Smitten

I’d barred the idea of writing about tea for a long, long time. It’s my first love. Yes, even before the namesake of this blog. I was exposed to it by my old master, drinking hot tea instead of cold water after strenuous kicks and punches, and I’ve even gone so far as to con my way into expos masquerading as a buyer just for the sake of tasting the most expensive liquors. But, more than being something personal, I’ve never considered it something serious around here. I’ve badgered brewers in shops with techniques, and even asked them to give me the leaves separate from the water so I could wait for the appropriate temperature and then steep it myself. I imagined there was never really much to say about the stuff when it came to people shelling it out. It was just something traded, elevated by the rhetoric that branded it and sold the lifestyle attached to it. Around here, unless brewed at home, it was nothing more than a pretense for meeting. It doesn’t hold the same assumed finesse as coffee does around these parts. That is until Joey and I serendipitously discovered a shop in Stratford just shy of a week ago. It took Joey some convincing, but I guaranteed him copious amounts if he came along. And, of course, as my dear brother in culinary arms, he obliged, aware of my past, aware of my prospects with Mrs. Wu in the hills of Gukeng.

We almost missed Tea Leaves Tasting Bar, zooming by the old retrofitted bed and breakfast, now base to the only place, at least that I’ve found, run and occupied by a tea sommelier, schooled in the brew, traveled, well versed, and more than ready to teach you about the cheapest of luxuries. And before you disqualify with an assumption that the tea is expensive, let me assure you, it isn’t any more than the places you buy it at in town. The place is riddled with teapots, hangings, cups, anything tea related, and as well as the most spirited cats. Joey and I were smitten, if only a little anxious. Me, because I wanted to make a good impression; Joey, because he likes cats.

And so there we were, treated to an on the spot tasting, focused on buying the purest greens, but side-tracked by rich Keemuns (Qimens for you cool kids) because of our shared appreciation for the smokier whisky-esque brews. Our sommelier gave us a profile, set up some cups, timed, brewed, and poured, teaching us more in an hour than Okakura ever could. The resemblance to wine tasting was uncanny, and if you can get passed the discomfort of the bourgeois sentiment of connoisseurship, then you can learn how to really appreciate every kind of dynamic in every kind of tea. The touch, the taste, the smell. We were told about mouthfeel, how to slurp tea held in the mouth in order to experience an even deeper element of aroma and taste, ideas I’ve read about in books but only seldom tried until that day. It was magical. Just two bros at a bar, with a great teacher, lovin’ Lapsang Souchong, the most remarkable we’ve tried, and we’ve bought it from every shop in the region. Its aroma was like fresh tilled earth and a forest floor riddled with meaty fungus. Its flavor, smoky with woody elements and the most amazing root like notes reminiscent of fresh ginseng. I bought up a big bag, and spoiled myself with a cheery blossom sencha brew as well. Dewy with an ester quality. Buttery cherry notes filled the nostrils and breath even after breathing out. Apparitional cherry flavor even coated the tongue. It was hard to believe this tea, like all the others, had no flavouring added. And yet, there it was, sought after, thought about, critically drank, chosen, and brought back to us bumpkins so we could enjoy, what I can’t stop saying: the cheapest of luxuries.

 



 




TEA LEAVES TEA TASTING BAR
Wednesday to Saturday,
11am to 5pm, or by appointment

433 Erie Street, Stratford,
Ontario, Canada N5A 2N3

1-800-733-0376 (toll-free)
519-273-1201 (local)

ANY PAYMENT

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Slave to the Grind

I’m not particularly intimidated by Stratford’s downtown. When I was a kid, I was intimidated by the whole place, a symptom of my love of theatre and yearning to act and do something perceptively important to my young self. Those weren’t better days. I like my more cynical, less intimidated older self. I’ve never any qualms about calling shenanigans, as you all already know, I’m sure. So when it came to coffee in the city of Stratford, I wasn’t cowed by the possibility that someone somewhere was serious about coffee. Tea on the other hand, now that’s a different story I’ll reserve for later. But coffee, no way. If someone somewhere made a pour over, I’d had thought my meanderings one frigid Wednesday afternoon totally worthwhile. Sure, people talk about restaurants and how great of a culinary experience Stratford offers, but chances are I’ll never really have the cash to spend and know. Anyway, if that is the case- if the newspapers are right- shouldn’t that include coffee? If there’s good coffee, let me know, because when it comes to the brew in the city, I think the point to choosing a good café lies in your preference of which third space. What would you like to be associated with? What matches your pastiche? What gives you a laugh?

 

 Joey and I had it on good authority, after visiting the cherriest of tea drinkers, that Slave to the Grind Espresso Bar was super serious. And we believed it, given the context that the tea drinker provided the tea for the joint, and hers was out of this world. So we went, we meandered, Joey left, came back in with a Styrofoam cup of poutine, meatballs, and spaghetti sauce, and I treated us to a couple of cappuccinos, and one big peanut butter cookie the size of my head. And that was more or less it. Still, I was happy with some fun options: spelt cookies, a strange chocolate concoction called the Full Monty (if memory serves), and considerate gluten free options here and there (if memory serves). But, there are no meals. No sammies, just good old baked petit fours. I’ve never any problem with that. I quite like the idea of a coffee shop that keeps it simple, short, and about coffee. At the Grind, you can get the second wave essentials: anything from an espresso machine and the typical percolated brew. Alas, no pour overs though. But that didn’t draw me away from the place’s charm, the barista’s cute claim that my cappuccino’s foamy white blob wasn’t for lack of technique, but was, in fact, a fat swan. I laughed. It was enough to make me like the place.

