sandwich tongue tingling heat that contributed a dyanism to the sandwich’s vernal nature. I was reminded of the days I spent eating lunch with my old Thai employer, dipping deep fried pieces of the same stuff in ice melting chili sauce. That I spent my life so long without such a place is beyond me. And now, thanks to Grival Deli, I can afford, along with the most empty-handed of eaters, food that is not only affordable, but esculent. Culinary. Simply great food.

Givral Deli Vietnamese Subs

(519) 743-5558

203-301 King St E

Kitchener,ON

N2G 2L2

Mon 10-6

Tues 10-7

Sun 10-5

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The Stuff You Wake Up Craving?

During Tripitaka’s seven year pilgrimage to find scriptures for the Buddha, Sun Wukong, also known as the Monkey King, gave him some valuable advice- one of many maxims, in fact. And it was this particular passage that stuck out in my mind the one double odd day last month I hauled myself to a watering hole after a long, long shift of hard cooking.

In pleasant company, as per usual, and debating the most mundane of things, like cruiser bicycles, the legitimacy of authenticity (and whatever the hell that was), as well as vegan tattoos, a member of my company, knowing me to have a roving palette for whatever personal reason, testified absolutely, as if a truth universally acknowledged, that Big John’s submarines were the stuff dreams were made of. That John’s secret sauce (whoever John was) was the kind of sauce you wake up in the middle of the night craving. Big John’s subs was practically famous. They were the best hoagies the submarine supporter ever had and continued to have. In retrospect, I recall their telling me that their own mother frequented the same place while pregnant with them, whose cravings may have rooted themselves deep within the devotee’s DNA.

But, leaving that aside, and as skeptical as I always am when it comes to matters of food, I asked this staunch sandwich eater if they were willing to stake the reputation of the shop on it? To stake the reputation of the new owner, whom, they assured me, kept the place tasting the same? To stake even their own? They told me they’d do more than that. They would personally accompany me there and eat with me, proving just how great Big John’s Submarines was. It was then that I remembered Wu Cheng'en’s story, and Sun Wukong’s words to Tripitaka: that the men of this world stake too much on fame. And that the sometimes tyrannical gastronome in me loves expelling whatever restaurant lore potentially exists in the edible world of Kitchener-Waterloo.

To call Big John’s Submarines a dive, I think, would be too generous. Though its appearance certainly seemed neglected and unkempt, and its walls full of kitsch, like outdated, but polite, no smoking signs, bristle board menus and chipped paint, its space and the sole submarine sandwich maker (the owner himself), had the luster of a place that was there for convenience, and not adventurous eating, though there were small stalls that trimmed along the windows and door, and a lone table outside for those who wanted to sit down, it was, to my disillusionment, too similar to every sub shop, I’m sure even you, my dear readers, see, only older and paying homage to a past and a founder who offered a good service some forty odd years ago. A founder who’s picture still hung steadfast atop the old, most likely unusable cash register. Yes, the layout was vaguely familiar, and it seemed that Big John’s shouldn’t even be able to maintain itself, its fridges stocked with soft drinks and milk and its display cases stocking an effigy to today’s commodified brand named potato chips. Family’s Best was the choice offered, and I could only imagine that the place either stood behind a name that supported a kind of moral value of the establishment, or that the display was only there for keeping up appearances. Stranger still was the display case on the other end of the small room selling brass candle holders. I can’t say anything else about it besides that it was bizarre.

