Journey to the West

Eat your heart out, Korean-Cosby.

West of Seoul's 'opening' seemed like five long centuries. I like to think I waited for its vehicular arrival for about as long as Su Wukong waited for the opportunity to be released from the Buddha's own hand. I checked websites, looked in the streets, read tweets, even tweeted to the point of being ignored by them. But, eventually I had to come to the understanding that I’d either be around when the damned thing got some gas and hit the pavement, or I’d be up in the air, on a plane to Red China waiting to eat dog in the streets. Fortuitously however, the Universe- at least I like to think so- wanted me to have both. 

Some Sundays ago, Bingeman’s park- just one of the many places Joey and I have been ‘dismissed’ from (Joey for no bad behavior whatsoever; me for corrupting the youth of Athens)- hosted what the Region called the largest food truck event ever. The less backhanding individual would politely introduce it as the 2013 KW Harvest Food Truck Rally for Charity. So, though inevitably expensive, I managed to absolve my cheap guilt by telling myself over and over again, ‘it was for charity.’ But let’s face it, I was perfectly prepared to spend what I still contend is a ridiculous amount of cash for novel street food. That said, let me just answer the question I seem to cleverly skirt with backhanded statements: will I EVER think food trucks are worth the cash? No. Not ever. You’re better off going to a restaurant. At least you can sit, loiter, eat, and not shit in the streets for the same amount of money, tip included. But again, it was for charity!

So, calling Joey out of an inebriated slumber, he, the XuanZang- the Tripitaka, the Tang Sanzang- to my Great Sage Equal to Heaven, journeyed with me if only to release me from the culinary tyranny that had enslaved my curiosity for so, so long.

And then there we were, standing in line with tens of trucks at attention, their engines all drowning out all the obligatory chatter us food fatheads could posture out of our glutinous mouths. We meant business. Joey meant to eat more than I thought he should have- without pacing himself, at least. Luckily, convincing him of the existence of other trucks, and not only the one we had ventured to eat, had him taking his time. West of Seoul’s docket had us choosing what I stereotypically considered Korean, culinary appropriations aside. I ordered what seems to be Waterloo’s proverbial food truck staple: Risotto balls, but Korean; and the only other item I considered patriotically Korean: pork belly. Unless doughnuts and apple cider are something I know nothing about. But cheap shots aside, and using Joey as the name-sake  for our order, we took our appetizers and ran into the giant residual tent left standing on the property after the previous night’s Oktoberfest celebration, where-in-which Joey witnessed a woman get pushed by a big drunk dude. Anyway…

The clever constitution of Kimchi rice balls never really seems clever in the least. In fact, it seemed too obvious when I read it on the menu; but I ate it. The things were hardy with glutinous rice, and briny from the kimchi mixed within. Still, I couldn’t help but think the things were missing an element. Otherwise, when it came to any sapidity, the things were bland, even with the Russian-esque Korean dressing, which’s familiar flavor you find in every other joint. Was it wise to play it safe? Or pander to pedestrian palates? Probably. Especially since I’m probably the most polemic eater around these here parts, and people would sooner listen to me than eat enough on their own and say, ‘hey wait a minute, I’ve had this before.’ Anyway, that’s the worst of it. What I did like was the flaky, light tempura used to batter the otherwise hardy staple. Frankly, risotto balls are the residuals of poor peasant proletarians who needed every calorie they could get. Eat enough and you’ll sink like a stone, so thank high cuisine for some gastronomic gentrification.

Texturally, West of Seoul’s pork belly was out of this world. I could feel the oil wet my lips, the tender fatty pork just melt away when I bit into it. No pull, no fibrous bite. It was unbelievable, especially around these here parts. Otherwise, it tasted salty and usual, which, unfortunately, had me yearning for something more. I won’t argue that simplicity is a good thing. Certainly, the popular convention today is that simple makes for the best kind of food, but the adage seems a little more than overused at this point. Simple can be good, but so can creative flavours, not that the pork particularly needed it. Still, buttery fat wasn’t enough to satisfy my adventure that day, and Joey wasn’t nearly comatose enough at that point. So we surveyed the long line of competition, inadvertently finding ourselves gathered around the attractively creative menu options of food trucks from out of town. What they were doing here? Charity, bro, charity. We were glad. And looking for something lighter than what we not minutes before crammed down our throats, found Hamilton’s Karma Chamealeon, apparently Ontario’s first 100% plant-based and animal-free food truck. Anyway, who really cares? Their Jamaican Jerk Tacos were enough to convert the most staunch carnivore, or the most unsympathetic, cynical eater who believes anything vegetable and restaurant related is a consumer trend. But I’ll be damned if Joey and I weren’t absolutely floored by marinated jackfruit pulled apart to match the texture of pork, topped with papaya-guava-salsa on blue corn tortillas. The creativity, the combination of tastes- sweet with savoury out of nowhere and a heat that came right at the last minute- made Karma Chamealeon our choice truck of the day, and forgetting trucks even existed in Waterloo. We went back just to smell whatever else landed in other customers’ hands. And since Hamilton seemed to dish out a great culinary chariot, we thought we’d try and make it a two-fer. 

