Sweet Sablétine

When curiously asking about the quality of Indian pastry this city has to offer, the conversation with a coworker of mine didn't really take off in any strange direction. He said that he would, like alot of us I'm sure, love to open a patisserie in Kitchener-Waterloo and make really decadent pastries and breads etc. Because then he'd be the only one. The only one. The only one that didn't order from a huge manufacturer. Could the mid-size city of Waterloo really ever deliver? Well, if I was trendier than I am, I would have known and could have told my co-worker that such a place exists, and that yes: Waterloo does have one. Only one. A shame? Not for the person running it. Yes, for all of our mouths, especially since being a patissier warrants the creation of many different pastries, and competition to be the best in town. In theory, that is. In France, probably. But when it comes to the only legitimate place in Waterloo, where the owner - a pleasant young woman with a pleasant French accent (or so I was told, I couldn't hear it at all) - has actually been to France and trained as a Patissier (that's pastry chef for those of you who don't know), she can pretty much charge as much as she wants and expect you'll pay it, just so you can say: "oh, darling, I went to this quaint little patisserie," leaving out, "this quaint little patisserie that's been overshadowed by a 25 story apartment complex immediately beside it," and seem more cultured, and in the know, not taking into account the overworked woman who runs the joint, because you yourself worked hard to bag your rich husband too y'know. I feel for her, I really do. The rich woman, that is.
Sablétine: Fine Pastries is a quaint little patisserie located on the outskirts of Uptown Waterloo, and I'm positive I wouldn't have found out about it if my stay-at-home-mom-sister (no, my mom isn't my sister - my sister is a mom who stays at home) hadn't told me, regardless of the fact that it's located in the same plaza where my mother pays a hefty sum to get our small dog shaved (almost to death). But, I'm glad she did. Why? Psshh. You. . . always asking, why? You know I'll tell you. Because Sablétine is the real deal. So real that you'd literally have to come right when the doors open so you can get a good grab on whatever it is they're making that day. And, contrarily, so real that you'd have to make a pretty penny to afford it. Say "monopoly" with me. For now, anyway. But hey, that's what makes for an awesome culinary adventure. I was pumped knowing it was like a race. No one would get to those doors before me - except for the old people that were there and comfortably seated, at 9:30 a.m., on a Saturday. And it had only opened for an half-hour so far. During the weekdays it opens even earlier. I would have been earlier, but I couldn't find my camera. Sirrah. Just be glad I got no one in my shots, or next to no one, the place was about as cramped as a Tokyo subway; but no one was forcing me to stay there - though they do serve coffee. On that note, I'll talk about the atmosphere. Hey, why not? But, I bet you can guess it anyway. A window sill, light coming in and washing over an open concept kitchen, a big stove, a pile of bagets, a disaply case with expensive pastries - delicious, expensive pastries. And the ever present smell of puff pastry and butter. Like I said, it's quaint. It's quaint, it's decadent, it's full of old women knocking elbows with young 24 year old men trying to blog about food. But how many times can I say quaint and decadent in this post? Enough to get the point across. It's a pleasant, though crowded space. And besides, you can't talk French - Parisian French, not Francophone French - without using those words at least 157 times. I did the math. It's so quaint, it's so decadent that the fresh baguettes they sell aren't even bagged. Oh no! They're wrapped delicately in napkin, comme en France. Yes, I was reminded of the stories of my mother who, with my father would go to the bakers early in the morning while on stays in France and get their bread the same way, and how by 9 o'clock at night my father would be hungry and irritated by the fact that nothing in France is opened after 9. But that was a long time ago.