Its 60s retro riddled space wasn’t my cup of coffee, but I could understand the appeal of brownfielding the obsolescent things of our American grandparents. A rotary phone on the wall, molecular chandeliers, a fantastic laminate faux wood ceiling. The place cried out for dynamic camera shots of the things. It was fun, it was small, it was a little run down, but cozy enough to offer a place for at least 12 customers to come and sit. Soon there’d be more room. A sign said so.

So, it wasn’t all coffee. Certainly, on a strip that had a lot of others, coffee seemed only a small part. Fun had to be a big part of it. Ironically though, there is the tea, which is definitely worth the trip to the place.

Slave to the Grind Espresso Bar
46 Ontario Street,
Stratford, Ontario
N5A 3G8


 
Mon: 8am- 5pm
Tue-Sat: 8am- 6pm
Sun: 9am- 4pm

   
ANY PAYMENT

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More Cupcakes

It’s a far stretch to say that Honey Bake Shop monopolizes itself in a space that offers so many shops with baked goods, but I’ll still make the claim, even with another patisserie mere blocks away. Because despite all that, it composes itself well as another ballad of the cupcake shop, and the closer to all of our mouths, the better. 

It’s nothing particularly special, nor knew. But its familiarity may make it resonate with the customers it keeps. It’s a lofty, familiar space: woodsy, amalgamated with rococo Alice-in-Wonderland motifs, pastel colour schemes, and a contradicting pioneerism whispering the belly aches of Henry David Thoreau, who I’m sure would even himself be familiar with the operations of the current design standards of pastel, woods, and retro-whatevers. So much so in fact if he came to eat deliberately, or when he came to die, he would have most likely discovered that in the redundancy of these places he had not lived. But if I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again, this isn’t a bad thing. If anything, it’s more convenient for our apathetic palates. 

Aside from an array of cupcakes at the typical cupcake price of 2.50, much like everywhere else, you can have your fill of other danties like shortbreads, croissants, loafs, cookies, brownies or squares, and of course sandwiches, apt to change weekly for the sake of novelty. There is handmade icecream too, which I didn’t privilege myself to try; that said, I’ll never really believe in its quality until I see it hand made in front of me.

Punchy with the amount of annuity I allow myself to spend on these sorts of things, I chose a sweet potato, avocado sandwich to start: a perfunctory sweet potato paddy topped with avocado slices that slipped around, cheese, and a chewy rye, sprinkled with a smattering of oats you’d never see unless you pulled the thing apart. Why the aesthetic exertion on a glorified grilled cheese sandwich? I’d half the mind to mind. The potato did deliver a sweet quality I enjoyed though; the sauce of choice however- a coriander jalepeno- did very little, the rye too, which was much chewier and staunch than it should have been, especially around its edges.

But let’s not dwell on the negative too long. I tried the cupcakes, red velvet was my favourite choice. Although my tongue was thwarted by a tense frosting I expected to be light and fluffy, I can’t say I was too disappointed, especially since its demeanor blended rather well with the butteriness of the cupcake itself, even if a textural mismatch. It had a spicy note I couldn’t put my finger on, but enjoyed anyway. 

The cheesecake brownie was the next on my crusade. Lost in the burnish browned chocolate of its luscious saccharine, the cheesecake topping, light and airy couldn’t handle the heavy body of the baked good. Any flavor had was only discovered by picking it apart on my own. Too bad. The pumpkin loaf, however, was the saving grace. Light, and chewy, I could sense the aromatics condense around the air on my tongue before diving in. Laden with all the perfect pumpkin spices you’d expect, it had the perfect amount of bite, pull being the best feature for any baked loaf in my opinion. All in all, Honey Bake Shop looks good, and dare I say, tastes even better. Jaded as I am with these sort of schemes, I’d be more worn wondering why people aren’t eating there. 

Honey Bake Shop 
100 King Street South, 
Waterloo, ON 
(519) 954-0972 

Tue:Wed:9:00 am-7:00 pm 
Thu:Sat:9:00 am -8:00 pm 
Sun:10:00 am-4:00 pm 

ANY PAYMENT

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The Big Black Brew

Death Valley’s Little Brother, or DVLB for short, is a gastronomer’s analytical dream. Gastronomer, not restaurant reviewer. You all know, I consider myself the latter. Sure, I relay to you luxurious readers how things taste, but I like to put culture a good step before any tasty meal. Why, out of all the third spaces in town- coffee shops, I mean- is DVLB a place worth visiting? What does it mean for its patrons? A myriad of sophistications.

Does it have a niche?

believe it.

Is it a business monopoly?

Perhaps.

A charmed kind of coffee circle?

Most definitely.

You need only see how the space operates and, of course, how it brews. I can confidently say it is the first place in town to offer the pour over: the cherriest of coffee brews. Yes, it is, as an old master told me weeks ago in a basement bar, a space capturing an authentic past, a sure fire sign of cosmopolitanism, paradoxically. It gregariously pays homage to its Kitchener Waterloo heritage. Once a livery yard, once a private men’s club, once a speak easy, now a dark, mysterious coffee shop. The operation is tongue in cheek, and for that reason, I respect it. It has hours of operation it doesn’t follow, a sign without a name, a light above its front door that glows red when it decides to open for the most devout coffee drinkers, and an infograph for those who want to actually have a good glass of whiskey to level out any polemic coffee gives them. Its lofty appearance, iron chairs, hanging chandeliers, clinical tea jars and jolly roger espresso cups, may make it seem like a preemptive declaration of trendiness, but DVLB playfully demarcates itself from all that jazz, for behind all its smoke and mascots, it maintains its admirable, most patriotic quality: great coffee. And even greater whiskey, I imagine.