Not two doors down, we visited Jonny Blonde, a truck offering a plethora of creative flatbead creations. And since the theme of the day seemed to me to be Korean, and the truck’s bulgogi sandwich offered a creative slaw with asian pear, as well as a mystery teriyaki sauce, I couldn’t stay away. Mixing our last little bit of dough, Joey and I begged for a sandwich split down the middle, and were humbly obliged. A soft, airy bread folded over rich sinewy short rib that curmudgeonly stuck between our teeth, but at least stayed true to a Korean staple. Jonny’s teriyaki seemed nothing out of the ordinary though, and would have saved him face to not call it his own. If anything, it was just more of the familiar. I could appreciate the creative chutzpah of combinations, but found myself done in by mediocre culinary rhetoric. A shame, but eatable to say the least. 

Hey, it took a humble monk 17 years to retrieve the sutras, and 5 centuries for a monkey to reach buddhahood, I’ll be damned if it doesn’t take me nearly as long to find something really remarkable to taste.

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Liminoid

I’ve been saddled on and off with the label of hipster, or ‘original hipster,’ as my compatriots like to shamefully call me. It happens everywhere I go actually: parties, work, bedroom mirror. I guess it’s been a long time coming. I’m underemployed, thrifty, prodigal, polemical. I don’t have a funny moustache though, or any knowledge of folk music, or owls, or old furniture. I actually don’t have any furniture. I do have a couple Cosby sweaters though that I bought for a couple bucks. And I look good in them. I am a fan of Nick Wooster too. I’m not entirely sure that counts though. I also have a thing against Authenticity, as you all probably already know. Anyway, what I’m getting at is, if you gaze long enough into the abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you. So, I guess I’m finally paying for my mistake. And I have the Yeti café to thank for finally helping me to realize this. It was there, a space riddled with kitsch, a mess of retro furniture, folksy photos, novel paintings of Sasquatch in the wilderness, amenable recycled glass bottles full of water, vegan bacon, where I realized, while attempting to help Joey find love, that I probably am some weird, liminal, ultimate, self-shaming hipster. The fact that I’m calling myself one speaks even more to the fact. Terrible. But Joey and I love the Yeti café. We do. It’s weird. We’ve avoided it for so long. It wasn’t until our out-of-town friend, urban and beautiful, yearned for a place that jeered the whole neighbourhood of Williamsburg. So we went. Intending to shame it. But then we went back, and back again, enjoying the novel coffee options, the strange in glass presentations of espressos with foam, the rose water marshmallows, the affable counter attendee. Ironically, at the Yeti, Joey and I can just be. And get fed if we so please. Sandwiches, salads, quiche, even breakfast: eggs, bacon, pancakes, all doable in a small, manageable space. I’m absolutely thoughtless if I’m not mentioning the place’s baked goods either. All outsourced, but it’s not my prerogative to talk anymore about them. The Yeti knows where to get a good interesting thing, like protein breakfast bars, nutrition riddled cookies: spicy in aroma, light, and airy with puffed sesame seeds.  There’s fresh squeezed juice, homemade lemonade in mason jars, ready for anyone curious enough to crack them open. I certainly couldn’t resist the stirring infusion of mint and thyme. Unfortunately, mine was a jar of tart, chalky drink, semi sweet, devoid of what flavor the place said was in it. The sprigs of thyme were in the brew, but the flavor wasn’t, and nothing minty either. Still, it could be a good idea, provided it works.