I won't complain about the prices. Because I, like a well developed Philip K. Dick character, can accept the indifferent nature of reality and the injustice one may think it causes. But as I've mentioned before, this is a legitimate establishment, with someone trained in the art of pastry making, and they can therefore legitimately charge what they like. So use discretion before going into a place like this. I can tell you this, I bought two dessert pastries, two croissants, a cinnamon bread stick, and some puff pastry (like a croissant) all near 20 dollars. Those fresh out of the oven pastry like fineries come to near 2 dollars each, and the only thing that really warrants buying them is the propoganda you may get for yourself after shopping at the place, because they taste more or less like other pastries you can buy immediately in the grocery store. But, after all, it's the experience isn't it? And how could you blame someone who religiously gets up at 3 am to bake in order to make a living? Hmmm? I didn't think so. So accept it and move on. The desert pastries are another story. Ranging from 1.75 to around 5.00 dollars a piece + tax. And believe me, some of them are tiny. But goodness are they a riot to look at. I still haven't eaten them all.You can't feel bad about the price if the taste is there, just like you can't feel bad about the taste if the price is right (but I can). So then, let's approach this nice little hierarchy shall we? Starting with the everyday staples on the bottom.
Having dragged my mother along (my Italian one, not my Thai one), and being as good a son as I could be, I let her have her choice of whatever and report to me how it felt (in her mouth). She's fed me these past 24 years, I could at least do the same. We were both dazzled by the fact that the puff pastry had some kind of ganache filling in its centre. But that was about as dazzling as it got. For that anyway. My mom reported that the pastry itself was rather doughy, and that the ganache tasted like any other chocolate. I likened it to Nutella; that delicious hazelnut spread, absent from many of my young Italian childhood mornings. Alas, Sho ga nakatta. The croissants, like I said, didn't fall far from the puff pastry tree. But they didn't taste bad. They were good. But for two dollars a piece, they should have tasted better. What's more, a good observation on my mother's part, was that some of what came out of the oven looked a little too dark. We were lucky enough to have been given the golden ones in our paper bag. My mom made another good observation that could only be realized by someone who's lived and worked so long around food herself: that someone so young would be a little overwhelmed by the amount of business they do. So, some quality might be sacrificed. Especially in a city where a place like this hasn't existed before and everyone loves being - that's right, "decadent." I did like the cinnamon stick, sweet, flaky, yet held together by some immaculate, firm, moist, spongy dough. And as for the pastries I bought: one being near 3.00 dollars, the other near 5.00. Let me tell you. One was an eclair, like, a geniune, real french eclair; and I haven't had a good eclair in 5 solid years - actually, I haven't actually had a good eclair because I never tried one until now. This was no doughy, soft, chewy eclair; but, slender, glazed, with bite, and enough firm character to stand on its own. It was a sweet punch to my face. It made me want to shadow box. And what can I say about my near 5.00 coconut tart? Delicious. Not a tart at all, really. A delicate and mild custard enclosed by a strong crust that I can only liken to a shortbread, but with more body. I haven't eaten anything like it. And to top it off, a typical whipped cream, flavoured and topped with coconut. At least I know where the quality is going, which would make sense. Why any patissier would want to lose face is beyond me. I mean, croissants, puff pastries, baguettes: small potatoes, like a bowl of steamed rice, or decently cooked pasta. They're just everyday staples of culinary execution; the real test comes in the wok, the sauce, the dessert. Why else does ganache and panache sound so similar? Cyrano was French after all.
So, heed the warnings from this ghost of Valentine Present: sure, you COULD go to the grocery store and pay .25 cents per croissant, 1.25 per baguette, but where's the risk? Where's the excitement? Most of all, where's the adventure? What fun is food if you can't look, and work for it? So I say, bag a rich husband if you can, all for the sake of sweet Sablétine. Adieu, Adieu.

Sablétine Fine Pastries

203 King Street S.,
Waterloo, Ontario 
519.568.7373
http://www.sabletine.com/

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Sexy Girl: That's so weird, that you're like, a chef. But you know, it's cool. It's hot. I can't cook. Do you like to cook a lot - like, even when you're at home?

Me: Usually.

Sexy Girl: Omigawd! Really? Why? Like, I'd be tired. Why d'you like to cook so much?

Me: Because I like food so much.

Sexy Girl: Yeah, but why d'you like food SO much?

Me: Y'know why I like food so much? An accountant could walk down the street and bump into another person who isn't an accountant, and say: "yo, stocks are down, fiscal policy is at a standstill." But he wouldn't. He might think about it. About as much as he might think about making a quilt out of all his money. But let's face it, he'd probably just pass a person in line, or meet a person somewhere for the first time and mention that he's an accountant- but he'd never continue talking about it- it's boring.

Sexy Girl: My boyfriend wants to be an accountant.

Me: I know if I were an accountant, and I striked any conversation I probably wouldn't ask what line of insurance a person would go with. I might ask what they do for a living, and what their line of credit's like; but they'd probably change the subject pretty damn quickly. And that's just it. We'd talk about interests and keep trying back and forth until we find something we can both connect with and talk more about. Movies, travel, food. Food. Food almost always comes up in any conversation, maybe because almost everyone is almost perpetually hungry because we love starving ourselves to look good. My boss once told me to ease up on the salad at lunch because sexy people don't eat a lot, and that they don't need it. She's right, we still end up throwing a lot of it away, and we don't give much to begin with. But, when you meet a friend for the first time, you almost always talk about food, because you almost always spend more than an hour together and get hungry. And there it is, the connection. With one of life's most trivial and necessary things. Eating. Unless, of course, you're someone who's totally self deprecating and, for whatever guilty reason, can't eat food, no longer want to eat food, and therefore can't talk about food (like you).

Sexy Girl: What?

Me: Huh?

. . .

