OH-MAI-GODT! Real Egg Tarts!

Deleuze wrote that we can always trust in the universe. Now, to everyday folk that seems pretty darnd optimistic. To the trained academic however, it means that Deleuze meant that the universe is random and we can always trust that the universe is random and that the universe will always send random stuff our way, good or bad, or grey, or gray. And we can take comfort in that.
Let me demonstrate. About three days ago my mother told me that my grandmother told her that the bakery absolutely right behind our house had been bought out by new owners. These new owners were mainland Chinese. I was mainland ecstatic! Thank you, Universe.

The next day I made it my business to drive all the way to the big city of Toronto, have a job interview, and barrel my way down the 401 back home in order to check out the bakery I had, for the longest time, bought fresh yeast from. So, tanked, run down, and looking like the whitest salaryman in the great white North, I entered the German bakery owned by mainland Chinese. Nothing. Pastries, cookies, bread. All the same. Thank you, Universe.
I went home, I called my mom at work, I told her grandmammy was lying, my kokoro yureru’d and I booked it to Chinese class, not sharing my lament with my Chinese teacher, but talking about how I neglect school work for cooking and I’m sorry my Chinese homework wasn’t done.
The next day, I read some Bennet, hate some museums, read some Gramsci, hate Gramsci, write about gung fu and dream about a Chinese bakery in the lowly town of Kitchener-Waterloo. Just one. That I might someday be lucky enough to work at. I’m not greedy. A boy can dream. Thanks, universe.
The next day (that would be today). I go to the bakery to get an almond cookie for my grandmother because after getting the skinny from her about the new owners she makes it her business to tell me there was a cookie there she wanted to try. But I digress. My grandmother had told me that upon buying breadcrumbs she was introduced to the new owners by haggling for said breadcrumbs; and that she had found out that they had owned the bakery for about four months and lived in Germany beforehand for 8 years. And that they hardly spoke English. This coming from a woman who’s lived in Canada for 50 years and hardly speaks English. Again, I digress. So, I go, speak to the woman that has always worked there, and who I’m quite familiar with, and ask about the new owners. She says, yes, they’re new, not from Germany, lived in Canada for about 15 years, had other food ops running, settled for a quaint little bakery. Good choice, I reckon. I grill her some more and coyly ask if she thinks they’d ever make any Chinese pastries. She points me in the direction of a glass cake display case. How I missed it the first time? What can I say? Under thick glass Chinese red bean buns look like danishes. Not to mention other peculiarities: sesame balls, deep fried donut (of the Chinese variety). I die a little. The good dying. The petit death dying. Not a lot of pastries, but still, too good to be true. No Queen’s Patisserie here. No chains. No chain.
NO CHAINS! Legitimate, homemade Chinese pastries! I express my elation at the woman at the register, and my subsequent lament at no egg tarts. Because, I explain to the woman, it’d be pretty fly if they made egg tarts. As much as I liked shipped, premade egg tarts from T&T. Because, hey, in this town, that’s all there is. So, I pay a miserly 2.75 for everything (i.e., everything there is cheap and that’s a great thing), and go on my way. But, not before the lady at the register says, “hey there, youngen, hold on, you still wanna ask about those eggy tarties? I’ll go get the owner~” –but not like that- lady gets the owner’s son and has him come out to speak with me about eggy tarties. He says, can I help you, I say, would you ever consider making egg tarts, he says, let me ask my mama. Mama comes out says how much you want, I say, don’t mess with me, man. She says you want a dozen? When do you want them (no rush, not imperative, I say) Come back this afternoon. Better yet, give me your number, I’ll call you when they’re ready. They must, of course, be eaten fresh.
Quite frankly, I still don’t think it happened. But those egg tarts on my counter can’t be a dream. THANK YOU, UNIVERSE!!!




So, I go to school, bide my time, photocopy readings I’ve neglected to read even until this moment, and lament. But why you ask, dear reader? Because the entire situation is so very beautiful and I, alas, am in school, unable to beg for a job at the Chinese bakery, and under threat of deterritorialization by my mother who has been looking to move. What’s more- these new owners have been around since September. That’s a whole lotta egg tarts not even created. Again. My heart. It wavers. Thank you, universe . . .


I suppose I should be grateful. My friend, in retrospect, tells me I should be grateful. It’s a little gift, given to me while I still have the chance. Still, it all would’ve been nice . . .

But hey now, I haven’t even told you how they taste- real, genuine egg tarts. Real, genuine egg tarts right behind my house. As Puchi Bruce says: OH-MAI-GODT! 決まっているんだろう。

So, after an unproductive afternoon, I arrive home, consider having a sit-down with Jennifer Love Hewitt and figuring out why she makes the acting choices she does in episodes of the Ghost Whisperer, and diligently wait for that one phone call. And call it did. 6 o’clock I was out the door, meeting the Bakery’s son in the alley, saying my helloes, going around front, entering, and talking to mama about her life as a baker all while I politely wait for the egg tarts and she politely stuffs my face with fried sesame balls and donuts. Sound sexy? It was.