And I’ve no complaints with the fare they sell: Scottish pies, pasties, and pastries. It may seem odd to have a 15 dollar expatriated anti-pasto dish on a very small menu, but I can’t find any argument with something savoury in a place that sells liquor. Bocconcini and truffle oil don’t blend well with scotch anyway- so I overheard. And yes, it all seems a little pricey; 3.50 oolong tea, 6.00 crème brulee; but I am merely giving what little bad news there is first. There are reasonably priced confections and I cannot now, nor ever complain about the price of the black brew. Sure, it’s negligibly more for a cup of coffee at DVLB, but I think once you have it, it’ll be hard to go anywhere else. Be forewarned.

My favourite part? That espressos and americanos share the same price point. Thank you, DVLB. And if that’s not enough, how about a tart espresso with a deep, roasted quality, more deep and nutty than tannic and brassy. Combine that with a stick to your rib crema that stays around even after you let it settle. An elixir so slick, oily, and smooth you’d consider using it for petrol if its finish wasn’t so savoury and worthwhile.
My pour-over was a more gentle, tempered story, so much so you’d never know it had more caffeine than its tiny espresso counterpart. It conveyed a piney, apparitional aroma. Sipping its bright, fruity surface, you’d never think it was coffee, what with the over roasted Americanized ashy brew we’ve come to know as Western drinkers. Each pearl of oil was like a star, swirling around its surface, forming a galaxy and a coffee that would take anyone out of this world. It warranted mindful drinking, especially hot, otherwise losing all the qualities mentioned in lieu of a tannic underpinning if left to cool. Is there a life lesson here? Enjoy the warmer aspects of our friendships, lest we lose sight of all others good qualities and have them turn cold and bitter. Deep.

But I digress.

There’s much more to discuss, like the lavender and blueberry crème brulee: a manifestation of pure luxury. A ribbony blueberry sauce lying beneath a creamy surface of saturated lavender custard emblazoned by a caramelized glass of sugar. An earthy aftertaste quenched an otherwise decadent dessert, giving a new level to its crème brulee element. Dazzling.

My lemon tart looked a little dry and gelatinous, but its firm foundation balanced well with its junket of bright lemon custard. Its puckering acidic vista leveled its overbearing sweetness, and its crisp butter bottom gave it texture and shape in the mouth, much more individual than the glutinous lemon squares I’ve been a proponent of for so long.

Lastly, my zucchini muffin, something a passionate customer swore by, was heated to a ripening crispness that left it crackling and a pleasure to chew. Though a bit dry, I couldn’t argue with its warm character, supported by its comforting treacle qualities of sugar and spice. Nothing too out of the ordinary, but it was only a muffin after all.

I’ve left out other options, like cappuccinos and lattes, but all the more reason to go and check it out for yourselves, assuming you still fear the big black brew on its own. Don’t worry, they won’t judge you, in fact they’ll offer a little cream and after that a little whiskey to calm you down.

Death Valley's Little Brother

84 King Street North
Waterloo, ON
N2J 2X4

519-208-6211

Corner of Bridgeport and King N.
(across from the Failte Irish Pub)

“We're open most days about 8 or 9, occasionally as early as 7,
but some days as late as 12 or 1.

We're closed about 7 or 8, and occasionally on weekends at 11.

Some days or afternoons we aren't here at all, and lately we're here
all the time except when we're someplace else ;)”

ANY PAYMENT

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The Ill Shing Leung

	My brother in culinary arms.

Eating with Shing Leung always means spending a whole mess of money; but I can't complain, because he's my brother in eating arms and if not for him, I would have never learned to eat, or known what it meant to eat with other people. What it meant to roast coffee beans with a heat gun, stuff a giant nameless fish with noodles, or learn to squat on the curb over a sewage drain with a bowl of pho and thus prevent a potentially bigger mess. Eating alone can be a very lonely thing, so says Gille Deleuze, or so I heard my professor tell me once because I was too lazy to find the text. Regardless of all that, I've spent a small fortune eating with my comrade for the past five years and earning, what I think is, a rare and privileged education in gastronomy.

Sometimes, when I got the guts, I like to hitch a ride on a bus and take my sorry ass to the big stinky city of Toronto and from there take a subway and go make big trouble in little China, which is my affectionate name for Richmond Hill and Markham, amalgamated in my mind into one place of strip malls consisting of Asian restaurants and grocery stores- and maybe some dental offices, but nothing else.

No way. Okay, gross exaggeration.

There are other kinds of restaurants- but seriously, nothing else. I believe they stay afloat by depending on the inhabitants of both townships to work outside the cities, commute back home, and eat- and buy real estate.

Last weekend was a special treat, because while I haven't been to the Hill in a long, long time, the ill Shing Leung and I decided to have a chow down at Guu Izakaya: a favoured Japanese tapas bar (yeah, tapas, that's right- not that Asian food culture doesn't already manifest the idea of small dishes at a communal feast, but in order to get the ignorant Westerner/hipster to come they need the label of ‘tapas’ so it sounds friggin' trendy, but whatever). I was scared. I'm not cool enough for the bodies that meander through the streets with Neon Trees playing behind them wherever they go; instead I look like (my own fault) a sailor on shore leave: hat on head, bags around shoulders, books on food and porn theory in my hands (still to this day). But that's okay, I've come to terms with it.