Me: You know why I like food? Because an old Thai woman couldn't speak a lick of English, but the second I see her cooking something interesting and have the balls to go up and watch her make it, asking what it is, not caring about whether or not she can understand- and the second she sees me interested in something she's cooking, she'd smile and grab me by the arm to make sure I could get a closer look, pointing, saying something about a root I've never seen and saying "furniture made", or "make furniture." Why? Because it's something she does. It's something everyone does. Because it's something that makes her, not only interesting in someone's eyes, but able to communicate. I may come from middle class suburbia, she may come from -shit, Thailand, I dunno- but the second food - food I, for example, have never seen before- comes on the scene, something magical happens. We're able to talk to each other. I mean, what's a language barrier? Nothing. She's ecstatic, I'm ecstatic. Someone likes something she likes, or at least someone finds something she likes fascinating, either because it's delicious, or cultured or totally Lacanian- I'm not here to talk semantics. What I'm getting at is, it's almost always a bridge for some kind of connection. You can almost always ask someone what they like to eat, and they'll either tell you, and if they can't, show you, and have you try it so they can, for whatever reason, feel validated, or exotic, or refined, or some sense of satisfaction, realizing, they're not as lame as everyone thinks them to be, if everyone even thinks them to be.
But me? I like food because I can be in a grocery store trying to figure out which Vietnamese coffee would be the better choice- the one with the sunset on the can, or the other with the old Chinese sage holding a peach- and some Chinese woman who just happens to be in the isle would have the balls to ask me, in her broken English, if I want coffee. I obviously do. But what she's really asking is: "You like coffee like my husband likes coffee? Can we someday play mahjong together?" And when I respond, "Yes, but I'm trying to figure out what brand to try this time" I'm really responding, "Man, that would be so great." And when she says back, "My husband likes to buy these two and mix them together, and he likes them really sweet, I can't drink it. It's too sweet. I like tea," she's really saying: "Is Sunday good for you?" We could never talk about engineering. What are the odds she and I are engineers? Or fine artists? Or the same age for that matter. But everybody eats. That's for certain. And that's it; an instant connection. Tai chi may be strange to someone foreign, so might quinceaneras. But what about the food at one of them? Now there's something to talk about.

Food brings everyone together. Look at every occasion. When business men meet for lunch and talk about the Dobson report, food’s always there, listening. Why not just have a meeting? Because the crux is: people like to eat, and the meeting itself is really just an excuse.

Food brings cultures together. Lookit the British: they practically stole everyone else’s food. Of all the things they could take from India, Southern China, Italy even, they took the food, and brought it back or made it their own somehow Postcolonialized version. Forget that minorities live there. Their food sucked before hand. It was all just meat. Sure, pending circumstances may suggest the situation was bad, and I may be talking out of my ass entirely, but I wouldn’t trade an egg tart for anything in the world right now.
. . .

Sexy Girl: Are you gay?

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U-doi?

*CLOSED*

I knew I'd say it again: stylish appearance should never be a substitute for good quality food. So when I'm gullible enough to run into a place that's new and has a flashy interior I'm almost always disappointed in myself. Not the place though, it's just a product of the times. Instant gratification, quick fixes, fast food (though fast food is delicious). Okay okay okay. You can have crappy food, but don't try to cover it up with fancy presentation and even fancier walls, cool ceilings and good looking wait staff. Unless of course you know you're serving people who don't really mind sub par-food. I for one don't mind sub-par food if the price is right, and the wait staff is good looking. Hey, I'm just a product of the times.
I've literally waited 4 months for this place to open; since September, when I first saw its sign and the little stereotyped Japanese character on it, who did look dangerously familiar. And, being a fan of the show with the similar name (though both are definitely unrelated; and if the cooks from this place were contestants they'd lose hands down for lack of creativity/ originality/ not having Masaharu Morimoto on their team) Iron Chef Restaurant seemed promising and something refreshingly new. I use the word "fresh" because if you haven't already guessed, Iron Chef is a "Japanese" restaurant, and things like sushi construct much of their food identity from being fresh. Okay, I'm lying. It's not all Japanese. In fact, and this should have been a red flag for me, Iron Chef is actually a fusion restaurant: A Korean/Japanese fusion restaurant. Yeah, I know what you're saying (like you always do): it's the same thing. Maybe, maybe not. I'm opting for maybe not. Don't get me wrong, I absolutely love Korean food, and I like Japanese love hotels; but lady, fusion cooking never seems to live up to its name in these here parts simply because fusion implies fusing, not putting two cultures' foods on the same menu. Not so you have pork bone soup and sushi to choose from, but that you have something like pork bone sushi, which the menu did not! More importantly, it just seemed like it was all Japanese. The only thing that may have hinted at fusion was using a Korean pot to eat Udon soup out of. Yeah, they didn't think I'd catch on, but I did. I always do. And as far as I'm concerned, there's only one type of fusion that works: that's good old Hong Kong cooking, baby. You want good fusion cooking? I'll take you somewhere sometime. Because quite frankly, the idea of a huge steak on a plate of stir-fried noodles is just sheer genius. Sometimes I can't believe China's official language is Mandarin and not Cantonese. But let's get this ball rolling shall we? 我们去.