Joey bought his usual cortado, this time charmed with a bagel topped with avocado, cheddar, bacon, tomato, and a garlic aioli that made the entire thing buzz. Without it, as far as we were concerned, it would have just been a sandwich, but that strange aioli made it a phenomenon.

Something a little more ambitious and liminoid called to me: the Vegan BLT. A good ol’ 7 grain sandwich bundled with a mix of lettuces- cabbage included- tomato, and avocado with vegan mayo: a thick, heavy spread, headier than non-vegan mayo. I can’t say I minded it. For something so meatless, it was pretty substantial. My only real qualm was the limp micro greens used to garnish the thing. Like I wasn’t good enough for fresh? Or maybe I’m too hip to care about it? Anyway, the vegan bacon was what really called me into a world of culinary performance and pretend. Flaked coconut was pan-fried, I assume with things like tamari, liquid smoke, or whatever else, to make a perfectly sweet simulacrum of what we all remember as the cooked backs of beasts. My sandwich had a generous serving of it too. And Joey and I were generously served, allowed to be as liminoid as we pleased, until, of course, we had to enter the real world and leave.

The Yeti

(519) 744-4643

14 Eby St North Kitchener, ON

N2H2V5
 

Tue - Fri: 9:30 am - 5:00 pm

Sat: 7:00 am - 4:00 pm

Sun: 10:00 am - 3:00 pm

ANY PAYMENT

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Purity and Danger

*Enjoy this old, old post- that for some reason wasn't online. It is now. And check out Thrive. Menu changes all the time! My allusions to Academia... not so much.

To be honest, I wasn’t sure if it'd be worth setting foot in Thrive Juice Bar. My own eating prejudices did a good job of reminding me that a trendy and upscale place may not necessarily equate memorable, worthwhile food. More often than not, the food could be redundant and echo the meal options of so many of its counterparts today. It took a lot of guts to enter. If it wasn't the look of the space or the clientele within that made me feel undeserving, it certainly may have been the feeling that I wouldn't be satisfied with what was offered, and I don't like to offend. But hey, that's what menus are for, and since last week's good, almost serendipitous, food venture I figured I just may be able to make it a twofer. Or if anything, feel a little cleaner.

Thrive Juice Bar sets itself in the nitty-gritty of the Bauer lofts. And yes, I'm being ironic and misleading, though I can't see why not, especially in an area that was planned as an 'indoor market place' with a 'vibrant lifestyle of dynamic community.' But my job isn't to debate the semantics of cultural space, only the food that tries to match it and construct a fantasy lifestyle. Otherwise, Thrive Juice Bar is the perfect thing to deconstruct.


Beyond its exterior's glass walls not only do we view a fantasy screen of what our dining experience could be, but how we have access to a kind of social elevation by merely buying clean, healthy shakes and the brand products that are placed on the place's shelves (in case you need a healthy colon) and flat screen television over the bar. Its straight lines, mute grays, sleek blacks and shiny trimmings do good to express its clinical influences, and from there communicate to customers just how sophisticated Thrive is, mimicking the restaurants I know exist in the world but can't afford. This is merely just one symptom of today's trendy food scene. Empowering that dynamic is the space's placement of green. The sign with a leaf dotting the 'i' of the place's name, the bamboo plants growing out of glass centre pieces- all come together to signify that if you come in, you can very well come out feeling clean. It's those kind of things that make a devout eater a little wary.

I sat myself down at the bar making note of the intrusively loud music that echoed throughout the lofty space and asked the 'cook' behind the glass separating us if they offered food, not just drinks. Luckily, they did. It was food for clean living, and though I may already be exhausting the idea in this review, it's not without due cause. With expensive blended drinks full of energy boosts and proteins I know nothing about, as well as wheat grass shots with orange chasers, you better believe there's going to be an array of vegetarian and vegan meal options for a particular charmed circle of eaters. No meat though. I can respect that. Meat’s dirty. I sensed that the notion of liking to eat any animal compromised a little self purity and came with a little danger. I myself was grabbing my collar when one of the servers asked me after my meal if I was a vegetarian or vegan.

Thrive's no place for the faint of wallet either, the reason probably being the ‘clean,’ ‘healthy’ food you're paying for. Either that or the clientele they expect to attract is in an area built for bigger wallets. I've said before that palettes influence the food we eat; well, the same goes for social class.