My company advised that my first sub be the ‘mixed (assorted)’; not only was it their favourite, but it offered inside of it, aside from onions, lettuce, processed cheese, tomatoes, salami and spiced ham, John’s secret, wake up craving in the night, sauce. I thought it was an equitable choice. There needs to be some kind of standard, and as generic as the sub seemed in regards to the rest of the menu which offers 53 sandwich combinations as well as pitas, chicken wings, salads, even pizza (which I didn’t even bother with, assuming they too were only there to fill a menu) I believed it was the perfect boilerplate conclusion. I do wish though that I had reconsidered, because as I always do, I find my curiosity for food always leaves me offering second chances. My sub, the largest option, which I neglected to measure but was near 12 inches, cost a very reasonable 6.19, and offered a drink deal along with it (the special of the day, which I enthusiastically took). My enthusiasm though could only cater towards price. Though offered a lot, and substantial in terms of being fed, the flavours were all too familiar, the coveted sauce nothing very secret. That familiar, tangy mayonnaise and vinegar that accompanied the subs in my personal yesteryear. The kind of sauce that stings the back of your throat on the way down. The thick slices of meat between a long chewy bread that stubbornly stayed together reminded me of my past frustrations eating these kinds of things, and as far as I was concerned it was a race to the finish, because I soon found the sauce overtaking all body the bread had to offer with its cheap processed composure.

The wistful memories of my companion may have been what made Big John’s subs seem so worthwhile before hand; and my own cynical eating may make Big John’s seem otherwise. Remember my fellow diners, there’s a whole plethora of cheap, affordable options that may not miss the mark, like the ‘Sicilian Connection’, ‘The Irisher,’ and ‘The Grandmaster,’ a submarine I pretended was named in honour of my old kung fu master, who lived on nothing but a slice of bread for three days while waiting to take down a whole Triad in an abandoned factory. And if the options you try aren’t what you are looking for, simply try more, the price is certainly affordable enough. Surely a good submarine is out there, we need only search for it. Like the Monkey King said, “whether by moonlight or starlight, supping the air, braving the wet, we must go on, so long as the road lasts.”

	See? Bizarre.

Big John's Submarines

(519) 578-7900

699 Belmont Ave W

Kitchener, ON

N2M 1P1

Mon-Sat: 10:30 a.m.-9:00 p.m.

Sun: Closed

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Hipster Sophistication

If you ever find yourself in a bind about where to eat, feel free to ask a stranger. Everyone likes to think they know what they're talking when it comes to eating, simply because everybody eats. But does everybody really EAT? I say this with conviction, dear readers. Does anyone ever really think about what they're tasting, or merely that what they're eating tastes good? More importantly, do people think about why they think a place is worth eating at? Atmosphere, taste, service, price. Aw, yes, the obvious things we think about when it comes to dining out; but what about what the things or places we choose to eat at mean for those who hear about us eating at them?

I’ve been to the Princess Café many a time. However, never to eat, only to drink insurmountable amounts of coffee and what I’ve discovered late in life, and much to my chagrin, to be Italian hot chocolate. Even my poor Calabrese mother never heard of the stuff. So while in a bind about where to eat after having been shooed out from another place because I had no cash on hand, I simply asked the first stranger I saw. They said, “I like Princess Café.” I responded, “I like turtles,” thanked them and went on my way. If I were to have any more fun, I’d have to sternly remind myself not be picky and go. To be honest, my frequency to the place left little to my own imagination, but if my experiences there were merely limited to coffee, hot chocolate, hilarious poetry slams and debates about whether the girl at the counter looked like Miley Cyrus or Kat Dennings, then I should at least give the food a try, even if only once.

I started my venture with a gander to the dessert fridge, ignoring the prices placed in front of the pastries like chocolate truffle cake, strudels and mini cheesecakes, knowing that if I looked at the cost first, I wouldn’t even bother. I did my best to get excited dear readers if only to assure myself that a substantially small piece of chocolate cake or mini cheese cake was worth the five dollars and twenty five cents; and yet, I could do no such thing. All is not lost though, because for those of you with an uncompromising sweet tooth, there are affordable goodies like two dollar cupcakes and strudels, and if you’re lucky, even more affordable sweets the next time around, the desserts having a rotating selection every now and then.

Having come to terms, I approached the counter, asked for a small cappuccino, and chose from what at first glance seemed like a limited menu of Panini sandwiches, pastas, soups and salads. A fair selection, considering that the place’s main identity comes in the guise of a café with specialty coffees, teas, and even rotating house wines and imported beers. A diamond in the rough, in this humble eater’s opinion. But what absolves the Princess Café’s apparently limited menu selection is the number of variations one can get from the Panini sandwiches they serve. The salad selection is acceptable and the soup is always changing.