Now, because I'm such an excellent sleuth, I finally managed to put two and two together: Iron Chef is the by product of a little food hole stationed in a university's student life centre. What university? Not important. Point is, this place, called Wasabi, is a fast food sushi establishment, or was, (I don't know if it's still there) that used the same stereotyped Japanese chef icon. At first I thought, strange coincidence. Then I saw the place's real sushi "chef" preparing my food, and well, things clicked. Movin' on up. George would be proud. So, now we know its history.


I'll be completely honest. I was wowed when I came in, because with it's draped curtains and yakitori-esque bar, red walls, and sexy Japanese Happi worn by the staff, I was awestruck- brainwashed if you will. Kitchener-Waterloo doesn't have a Japanese eatery this visually stimulating, which makes me wonder why its looks are so Japanese influenced, but apparently fused with Korean undertones. How do I know? Well, the Korean on the sign's corner tended to give the notion away, or imply that "fusion" stood for a Japanese restaurant owned by Koreans. Stranger things have happened. Regardless, I was still dazzled by the place's looks. With that said, my respect goes out to the owners exemplary taste and creativity; it's almost as if they knew their food would taste like everyone else's and that they had to make up for it. Too bad I won't go back. I may peer inside the window from time to time, just to appreciate its aesthetics and dream of being a samurai, or ask one of the waitresses out.

Things seemed off to a good start: my friend and I sat down, we were given the typical genma cha tea in fancy cups, we looked at the nice velour trimmed menu, we got generic items that you can find anywhere else. I ordered the most original thing I could lazily find: pickled pumpkin wrapped in rice. Lame? Maybe, but I never had it before. And I hoped, absolutely hoped, that this place would, in the least, have a solid bowl of Udon that I could attempt to mimick and cook for myself. Which it did. (Thank Kami-Sama) Which the waitress informed me, was a soup base, not rice dish, like the other "don" dishes. U-doi? Soo ka.

I was excited. Aside from those two items there was the odd spicy tuna role. And appetizers: a house salad with miso soup. オリジナル. The salad's dressing was a good start, my only regret was that there wasn't more. I'm almost positive a girl wouldn't feel good about eating the sweet mayonaise drenched salad, but I couldn't blame her. Not all of us have a 11,000 kick a day kung-fu regime. Still, why not make an exception. It was good.

After a nice pace, our orders came, my pickled pumpkin roll and my friend's spicy tuna roll arrived. We ate them. That's really all there is to say. Nothing new. Unless you count the fact that my pumpkin roll tasted an awful lot like chewy fish instead of sweet pickled pumpkin. Sirrah. Konna kurashi yo. I still had the udon, and at the rate things were going I was willing to bet it would taste mediocre, but satisfying. And it did. Did it ever. It's broth had a sweet acidic taste, which hinted at the use of maybe more mirin and sugar than some may wish to apply, but I wasn't disappointed; I expected it to have that umami seaweed, fishy flavour (but it didn't). I think after that pumpkin, it was appreciated. I considered the balance a nice little favour, but who could say that always happens. The udon was plated with some tempura, random vegetables in the broth and good, chewy noodles- but not too chewy. I don't know how people do it, I can't cook udon to save my life. Not yet, anyway. Like I predicted, it would satisfy, though it wasn't anything special. I could have used a spoon, but I felt it rude to ask the cute waitress who was talking to her even cuter friends. Oh, and we would have liked more tea too; but apparently it's bad politics to come during someone's meal and ask if they want a refill. Oh no, that sort of thing is reserved for the end, when we're ready to leave. Did I mention the service? It's new. Maybe they're off to a bumpy start. I don't think I'll ever really find out.


The prices are average: the rolls ranged from 3.99 - 5.50 and my udon cost a cool 10 dollars. for a 15 dollar meal, I can honestly say I wanted to expect more; so much more that I came home an hour later and ate. But if there is one redeeming quality to Iron Chef it certainly would be its atmosphere. And if anything warranted a return, it would have to be the cute waitress that served us, that is of course, unless her friends drop by again. With that said dear reader, I bid you good eating.


Iron Chef Japanese Fusion Restaurant117 University Plaza
Waterloo, Ontario, Canada


Wasabi Sushi BarUniversity of Waterloo, Student Life Centre
200 University Avenue West
Waterloo, Ontario, Canada N2L 3G1
519-888-4567 x35925

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