When it came to 'eating' at Thrive, my conjecture was that what you were seen eating was more important than what you were actually eating. Don't get me wrong, the food has merit, but I couldn't help but wonder if it suffered from the residue of Nouvelle Cuisine. Regardless, it's a smorgous board for the health conscious eater. Vegan soups, vegan hamburgers, big green smoothies (8.99), melon salads, Japanese beans, vegan pad thai. Any association with green and clean, they have it. Although, they do have something called a dirty rice bowl. A good attempt at badassery; however, in the end, clean and good for you.
Mine would be a small meal, I knew right away. But maybe it could be salvaged by the healthy ingredients that were loaded with supplement powders. I started off with a kale Mojito. A Hemingwayian paradox in a place that, I'm sure, favours peace, good food and clean living; not fighting, fishing and- well, you know . . . What would Papa think' if he came here and asked for a Mojito made with kale? Either way, stuffed with fresh kale, lime juice and zest, as well as fresh mint and organic cane sugar and coconut water I was still interested in seeing if it had any life to it. I'd like to say it did. And even though it didn't have any unappealing kale flavour, I was kind of disappointed that it didn't taste a little original. I could taste the citrus, the mild mint, and a general sweetness expectedly given off by the sugar cane. No coconut though. In terms of having those general Mojito flavours, it hit the nail on the head. But again, I was expecting more. Setting my drink down and watching its ingredients separate into two homogenous parts I waited after I ordered an 8" oblong spelt pizza. I'll save you the suspense of its shape because I think the menu may have been referring to the size of the plate. Topped with sun dried tomatoes, artichokes, basil, arugula pesto and a mozzarella I've no urge to remember, the dish was a whopping 9.50. The spelt crust may have been a bad choice on my part. Resembling the dry, hollowed caverns of an unevenly baked flat bread it lacked that firm bitey that comes with the ideal pizza crust. And the attempt to drizzle olive oil over it did nothing to alleviate this flaw. Since there was no bread between the crust to absorb the oil and soften it, it just made the thing feel slippery and wet. Still, if there's anything to mention about the crust it's that it didn't lose its crisp constitution. The pesto was surprisingly bright, and the bitterness that is usually a big part of arugula absent, negated no doubt by the lemon in the sauce. This also worked against the pesto however, because in an attempt to hide any bitterness, the nuttiness that usually comes with arugula’s pungent bite was gone, and so was any nuttiness that came from the almonds used to make the sauce. To top it off, there was also an odd burnt underpinning to the pizza’s flavour, though I couldn't see any markings on the bottom of the crust. Maybe I was missing something. Ingredients were notorious for getting away from me, the cheese doing little to hold anything together. And though I can appreciate a little cheese on pizza- too much being a bad thing- too little can be just as bad, drying out and having a gluey texture doing nothing to lock any moisture in or keep ingredients on. I would have liked more cheese, and less oil if anything.


Near 20 dollars later I was still hungry. I had a desire for the desserts the television offered me, but thought I better cut my losses. Thrive's heart is in the right place, its drinks offer a lot of options, and its menu a pu-pu platter for healthy eaters, there being a little bit of something for everyone- from Korean BBQ tofu to, Ruben sandwiches. So, don't let me deter you; if anything, let your wallet.

Thrive Juicebar 
(519) 208-8808105-191 King St S
Waterloo, ON 
N2J 1R1 

Mon-Fri 9-6; Thurs-Fri 9-7; Sat 10-5

Any Payment

*Original publication 03/2011

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O Brother, Where Art Thou?

Today, I mourned the loss of a brother. Don’t worry, no one died. Unless, of course, you consider my spirit. Can you even anthropomorphize a spirit? Anyway, these are hardly culinary questions that need answering. Although at times, food can do a good job of putting our hearts at ease.

Some days, I get really down on myself. Some days, I get really hungry. And some days, I remember that if I don’t eat, I can get really down on myself. Today was starting to be one of those days. Remembering the terrible news of my dear brother’s decision to move out of town and in with the love of his life made me desperate to fill the emptiness that hung where my own heart once was. Yes, dear listeners, even one thousand crescent kicks under the still moon the night before weren’t nearly enough to quell the feeling that I had been left alone, platonically sojourned in a city where a close comrade and I had drank tea, learned kung fu, and eaten copious amounts of bad Chinese food. Those were my salad days.