I came late, but lucky for me Shing put us on a waiting list so we had the pleasure of our company until, unbeknown to us, we were allowed in and blitzed by the hyper-greetings of the entire staff that worked there, shouting "welcome" in unison (in Japanese). From the front door we were circumnavigated in a room that had a stone wall permeated by small squares of light (and electric ceiling lights) to the front bar where we were seated on the heaviest blocks of wood which were actually used for stools. Aw yes, the experience reminded me of my time working off the shores of Okinawa: big wooden tables on the floor where strangers were forced to eat together and dim lighting combined with the huzzah of voices, more or less happy to be eating, much like the mess hall of a barge. To the point, Guu was a total theatre for whatever Orientalizing mouths dared venture and pretend to see what Japan was really like: not overworked salaryman getting smashed and cooks crying back and forth for the sake of getting food out, but cooks who are happy to sing out what order number is called and do cool Night of Fire dance moves between dishes and around deep fryers so eaters wouldn't be concerned with the tapas’ sizes and prices. Just sayin'. Just sayin' the next afternoon Shingzy and I went to a ramen shop in J-Town (another novelty of Markham with Japanese-Italian food, the typical overpriced Japanese grocery store, and what not) and were not greeted the same way. We were greeted, yes, but quietly and humbly with the same "welcome" phrase in Japanese. The shop wasn't fancy and formal, but humble and popular among people on Chowhound with nice chewy ramen that I suspected wasn't anything to be overly praised because it resembled the stuff of instant noodles, but I digress.

			Click the pic for a video of the real, loud thing. ダブルラブ～

But Guu is popular for a reason, and I must humbly admit I was blown away by the food. Specials and all. All kinds of sake, all kinds of beer, novelty soda for earthquake victims in Japan and of course tea- that I was charged for. Phhh. Whatever. For an Asian place to charge for generic tea always seems like a disservice, or so my comrade and I think- unless of course its prepared cold. We don't know why exactly, there's something faulty in our logic there, but I think if we were to really think about it, our heads would implode.

We did the obvious: order tapas and see how full we could get. Considering the size, the price was fair, running from between 5 and 10 dollars; we tried fare like maguro carpaccio drenched in a ponzu sauce that permeated through each piece leaving the slightest fishy taste, aestheticized by fish eggs (forget about using "roe" here, it was what it was), and tuna marinated in a delightful soy, wasabi (reminiscent of the mustard of Dijon) and sesame sauce. We paid for pickled vegetables: sweet coloured radish, mild sesame cucumber and the like. We were probably the only ones who ordered the stuff. We were also adventurous enough- though to call us adventurous here especially with our history may seem a moot point- to try raw shrimp, propped up against each other heads pointed up in the shape of a fountain, like a group of synchronized singers ready to dive into the soy sauce accompanying them. Cool and slimy. I wasn't a fan, but Shing assured me that was the nature of the little sea beasts. That slimy, fuzzy feeling you get when putting the things in your mouth is more or less the way they are anywhere else. I didn't have the perspective to say otherwise. And before calling it a night and heading off to a burger joint to fill our stomachs we opted for the closest, fast food-esque item: deep fried chicken skin, a more aggrandized form of pork rinds, but still crispy and buttery nonetheless. It became one of our favourites, paired well no doubt with beer. But before that still we actually encouraged each other to try an entree off the menu before the rinds came. Like the old man I am, I cried out for a bowl of Japanese hot pot and rice (having never fully mastered my own and thinking the dish could give me some perspective) and Shing, like the Chinese-Italian wannabe he is, romantically asked for a bowl of carbonara "esco" udon with kimchi. The flavours were surprising, when I was reluctantly trying the kimchi in the dish I was impressed by the rich, sharp smoky flavour within that resembled the carbonaras I usually make myself. Using udon was pleasant fusion, and I only hoped that I could someday do something similar.

My hot pot was everything I imagined it would be: hearty with a deep barley noted broth, combined of course with the usual kombu presence. It was especially comforting considering how much we both yearned to be full. The vegetables, hard egg and strange processed fish pieces were what I needed.

After a staggering 80 dollars and trip to the bathroom, equipped with mouth wash and rustic stone bowled sinks watched over by the voice of Ou Yang Fei Fei singing Love Is Over, we were up and on our way to catching the subway, but not before urging Shing to go Karaoke to the song before we left. I couldn't believe it was playing; more importantly I couldn't believe I actually knew what the hell was playing. I did know one thing though, Guu certainly knows how to work a crowd and pander to an audience who likes to romanticize the East with bubble economy love ballads. Shoot, I wouldn't have been surprised if they served coffee and put gold leaf in the brew, but the people get what they pay for, even if it’s unrecognized, but very much appreciated by this eater, Japanese love ballads.

And yet, that was only one of the many charming food adventures that weekend. We told ghost stories, argued about Bourdain and Brittany Murphy and did it all again the next day at places like Sam's Congee, a joint packed with family and popular, yet temperate congee, deep fried devils and free tea and J-Town, where we paid for our cold malted chas (I’m bein’ fancy- that just means tea).

Yes devoted readers, I can honestly say that if I ever forget why I go out to eat visiting Shing Leung will always certainly remind me.

Guu Izakaya

398 Church street

Toronto, O.N. M5B 2A2

TEL: 416-977-0999

Mon - Thu 17:00-24:00

Fri - Sun 16:00-24:00 

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Not for All the Tea in China

	I didn't even care enough to take a good picture.

Straight and to the point, dear readers: Sweet Dreams Teashop is a terrible place. Granted, the coconut coffee is pretty dope- once in a while. But one out of a lot doesn't count. Not this time. No way. There's too much goin' bad in the joint, and I know because I've been reluctantly going there for years (usually in the company of others). The last straw came today when I found a load of gift certificates for the place my sister gave me that I inadvertently left in a pile of papers because I knew I wouldn't be going back unless I had a good reason- i.e., free money. I.e., free tea. That sad, I'm not too bent out of shape with the quality of bulk tea I bought today - sencha- which as it is, tastes flat, generic and doesn't have that dewy, fresh cut grass flavour a good sencha usually does. As far as I know, and know I usually do, it was the first proper bubble tea place in Kitchener-Waterloo blazing the trails of trendy Taiwanese bubble tea places. Obviously, over the years other places followed. Why this place has lasted so long, I'll never know- though I do have my theories. People just go for the bubble tea, which as it turns out tastes like nothing more than powder shaken and mixed with hot water. accompanied by a chalky gelatin aftertaste and served by supposedly cute teenage girls. No boys. I'll leave any gender assumptions to you, because this is ground one has to tread very very lightly on.