Having been unsure of what was more filling, soup or salad, the server suggested, seemingly unexcited by my question, to try the vegan soup of the day. I figured hey, I’m somewhat socially responsible. I could go without meat for one meal. Forget that my deodorant probably had animal fat in it, or that the air filters used to clean the dust in my home most likely depended on the fine hairs of a cow’s carcass- at that moment in time, I was going meatless. With that, it was a resounding yes to said vegan soup- though I had no idea what “vegan” tasted like- and “the original vegetarian” Panini. A sandwich snuggly stuffed with roasted eggplant, red pepper, tomato, artichoke caponata (a fancy food buzzword for briny artichoke spread), pesto, basil (I dare not say fresh in the middle of February) and brie cheese (albeit a mild tasting one closer to that of mozzarella).

Thus, I took my cappuccino and found a seat. I’ve had many cappuccinos in this town, the majority from ubiquitous coffee chains, and the same goes for London Fogs, the cappuccino’s English cousin (Earl Grey with frothed milk), and if there is something worth noting about the Princess Café it’s that I’ve come to enjoy their London Fogs to a great degree. Quite frankly, they’re the best in town. The cappuccinos, however, can be hit or miss. The strong foam that stood on its own paired with what I would expect to be a strong, clean roasted espresso was unfortunately acrid and ashy, a symptom of an improperly cleaned machine. Alas, unfortunately for us as customers, some places’ dishes depend on the skill of each individual cook, not the leadership skills of the manager who would otherwise push to make sure that their staff all cooked consistently. So it goes, dear readers, so it goes. And it’s one thing when we depend on the foam, naturally sweetened in the frothing process, to sweeten our cappuccino, but it is certainly another when we depend on it to dilute the bitter flavor of what tastes like over-brewed coffee. Luckily, there was sugar nearby.

	'Gotta brush up on them camera skillz

Still waiting, I took in the scenery, an echelon of hipster sophistication: retro-posters placed in frames, stiff, white rococo chairs recycled from what may have been some twelve year old’s garden party, old tables, and paisley kerchiefs used in lieu of disposable napkins. I could appreciate the sentiment because it catered well to a young crowd enjoying a new trend of ironically consuming old and out of fashion things like coffee mugs from the 80s with terrible decals, and to the old who enjoyed coming in for a sense of nostalgia within its warm red and white walls.

It was then when my meal came and snapped me out of it; a humble array of soup and glorified sandwich, accompanied by a thin, quartered pickle. Now, my ancestors tell me a Panini should be hot coming off the press, lest, I suppose, there’s a good reason for it not being so. I can only assume that the Panini, being a hearty bread, needs such heat to soften it up for consumption. However, this was not the case with my sandwich. Conveniently, the local bread used for the dish was soft with a good amount of bite to it. Not too little to become soggy immediately with all the balsamic, briny ingredients in between, but not too hard to be tedious to eat. An overall good pairing with the vegetable ingredients, also being soft. I wonder however, what the bread would have been like with the cured meats that accompany other sandwiches. For 6.46 alone, I would have liked something a little larger. As for the ambiguous vegan soup, I could only guess what gave it its earthen flavor. I say earthen and not earthy here, my soup having the flavour of something edible, yet still in the ground. I did my best to ignore this one dynamic of flavor in lieu of the soup’s curried aroma, combined with its peppery taste, and strong nutmeg like overtones, all supported by that of what I assumed to be a base of either carrot or some kind of squash, giving it its orange colour. As an accompaniment to my Panini, the combo came to a resounding 8.10. Reasonable.

Finished, the café’s host, in a brief moment of time came, saw my empty plate, and conquered, taking it up and cleaning my place immediately. From there, I up and left, paying my dues and paying a good 14.25 (tip included), wondering who I could ask about where to eat next.

The Princess Café

519-886-0227

Mon-Sun 11:00 AM- 10:30 PM

46 King St. N. Waterloo

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