And if I can aggrandize this story of brotherhood any further I will mention that I intended to eat my pain away with the worst, most dangerous Chinese-Canadian food I could find. Fortunately for me, a pang of recollection prevented me from ordering the stuff I know sits so heavily in my stomach and not so happily in my heart. And like that, I was called, as if by the Buddha himself, to a place I had been years before, where my dear brother once tried vegetarianism, and your dear narrator came to be comforted by him, all while stuck in an abyss of graduate work. It was then, after some tea and pickled cabbage when I realized that no matter what the world was like at least there was food; and that no matter how hard things may be to take, when everything’s all said and done, the world is still there. And, if we’re lucky enough, the places we go to eat are still there too, offering sanctuary like temples in some kung fu flick.

I won’t keep you in anymore suspense; I’m speaking pretty tongue in cheek at this point anyway. Just let me say this, everything I write is true and comes from what little heart I have left. Tenterhooks, my friends, tenterhooks.

If you’re feeling a little bit of spiritual abandon, or looking, like I did today, for some connection to a more nostalgic past, it might suit your poor spirit to visit Lotus Tea House, a vegetarian restaurant with an already stellar following. It has a quaint townhouse location and, of all things, a retrofitted Buddhist temple, as anachronistic as that sounds. Why bore you with any other trivialities? What with the urbaneness of wicker chairs and somewhat unaccommodating wooden tables (if you’re a group of four), pacifying classical music, creaky wooden floors, salmon coloured, stucco walls, and botany pictures- I must be heartbroken, because I am being far too harsh in this instance.

What makes the Lotus Tea House matchless in quality is the knowledge it offers the masses; shelves where diners can read books about the Buddha, and even donate any Buddhist teachings themselves if they so choose. Upstairs there’s an empty room with a lone Buddha statue where you can even bow three times, if YOU so choose. And of course, there’s its fait accompli: its originally brewed teas. Pots that run the price of, at most, 4.95. Well worth it, if not for the novelty of having a tea that doesn’t steep dried goods, but boils everything together fresh. So I am told, so I have seen. I’ve never looked in the kitchen though. But, the proof in this case is in the pot, because there are instances of whole oranges, mashed up almonds, even apples left in clear glass pots. Of course, there are dried leaf teas if the heart so chooses. I myself am a staunch disqualifier of tea almost anywhere, my old master teaching my dear brother and I about tea when we were young kung fu adherents (he never believed in drinking cold water, only boiling oolongs), so I like to push my snobbery onto the world. Anyway, the tea certainly is unique, and warrants mindful drinking, the almond tea, for example, will gelatinize if you let it sit long enough.

I was intrigued by the icy cold fruit tea: iced tea I assumed to be rhetorically done up on the menu and underwhelmed by in person. I was wrong. It was the best iced tea I’ve ever had in town. It had pieces of fruit, apples, oranges, pineapple, elevating the Ceylon brew to something ambrosial (yeah, I’ve used the word before; but this time, I mean it). And it wasn’t just put there to humour an aesthetic seeking drinker. The lemon undertone I’d usually expect was replaced by an awesome orange citric sweetness, a syrupy pineapple pungency, mixed so well that the beverage had its own frothy head! Never have I come across anything like it.

Healthy Soy Bean was the next item to order; boiled soy bean with a dash of sea salt. In my mind I envisioned it as a block of mere tofu smothered in salt, something I hoped for, my Philippine grandmother lovingly feeding it to me for breakfast in my youth. Alas, I was met with a plate of Edamame beans, that dull, popular Japanese appetizer. Nutty, salty, clean. I can’t complain more than that.

My entree was an exciting array of cranberries, cashew nuts, tofu and vegetable stir-fry, paired with a simple soup and bowl of bean sprouts with a simple spicy, savoury sauce. The soup itself was a humble thing. Its broth, a quiet familiar vegetable flavor, with the odd tomato skin floating about, something I have come to know in the culinary world as always out of place.