If anyone does order anything edible they'll find it processed and more than generic. There is one thing I've always eyed: a slab of poorly cut bread smeared with a chocolate spread. Looks good, probably tastes stale. I'm balzy enough to say Sweet Dreams depends on absolutely nothing but poor palettes and customer ignorance in order to stay in business and maybe the bubbly girls that serve there- not that they're all bubbly. If bubbly meant socially inept and lacking in food industry experience and it was merely a word to euphemise the poorest kind of workers than sure, bubbly. Definitely bubbly. So much so that I was overcharged for the tea I bought and on top of that, taxed for it (I asked the cashier if she ever learned about the Boston Tea Party. Not fair? I didn't care. I was exploited. Nowhere in the Great White North are people taxed for tea. Ridiculous.) I, of course, came back and humbly asked that they get their heads out of their asses, stop depending on their personalities to overshadow their poor service and give me what was owed.

Yes comrades, nothing here but dirty glass mugs, poorly steeped tea, dilapidated ceilings, processed meals, too many teenagers, extremely loud music (I can only hope whoever runs the place doesn't assume that a bubble tea shop can operate like a bar where music is purposely played loud to eliminate conversation and cause parched mouths to buy more after yelling over each other- tea shops are places to relax, after all) and a character that depends on nothing more than a kind of blanket orientalism supposedly defining that which is Taiwan and its innovative tea. "But Weezee," you ask "Don't you like poor dilapidated places?" Don't get me wrong dear, reader, I do; that is, when I see it is genuine, when I see it is sincere. When it really is an issue of different cultural taste that othering patrons fail to understand and label as beneath them. But for a place like this, born and bred, as far as I'm concerned, in and for the West, that is no excuse. I won't even bother with the prices. Nothing's worth anything there, unless you're foolish enough to pay for it. I hate to say all of this, but it was only a matter of time before I stopped my own passivity, especially when so many people, and perhaps even you my dear readers, inadvertently decide to go. I just couldn't be that socially irresponsible in the world of food. Not for the all tea in China.

Sweet Dreams Tea Shop14-170 University Avenue West
Waterloo, ON N2L 3E9
(519) 747-2442

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Tea in the Suburbs

I can appreciate a poorly planned suburb, but only when someone in all that sprawl decides to run a tea shop out of their house. Tea shops in these here parts are not a rare breed. I could count a handful, which, considering the territory is pretty decent. There are the small dives that serve multiple teas as options to their menus, accompanied by fancy teapots to distract you from the ill-prepared brew, the Asian-pop tea shops, better known as bubble tea shops, which cater to the stereotyped infantilized young adults who like to order ridiculously priced oblong cuts of white bread slathered in chocolate spread, prepackaged spring rolls and powdered noodled soups, who all-the-while love having their ears bleed while listening to unnecessarily loud Asian music- from J-pop to mandorap (Chinese rap music)- nursing their taro milk teas with tapioca pearls. And of course, specialty coffee shops which pride themselves on choices of loose leaf teas and chai tea or matcha lattes. Tea is pretty accessible in the global market, and due to its gentrification (something I've bitched about many-a-time on this blog) in the West is a popular sign of a kind of savvy, zen, above everybody else sophistication. Having a tea instead of a coffee today says not only good health, but expresses control, calm and an identity unassociated from that of the work obsessed Westerner. Well that's bunk! It’s nothing more than playing with signs and having people agreeing to buy into them! In the consumer world- in Waterloo at least- tea has no real depth! It's fallen victim to not only poor preparation, but semiotic banter. You may buy loose leaf, but when it boils down to it you get poorly watered, over saturated, bittered tea that tastes like, well tea. That is, a hot liquid prepared in boiled water that more or less tastes the same in any flavour, thanks to the chalky nature of the steeped bag, with beautiful cardboard flavoured undertones. I buy tea on the go too; but when I do, I often ask myself after the first sip why I agreed to the mess in the first place, especially when the torpid teen behind the counter doesn't know how to properly prepare a tea, or the odd adult patron, who may potentially know tea, assumes the customer doesn't and compromises any flavours for convenience and profit. I guess I always assume I can either learn how to better prepare the drink, because those who serve me, I assume, are professionals; or that someone somewhere will finally give me a good brew. It's gotten bad, dear readers. So bad that when I do go out, I depend on either espressos, or asking for a pot of boiled water and my tea on the side, removing the lid and patiently watching the steam until it drifts side to side in order to gauge some semblance of proper temperature. But even that's a difficult task, especially in a public space where people are coming and going, messing with my air flow. I told you. I take tea seriously. It was all up to me in my home before today.

Thankfully, lately I've developed somewhat of a cabin fever when it comes to preparing tea; bored with the flavours I have, and the routines of preparation I commonly go through to prepare a decent cup, I was hoping for something new in the way of tea. And I found it in the most unexpected and apprehensive of places. In a duplex, in a new suburb, beside other kinds of businesses in duplexes in that same suburb supported by nothing more than a flimsy banner over the entrance saying "Tina's Tea" followed by a phone number. Not even a website (Do you see what consumer culture has done to me? Not even the little guy, who in this case has excellent tea kung fu, has a chance at business because I equate simple advertisements or signage as sign of poor quality). Yeah, yeah, I know. Never judge a book by its cover. Well, luckily, a while ago, while perusing forests for morels, I came across this humbling, now coveted tea cul-de-sac.