So, while I ask her everything I know about Chinese pastries and she stuffs my face with Chinese pastries, I’m told that the family comes from a place 9 hours North of Beijing (sounds like “su sun,” probably isn’t “Su Sun”), and I tell her she has a monopoly on her hands (I hope she understands the word “monopoly”). That something this wonderful could have ever happened to me? Good God. This was long overdue. Not that I necessarily deserved it. But, OH-MAI-GODT! It sure was wonderful. Happy Chinese New Year to me.

So, the evening draws to a close, I promise mama to tell everyone I know about the only place in Kitchener-Waterloo that makes genuine egg tarts (or any genuine Chinese pastry)- and for a cool 7.20 get a solid dozen.

Come, comrades.

Dear readers, I don’t think you understand the severity of this circumstance. This is the ONLY place in town to offer egg tarts and pastries made not from a package or chain, but from real experienced hands. I can watch them at 3 am, from my window while they leave the alley doors open and work in their kitchen, covered in dough, covered in clouds of flour, covered in 功夫. Nothing has existed in this town. I have spent my life as a young cook eeking out places that sell egg tarts. And there was none. Until now. They’re here. They exist. In my town. In my own back yard! In the bakery my own grandfather once owned! My bakery! It’s just- I can’t – I don’t even know . . . I never thought there would come a moment when words wouldn’t be able to explain my absolute joy! If there is anything I can say it’s to come and get them! Throw away those tarts and coconut brioche-esque breads in light plastic packagings. They’re good, but they’re not GOOD! Sure, they’re real. I mean, you can hold them in your hands. But, they’re not REAL! All I have left to say is that I ate pastry today and I was part of a movement. I ate pastry today and now, I am part of a movement!
謝謝, 面包家. Thank you a million times. I’ ve a reason to wake up again. Thank you, Universe.
Bread and Bretzel
255 Toll Gate Blvd
Waterloo ON, 
N2L 4M3 
519-746-6511



p.s., fresh goods can be obtained Thursday nights and Friday mornings, before they frequent the St. Jacob’s farmer’s market, the Kitchener market and the Stratford farmer’s market on the weekends. And of course, if you ask nicely, maybe with a little luck you can, like me, have your egg tarts made fresh for you.

Tweet

Sushi Nara

Straight and to the point dear readers, I've alot of papers to mark. But it's a bit of serendipity when I come across a place that exceeds my own snobby expectations, specifically a sushi joint that labels itself Korean/Japanese- usually that's a red flag right there; but not for Sushi Nara: a hole in an afterbirth of a stripmall in a plaza with nothing but old videostores and pet shops. But don't let that fool you; because its low tables, green padded and steel legged chairs, Hokusai-en knock off fabrics stapled to canvases and Korean speaking owners may denote lack of taste, but its food connotes so much more. Honestly. Today after the banterings of a fatheaded grad-student telling me how she'd never eat fish anywhere in this town because it wasn't fresh, I was almost ready to believe her. But the romantic, My Sassy Girl, black bean noodle loving voice in my head said to give it a shot. And it was the best I took in a long while. The menu was extensive, the sushi pricey, not expensive, pricey, and main dishes, pleasing to both tastes for real, genuine Korean and my own frugal wallet (not me, no way- I love spending money. My wallet says no, but my stomach says yes).


So, after an unconventional starter of salad with glass noodle and iceberg lettuce, and the proverbial miso soup, I was shocked by my small, yet savoury appetizer of 7.95 sushi pizza. Something I never ventured to try because of my purest roots. I was, however, in good company. And in the end, my 6.95 bowl of Jja Jang Myun noodles, as well as multiple condiments (kimchi, pickled radish, jelly among others) more than made up for it. Yes, I was part of a movement. The condiments were such a refreshing change from the other small portions I received from other places in town, not to mention creative. If it's a side dish I've never come across, you better believe the place is worth trying. Either I've been living under a rock, or this place is on to something. What else is there to say? This place exudes humility. Tables for Korean barbecue in the centre (pits and all), intimate booths surrounding the parameter (with seats that aren't bolted down and a little too far from the thin tables), and the usual soju advertisement with ambiguous Japanese race queen to appease my own post-colonial desires. The space was cool, lit with (what I consider) beautiful florescent lighting, and trimmed with the strangest charred wood along its walls. I'm sure it implies barbecue somehow. Regardless, it played well to the character of the urban Asian kitchen of the everyman. Wong Kar Wai would approve. Even the saki was cheap, sweet, and a small enough for two. It was probably heated in a microwave- but I didn't care, not with a flavour like that. Good Lord. Sushi Nara. Good food, good space, good service (even though they refused to serve me their cold beet soup in the winter). I'll be going back again. Just try and stop me.