I was underwhelmed by my stir-fry. A serving set around a dome of light and aromatically nutty rice, I was disappointed by what I saw in front of me. There was nothing wrong with the portion, there was a substantial amount of food, but I couldn’t hold truck with the lack of cranberries and cashews. I wonder why so many places do this? Highlight dishes with unique ingredient ideas and then give dishes a sparse sprinkling. The combination of sweet cranberries and savoury cashews would have given perfect balance to the already salty and starchy nut sauce that coated the stir-fry. I thought that maybe Lotus Tea House could have been the prodigal son that escaped the banality of Chinese food, but the features of the dish were absolutely overwhelmed with so much traditional flavor. I threw my puritan caution to the wind. I was tired, I was heartbroken, I mashed my rice with my stir-fry, I didn’t care to keep it separate, I turned it to mush, I ate furiously, the waiters couldn’t stop staring. I didn’t care. I blamed it on those one thousand crescent kicks, I blamed it on my broken heart, I was still trying desperately to fill a void. Was it my lost brother I was crying over? Or my food? I didn’t even know anymore.

The Lotus Teahouse

79 Regina St. North

Waterloo, Ont. N2J 3A7

Monday: 11:00 am – 3 pm

Tuesday to Thursday: 11 am – 7 pm

Friday & Saturday 11 am – 8 pm

Sunday Closed

CASH, VISA, OR DEBIT.

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Places Justin Bieber Won't Eat

I’m not a political eater. I save that sort of thing for zombies who have a taste for presidents. And a group of close ‘comida-ing’ compatriots who have allowed me an ethnographic window into the realm of urbane coffee connoisseurship. It’s made me somewhat skeptical about what good coffee is, because aside from not knowing, nor having the cultivation, or a democratic cup from which to measure all quality of coffee, I don’t think you can really come to any logical conclusion. Besides, I have what all good food pundits have: perspective. If I’m satisfied with the flavor of something, I reckon, assuming I paid for its preparation, that it was money well spent. I dare not try one thing and say nothing is better having not tried everything. Nor do I try some, come to a conclusion about one thing from one group and then never venture out in search of other, potentially better opuses. If I did that, would I write about sushi place after sushi place? Or vegan place after vegan place? Of course I wouldn’t. You’re a lucky bunch of readers. Or maybe it’s me who’s lucky for having such patient, understanding listeners.

	Damn.

My hankerings for coffee knowledge led me to Café Pyrus; a site that brews, I was told, pretty decent coffee. But I couldn’t really tell you about it in this review, because although they had a cool espresso machine with levers covered by rubber snake puppets and octopus tentacles, organic and fair trade coffee, and organic fair trade coffee, I paid the common cup no mind, immediately diverted by the fact that Café Pyrus is a vegan café (cue dramatic movie sound effect). Surely, the space itself was a dead giveaway: recycled furniture, plywood used as canvases for graffiti art, plastic plants, an array of board games, reggae music, novelty skull containers, tattoos. You know, the kind of edginess that makes veganism paradoxically dangerous and therefore appealing to those railing against some kind of parental authority. How else can you start a movement with a foundation based on the idea of healthy eating, essentially underpinned by the inner dialogues of our parents who force fed us health food as children and therefore made the idea seem anti-youth and un-cool because there were no trans-fats and designer pizzas? And why would I have even given it a second glance having judged it so well? Why would I see the sly idea of an iced Americano on the chalk board menu (yeah, chalkboard) and think to myself, “I have to try this because I’ve never seen anyone else do it- sure it’s novel, but whatever.” Maybe because I’m a fool. Maybe because Café Pyrus could very well be the deliverer of all vegan restaurants I’ve been to. It was cheap, it had good options. Salads with tempeh and chard, quesadillas, burritos, avocado sandwiches (an ingredient doing poorly in the place this summer because it was never ripe- so the attendant told me) and novelties like the Justin Bieber: a grilled cheese with cheesiness I suspect so overwhelming it borrowed the poor kid’s name. Not to mention the coffee, and obvious addendum to such in such a place: baked goods. From muffins to scones to gluten free cookies. Uh oh, gluten.

Sorely disappointed by the avocado shortage, I gave choice to the black bean burrito, stuffed with basmati rice, onions (red, white and green), cumin and red pepper, and adorned with pickle and micro greens. But I wasn’t done there, I asked for that iced Americano hoping for something unexpected, and gave a fair try to the baked goods: one mint vanilla cupcake, one gluten-free peanut butter cookie and one ‘Samoas’ cookie bigger than my already tiny palms.


If there was anything obvious about my burrito it was the taste of white onion and cumin, an expected characteristic of something otherwise so well known. The basmati rice allowed for a nice level of nuttiness but fell short of being cooked properly (so my two years of boiling rice in a Thai restaurant has taught me). I’m not a fan of bite in rice; however, that said, rice being cooked to a point of stodginess isn’t something I accept either. It’s a hard food to navigate. And if I wasn’t so well versed in eating I might have confused the grains of vegan cheese for the white grains themselves, the poor cheese not having enough time to melt in the plentiful wrap.