Tina's Tea, formally known on the shop's business card as Tina Tea Room, is an attempt at giving patrons a proper cup of tea, for a reasonable cost, in my own tea drinking opinion. Because anyone can dunk a bag in boiling water or drench leaves with the same; but it takes a special someone to do it properly- to know the kind of tea, the proper temperature that accompanies its preparation and the proper time it needs to steep. Let's face it, people are lazy. I'm lazy, you're lazy, we're all lazy in our own right, and unless you like doing something as mundane as preparing tea, you're not gonna do it right. But you're gonna let someone do it for you, provided the price is right, and the tea holds its own kind of flavour. Not chalky cardboard bag flavour. That and the fact that unless you were raised by Asians in the desert, or are have some kind of tea aficionado grandfather, or like to read extensively in order to quench your own voluptuous obsessive compulsive perfectionist tea yearnings, you probably don't know how to make a proper cup of tea. Again, probably because you don't care. That's why Tina Tea Room works well for both kinds of consumers: for the kind that appreciates the art of a good cup of tea, and for the other kind that likes tasty things and impressing those they dine with with tasty things (Y'know? Dudes that take out dudettes and try to impress them with "sophisticating" things. That scenario could certainly play out in this case).


With its bashful beige walls and three meager wicker tables, Tina Tea Room is a more than intimate space. It's a testament to the devoted few that still wish for the experience of a proper tea and a residue of what's left of the tea shops that catered to the hundreds that frequented them at a time during China's folkloric past. Yup, I was a regular 孔乙己,making whatever due I could through poor academic work, wearing poor clothes (a symptom of expensive academics), and regaling my drinking compadre with maxims of Confucius. Only instead of booze, I was drinking tea, and instead of peas, I was eating a bowl of dried cranberries and apricots, admiring the mess of old lady Victorian trinkets, porcelain waterfalls, multiple origami cranes, plastic plants and Chinese charms that were placed tenderly around the dining room. A humble attempt at decoration, which not only made the experience seem more intimate, but a sincere expression that our proprietor, Tina herself, was doing her best to make hers a legitimate, serious business. And like I've said many-a-time: I've come to expect the most authentic food establishments to neglect appearance and 'proper design' in favour of putting food first. Of course, that just may be my own cognitive dissonance. But in my experience, interior has never been the thing of any small mom and pop's Chinese/Korean/Vietnamese restaurant in my opinion. Weezee legend holds it's only a cover for mediocre eats- or tea in this case. There's no need to play the association game in a humbling tea shop. If you want to associate a physical space with your taste and cultural capital, save it for some fancy five star restaurant, comrades. You won't get it here. What you will get however, is dedicated service, a woman who doesn't let your cup run empty (which is a feat for the cup sized tea pot you're given), and the experience of feeling like you're being spoiled by an older, babying aunt serving tea- your assuming, attractive, Chinese aunt serving tea. I certainly wasn't complaining, not in this intimate space; not with the 3 Japanese girls giggling sweet nothings about Justin Bieber in Japanese beside me; not with the constant bowls of dried fruit (something Tina gave my party and I on the house- a cheap 2 dollars on the menu).

It wasn't all this simple however; we essentially started our visit tip-toe-ing in, slowly opening the door, asking if it was alright to enter, and taking our shoes off before climbing the stairs to our seats. Tina was more than happy to accompany us; after given a menu, and unwittingly given a pot of Tie Guan Yin (an oolong) tea, we were well on our way to figuring out what kind of teas the place served. This was partly my fault however; I was somewhat dismissive when asked what tea we'd like to drink, assuming the host was fluent in English and would riddle the menu off from memory. Ah, the joys of food and language barriers. I've lost a small fortune through these kinds of misunderstandings; but, they were delicious misunderstandings nonetheless.


Tina Tea Room's tea selection is very limited; however, that may either be a symptom of its newness, or Tina's seriousness in regards to tea, brewing tea, and drinking tea. What is offered for drink is rather high in quality and consisting of the purest kinds of teas. I say pure in respect to teas that aren't made up of filler like fruit and useless herby flavours, but strictly leaves and different levels of fermenting processes. That's why a 1.5 litre pot can run a patron from 10.00 to 20.00 dollars, which equates to 5 small pots of tea in one sitting. That said, it's sufficient between a small group of two or three, or someone who's ready to get their drink on. One can even purchase a single cup of Long Jing (Dragon Well) tea for 2.00 dollars. But only Long Jing. Nothing else. I would have liked to see more options in that regard, but I'm sure there's a particular etiquette and reasoning I'm unaware of. Our own tea had a trace of the bitterness any drinker would hate to find in their brew. Still, being unfamiliar with oolongs, I was unsure if that was a characteristic of the tea itself, or a miscalculation on the brewer's part. If there was one good quality of the tea being served to us it was that it never lost its strength, and that was probably a result of being given fresh brewed tea constantly, which worried my company and me at one point because we were confident we were racking up a large bill. However, our being first time customers, we were pleasantly surprised by our cheap bill of 10.00 dollars, even after all the tea we drank and the excessive amounts of dried fruit we were given to snack on, not to mention the some odd 10 sweet red bean spring rolls we were given to try- another compliment of the place's wonderful host. Tina was the most accommodating gastronome I had ever met, and it did this heart good. She even refused our generous tip by the time we ended our stint. She even left the tea room several times, leaving us alone like two good big boys, while she cooked in her kitchen basement and we listened gingerly to the sounds of her sizzling wok through the floorboards (okay, not floorboards- good, wood paneled flooring. I'm a sucker for metaphor though and literary romance, you all know that). Being left alone as two strangers in an empty tea room in the late afternoon didn't feel strange at all, but rather, like home.