A vegan sour cream was given to moderate any dryness the burrito might have had, though that wasn’t a problem. The cream’s grainy, saltless disposition gave nothing to the dish. The flavor of cumin only seemed redundant and the lack of salt in my dipping sauce and burrito lead me to wonder if the mythos of healthiness that permeated vegan cuisine resulted in a crusade against salt. Either that or I’ve been cooking under the tutelage of my uncle for so long that I’ve come to also believe in the trinity of Romano, salt and cured meat.

I’m bold enough to say that Café Pyrus’ pastries are its dark horse. I was a cynic ordering them in the first place, disqualifying them as probably dry and cardboard passing as rolled oats. But I was wrong. Though the vanilla cupcake was expectedly dry, its vegan butter-cream frosting, infused with vanilla beans and mint leaves was full of flavor. Sure, oils oozed out which made it seem a little slimy, and the mint, ground into its cream, turned black, but its taste, surprisingly, wasn’t compromised. And not only were the cookies saddled with ingredients, but they maintained a caliber of chewiness. If I had known vegan baking could be so delicious, I would have disqualified butter and eggs a long time ago.

Could it be that healthy food can be fun and good for you? I’ve never left a vegan spot and thought about coming back, surely Café Pyrus is the vicar of vegan cuisine.

Cafe Pyrus
(519) 954 7705
16 Charles Street,
Kitchener, ON n2g 1h2

Mon: 8:00 am - 7:00 pm
Tues - Fri: 8:00 am - 8:00 pm Sat: 9:00 am - 7:00 pm Sun: 10:30 am - 6:30 pm

All methods of payment 

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Growing a Green Tongue

Now, I might be beating a dead horse, or growing some kind of green tongue, but I've spent these last couple weeks wandering about vegan and vegetarian food. I used to be vegetarian. It was admirable. But then I realized trying to be vegetarian in an Italian household was problematic for my family's gastronomic identity. There's meat in almost everything. Except, maybe, bread. I held out for as long as I could. A good two years, but then a friend of mine introduced me to Korean Barbecue, and it was all downhill from there. But I think I have enough perspective now to communicate to all of you faithful readers that vegetarian and vegan food can be good food. It doesn't have to be pretentious, expensive, contemptibly portioned or bizarrely flavoured. This week, I could only hope that Kitchener-Waterloo offered up some redeeming spots for vegan and vegetarian food, and if not, then at least at an amiable price.

The chophouses we so cosmopolitanly refer to as restaurants can be great spaces for culinary learning. I've been in the dark for quite some time on the vegetarian and vegan front. But let my meandering be a lesson: if you want to learn about particular food, all you need do is merely go out and eat it. See what you can do with it, look for something you like, and make it on your own (provided there are no paranoid cooks with secret recipes). Lately, if I had a personal, yet somewhat obtuse and unpremeditated, mission, it was to prove to myself that there is vegan and vegetarian food out there that is substantial, and I believe I've found it these last couple of weeks. Kinda. Because when it boils down to it, there's a big wide world out there.

The Duke St. Muse is nothing new. But I don't say this sardonically. It's settled itself for as long as I've seen it just outside the heart of kitchener's downtown and I admire that. However, my own prejudice to vegetarian eating in the past has always denied it a place on my palette. Not today, however. Today, it called out to me. And if it was called the Duke St. Siren I could have made a more clever transition here, but I think I have your attention.

It's a quaint little eatery- its takeout menu says so. I’d go so far as to add that it's unpretentious. But there's a paradox here, because although The Duke St. Muse is quaint, it also has the feeling of being a space that is very public, almost like a strange university cafeteria from A Different World (too old a reference? That's my point). Some call this kitsch; I don't know what to call it. All I know is that its orange and green and off yellow walls combined with its hanging ceiling lamps, wood tables and plastic chairs (we sometimes see in class-rooms), and hybrid African-South Western abstract art call to mind those spaces where social activists, slam poets, and environmentalists like to hang out. But out of my austere criticism of interior design comes a truth that there definitely is a sense of community. I especially got it in the basement where there's even more seating and a mural that looks like it could be put on a brownstone somewhere in Brooklyn Heights (that's another TV reference for you).