And if you're feeling a bit peckish, no worries. Tina Tea Room plays well to the tea time dynamic by offering snacks for hungry customers. Be forewarned however, these things are not meant as substitutes for meals, though I'm sure you could buy enough to fill you up. But I am a puritan, and believe in a bourgeoisie ethos, and thereby believe (in my own opinion) that one as a frequenter of tea shops should come to converse and appreciate the art of fine tea and merely nibble on the foods offered. The menu is pretty scattershot, but very cheap for the amount of food you're given, and I say take advantage of this before business picks up and portions become smaller. I always assume the worst under the shadow of late capitalism, especially in the food industry where things on average reach a markup of 60%. But that's boring! Let me tell you about the oddities that run the menu of Tina Tea Room; there are the things that one expects in theme with a tea room run by a Chinese woman like dried fruit, fried dumplings, and sweet spring rolls, and the things that makes one turn their head and have a what the *f moment like French fries, chips and cheetos, and chicken nuggets. But, those three options are as weird as the menu gets. These, as the Chinese say, xiao chi 小吃 (lit. small eats, col. snacks) run from a mere .50 cents to 3.50; and ironically the only thing that is 3.50 is the chicken nuggets. All very affordable, all dwarfed under the menu by the tea, which as far as I'm concerned is how it should be. Otherwise, those strange menu options are attempts to gauge an audience and are very liable to change, I just hope more people visit so I have a place to go and drink. You know my history of eating at places that don't last longer than two months, six at most. And Tina Tea Room is definitely a place I wouldn't mind visiting at least once a week. The tea may be limited (for now) but the company certainly isn't.

Bill: One pot of tea (1.5l): 10.00 dollars

Tina Tea Room
F33-619 Wild Ginger Ave.
Waterloo, On
N2V 2X1
Tel: (519) 279-4465
Cell: (519) 573-8368
Email (that's right, email): hym199732@hotmail.com

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MUTINY!

That damned teashop sold me out! If it wasn't bad enough that tea all over this city is gentrified, the damned place I used to buy tea from moved to the damned brownfields and now charges a small fortune for the only jasmine I thought worth drinking. Don't get me wrong- I don't hate brownfields, they're great solutions to urban sprawl. What I hate is a city's tendency to shake people out like Robert F*ckin' Moses! Damn rich people. Damn Waterloo. They didn't give two shits when tea wasn't cool. Now it's all they need to get laid. Bastards.

I make no apologies.

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抹茶デ俺のマチ

Plain matcha seems a rarity in this town, so I was more than surprised when I came across a plain cup of matcha tea for 1.25 at the city's only Gelato place: Whole Lotta Gelata. I didn't expect much; but I received a lot in terms of volume. Not in taste, however. It was expected. Why would anyone expect a Gelato place to know how to make a proper cup of matcha tea? It's not as easy as water and powder. The place gets points though for sophistication. If only my Italian fore-fathers knew how far they had come; alongside some Japanese kid's Japanese fore-fathers, of course.

However, as much as I would have liked to discuss the tea's pleasant taste, it will have to wait for a place with pleasant tea because the matcha here was nothing more than chalky and bitter, not sweet like a true, properly mixed matcha should be. What made this tea blogworthy however, was the way it was presented to me. Regardless of its taste, (which should have been the reason I sent it back, assuming I did send it back) I was enamored by the matcha's rich, rhetorical materialization. It wasn't tea in the generic (yet usually sleek) white coffee cup/tea cup/ some kind of cup we'd all expect, but in a double layered, almost bowl like (very reminiscent of the cups used in Japanese tea ceremony- probably a fluke), windblown glass cup, sans handle. Yes, it could be argued that the double layered, windblown glass was to insulate the tea and prevent scolding the drinker's hands, but I argue that there was more to it than that. Its shape was reminiscent of the East; yet, its design and the materials involved echoed the contemporary cosmopolitan lifestyle that makes tea drinking today such a sophistication, even if it tastes terrible. As long as you drink matcha, you're cool. The thing itself does all the talking for you. You only need to read some Burke quaintly in the corner of whatever café and be.

This brings me to my next question: what happens when something like matcha is prepared incorrectly and tastes aweful, but is still drank by the connoisseur because they hear about its benefits and play their own sophistication off of its connection to the exotic land of the Rising Sun. Bad tasting things can be good for you, but so can good tasting things, and in the case of matcha in my city, this is something I have a problem with. I've likened the flavour of a matcha latté to that of a strange breakfast omelet and plain matcha to that of cigarette ash. At this point, I can't help but wonder if it ever tastes good. What happens when these misappropriations in taste occur? I'll tell you, dear reader. You have a loss of proper taste, and nothing more than rhetorical propaganda. No longer is it about taste, but association with the thing itself. A cup of matcha and saying one drinks matcha comes to signify the drinker's own exalted position in foodie-ism, even if it means it tastes aweful. It becomes a kind of social proving ground, even when it doesn't have to be. Why not refuse to drink terrible, bitter tea? Will you lose face? Only amongst the biggest phonies who think matcha, for example, should taste bitter. Then again, are people like that really worth knowing? They probably read about matcha in a women's magazine. Tell me if I'm going off on a tangent, but sometimes, it seems that kids truly are the only honest connoisseurs. They'll tell you if something tastes bad and if they don't like it due to nothing more than their honest, genuine taste. They don't care what someone else thinks- until, of course, they grow up. But at least in that finite time they have integrity, which is something we should all aim to have when eating. Because when you fake sophistication, you're no better than a kid.