Duke St. Muse seems like a place with no focus. Even its menu is a mash-up of styles. Yet, even then there are things that anchor it. It's obviously vegan and vegetarian; it serves vegan and vegetarian things, like sandwiches and salads (staples, I'm sure). But herein lays its redeeming qualities: its culinary compass points far and wide. Yes there's soup, yes there's salad, but there's also interesting eats like burritos, quesadillas, chillis and curries. It combines Indian and South American tastes which I found intriguing and excited to try. Again, most likely because I know so little about vegetarian and vegan food and was happy to discover that such food didn't have to be boring. My only regret was safely choosing the option I did. A familiar sandwich-salad combo, which I seem to have an affinity for lately in such places, even though there was so much more on the menu! I suppose if anything my decision came from my own romance about how a vegan sandwich could be and how it actually was. A lot more plane than I had imagined. A lot easier to recreate than I would have liked. Is vegan food so easy? I guess so. But there was some equivocation on The Duke St. Muse's part; because, though they claim to serve fresh homemade meals (perhaps meals similar to those we make at home) and use local produce, this isn't the whole truth. I paid 6.50 for a California Raspberry salad that was nothing more than a store bought mixed prewashed salad combined with carrot shavings, raw sesame seeds, sparse cashews, canned mandarin oranges and a very familiar raspberry vinaigrette (a generic, too sweet, too sour, brand). There was nothing local about it. First of all, no one grows mandarin oranges in Waterloo, Ontario.

Next, I asked for a vegan sandwich. Multigrain processed bread toasted and stuffed with the same mix that made my salad, a piece of processed soy cheese, tomato, cucumber, and cilantro pesto. It was called the Mumbai, which may have been why I tried it. I partnered it with a 3.50 mango lassi (a kind of mango puree sprinkled with cinnamon). The attempt to toast the bread was a little too much, but I can't be too harsh in this instance, because if it wasn't toasted, it may have become raw and gummy with all the vegetable ingredients packed between its triangular slices. I was a bit remorseful at first, regretting having gotten the thing because it seemed there was too much leaf used just to give the sandwich body, overpowering all its other fillings with blandness. If it wasn't for the cilantro pesto I may have given up early. Luckily, thanks to the spread, the sandwich had a bit of personality. Then again, I'm a sucker for cilantro. The vibrant, bright, citrus smell of cilantro hit me even before letting the sandwich touch my lips. So naturally, I was excited. Excited for food again, for spring, for the summers I would spend bombarding my garden with the herb and harvesting its leaves in early August whilst bees buzzed venerably around me, pollinating white little flowers so I could plant even more in the future. My first bite into it hit me hard in the face; I loved that I discovered cilantro pesto- that I could very well not only save cilantro for bread salad or a mere (listen to me) bowl of pho, but something else. Sadly, the flavour fizzled out like a star in the night, the sensation it left briefly on my tongue overpowered again by all those salad greens.

Nothing stopped me from sucking my thick (most likely not homemade) mango lassi offensively through its straw. It was a flavour I knew too well from the cans of mango puree I'd used in many kitchens before, and passed off as a mango drink. I liked that they had mango lassis. I didn't like that they were so plain and, well, mass produced.

You may not get a lot of locally grown ingredients at Duke St. Muse in the winter (or first day of spring), but you'll certainly find some thrifty uses for food; and for 14 dollars, my meal was pretty substantial. Then again, what I needed was a good diplomatic meal. Something that encompassed the true character of a place like Duke St. Muse so I could see what it was really made of. I suppose I missed the mark, because after what I ate I realized there were potentially better options on the menu, like the daily lunch combo: a pile of curried vegetables and bean stew poured over a big bed of rice. I couldn't deny its popularity; it was the first thing a customer told me about when coming in, and another fought over by three friends who were forced to fight for the last lunch special of the day, it having been sold out. Then there were the heaping 9 dollar vegan quesadillas. But you never know, I may be doing the same thing I did with my sandwich: romanticizing a flashy chalkboard menu. Alas, dear eaters, like Heraclitus said: “an opportunity lost is one lost forever.” But then, I could always go back. OR. You could all go for me.

The Duke Street Muse

6 Duke St. E,
Kitchener, ON, N2H 1A3
(519) 342-0550
www.dukestreetmuse.com

Mon-Fri 10am -7pm

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