Did I just melt your brain?
Whole Lotta Gelata120 King St S,
Waterloo, ON, Canada

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Tea Gentrification

Tea gentrification

I was dazzled today by the city mall’s new expansion. I love spaces. I’m a sucker for suburban sprawl, huge strip malls, even bigger parking lots. I could lie on the hot lifeless cement and let the pink fuzzy arms of heat that rise off it hold me down forever. I could people watch forever, be in total awe at the lengths young shop girls go to get attention.

Indeed, the mall, assuming it’s a good one, is a huge hole for culture, as commodified as it may be. If it’s anything, it’s a place where consumerism not only perpetuates itself, but draws in the purist traditions, beliefs and worldviews and makes them into something marketable. Hey, baby, that’s business. Trump did it, Marx wrote about it, and we all live it.

Consumerism is nothing more than our displaced comradery projected and manifested into something Man alienated from whatever good social relationships the world used to have. It’s the phantasmagoria. What the ideal world should be like. Alas, it never really is. We’re no longer gift givers, we’re consumer fetishists. And when something as zen as tea gets thrown into that mix, I imagine myself taking that hot “Japanese” kettle off its ridiculously marketed (useless) candle holder/heater and pouring that luke warm sencha/chai/bullshit blend down whatever sales person’s throat until they choke, hearing the echoes of Marx in my head: “the bourgeoisie won’t save you now!”

If there is a food that gives us perspective; that allows us to reflect and withdraw from the rabbles of everyday life, that stands in place for everything good and pure, then tea is it. The colonialist stole it, the farmer drank it, (if not to flavour the hot water he had to boil and drink or otherwise fall ill by because of the myriads of parasites in an un-boiled pot), the samurai had it beside him while writing his last poem, doing his last war dance, before going on into battle for the very last time, and the kung-fu adherent drank it, even when he was dying of thirst. My Old Master drinks it, and so do I. Without him, I still would have touched the stuff, but I would never have appreciated it. Something, I’m sure, that comes with time and enough curious intention to enable a person to riddle through as many books and people about tea as possible. And, of course, when it’s the only thing on hand after doing 1,000 tornado kicks.

Food can shape your identity if you want it to. And it can also challenge it. Mine’s been challenged. It’s scary, comrades. 提心吊胆 同志.

Though grateful that I had my phone on hand, without which I would not have been able to take pictures, I couldn't help but feel like some terrible interloper. Sho ga nai. It was for the greater good of tea.

The sale of tea in the West is not my beef. The gentrification of tea is. When something as sincere and necessary, rejuvenating and affordable as tea is recognized as marketable and exploitable for a market of new-aged fatheads, I can’t help but be a little discontented. Maybe I felt like I was part of a club, or part of a history. I knew the secret to harmony, I was privileged enough to be a part of someone’s harmony. I knew how much tea meant to the poor generations who depended on its flavour because they couldn’t have anything else. It stood for working hard, climbing mountains, 吃苦。Or so my Old Master taught me. I eeked out know-it-alls, risked being called 鬼佬, being hit on the back by old women from Laos only to learn whatever subtleties I could so that someday, maybe I could be a part of something. Now all that seems terribly compromised. My city’s no longer subtle. The teashops have been compromised. Those women in sweaters with cat prints have been compromised, threatened by the sophisticated yuppies that head to the mall, not the “smelly Chinese store.” Don’t get me wrong, sophistication’s good. If it comes with humility. Otherwise it’s just arrogance. If that’s the case, sophistication seems more reserved for coffee, not tea. It seems wrong. If there were such a thing as immortals, they might agree. But I still stand by it.

Tea is for the hardworking body, not the complacent, sedentary consumer that needs to impress his girlfriend. When a girl says she loves tea, I don’t believe her. When a guy in a mall’s giant (chain) tea shop comes up to me, decked out in Gucci shirt and shitty (shitty being the pejorative here for unnecessary designer) pants and claims it will help me lose weight, I laugh. What employer grilled him with that? How much more was he forced to know? How long did it take him to know it? And when the same guy convinces a young Chinese girl to buy the shittiest blend of dust for 11.95 my heart breaks. (Probably because he couldn’t have been older than 17, and she believed him.) Where’s her grandmother, is all I can ask myself. And why isn’t she saying anything about the glamourized, post-colonial photos of migrant workers hunched over tea bushes with huge sacks on their backs on display over the shelves of metallic tin cans and assembly line tea pots? Why, when I enter these places, do I feel like the only one who thinks something’s wrong?

glamourized, post-colonial photos of migrant workers hunched over tea bushes with huge sacks on their backs.

A cup that says “guru” won’t make you a tea aficionado, but I know that’s what they want people to think. And those flashy electric scales that measure your grams in neon blue digital numbers may make things more precise, but they won’t make things taste better. Another effect of the technological fetish we all seem to be a part of.

Let’s not forget the cherry on the cake of a fabulous store. The 3 foot tall Buddha sitting cross-legged, with what looks like a bowl in his hands filled with pennies from passersby. If that’s not an allegory for the marketability of spirituality, I don’t know what is. Joke’s on them. They gave their income to an entity that doesn’t even need it. He reached Nirvana a long time ago. Maybe next time I see a crucifix, I’ll leave some money at Jesus’s feet. Maybe he’ll give me long life and double happiness.

The Buddha doesn't need your money. He reached Nirvana a long time ago. Judging by your spending habits, neither do you.

There was something delightfully satirical and post-modern about the whole thing. Tea discovered, taken, relished in, novelized, and then recycled to be new, kitschy and profitable. It’s only a matter of time before people actually assume that a monk summoned a lucky dragon to make the tea bushes grow. Although, it is a nice story. A story more or less dwarfed by the commodification that overshadows the magic and lore of tea. But I should stop here and be grateful that I still have my own tea spaces to dwell in, and that I always have. Like the saying goes, “think about the misfortune of others to be satisfied with your own lot.” I know where my tea is, and them, theirs.

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