Sushi Nara
347 Erb St. W-Unit
Waterloo, ON,
N2L 1W4

Tweet

Food Pornographers

I expected a good review from Northern Thai: word of mouth, a scant helping of bad reviews (i.e., a slew of good ones). It’s been around the block, and I heard it closed down years ago, so I had nothing but warm, fuzzy feelings when I heard it never did. I expected a good day; and by my own witty banter with friends and constant ogling of cute girls at the table across from mine, it more or less was. Maybe, just maybe, I’m nitpicking; but what would one expect from a critical food theorist? There is always room for improvement. Food is art after all. Art, skill, finesse; and if one has a good head on their shoulders, with enough passion and personal criticism they can make a hell of a dish, and only try harder every other time. So why talk like this? Patience, young masters; patience. That too, in time.

We had arrived around 11:30 in the morning, a good source telling us that that’s when the place opened. The sign said so, too; conveniently, the door was locked. My fears were only confirmed, Northern Thai was closed for good. Its being open was nothing more than some delicious urban legend. Or so I thought.

I’d been forced to read a good number of Sherlock Holmes in my day, so I figured I could, in the least, apply what I’ve learned from Holmes-boy’s redundant, coke-addicted meanderings (see what I did there?). I thought: I work at a Thai place, Northern Thai is a Thai place. Our sign says 11:30, sometimes we open at 12; Northern Thai’s sign says 11:30, it’s 12 but not opened yet. Maybe, just maybe, my friends and I could go to a bookstore, read dirty, smutty sex books and come back in a cool half-hour.

Cool it was, and I mean that with no positive appropriation. The place was cold. And the traipsing teenager that sat us was a treat too. I love a good proletarian malaise. I won’t bother to tell you about our trip back when the open sign was nice and lit, and the front door nice and locked . . . and our nice teenage waiter, not hurrying on the inside, but slowing trudging through the dining room, to the kitchen, to the dining room and back to the kitchen again; I’m positive he saw us through the window. Our eyes met. It wasn’t love, but it could have been. That’s how serious I am when I say he saw us waiting outside in the cold.

Yes, yes. We were eventually let in and apologized to for the wait. All was forgiven. Hey, it’s tough being a teenager who’s never done a lick of real work in their real life. But enough about the service, I made sure the poor kid worked hard for his money when I sent him back after three times of menu indecision.

	Feeling pithy, peering over plastic plants.

The space felt alright. Not contemporary; plastic trees, beaded tapestries, old pictures- all played to the portrait of what an exotic Thailand would look like for those who’ve never been there. Usual. It did have the feeling of being a little outdated though for whatever reason. Unfortunately, the equation isn’t as simple as warm colours and gold in a dining room to make it a successful Thai themed dining space. Maybe it’s because it was cold.
If there was something that caught my eye it was the plating. Oblong shapes painted with a beautiful indigo blue. Not all tableware was like this however. It was more or less sporadic, sadly. Good kitchenware could have contributed a great deal to the physical food itself, not to say it wasn’t good. It was.

I ordered a soya noodle beef dish, which ran me nothing more than ten dollars. It consisted of the basics, and the odd ingredient I never expected in any Asian dish, like cauliflower. The flavour was reminiscent of a frequent sweet soy sauce based Chinese dish; something found almost anywhere, which is good if you’re adverse to unique flavours. The dish wasn’t bad as a result, though it certainly was safe, and I’m never sure that’s a good decision for dining out. It should be, in my own opinion, an adventure- apply whatever connotation you feel fit. Sometimes I like to wear pithy hats and pretend I’m some British colonizer forcing my Whiteness on those around me, peering through plastic dining room trees, searching for the exotic, searching for brutes, all from the comfort of my own homeland, of course. Because if I don’t- if you don’t- you’re only going to be tricked by whatever culturally specific dining room convinces you that where you are is how it is back where the restaurant “comes from.” Sadly, you’re never REALLY getting a unique dining experience even when you’re a tourist. If I could name the flavours of the dish I would guess at star anise, black soy sauce, sugar and oyster sauce; but, I’ll never really know. For ten dollars however, I won’t continue to complain. The portioning was alright, and it managed to fill me up a little. The rest I owe to the free tea (a saving grace for any Asian eatery) and dessert. But mostly to the tea.

Spicy tofu.

For dessert I ordered a nostalgic mango with sticky rice, expecting it to, like the photo on the menu, come with a nice cup of (preferably) warm coconut milk. Unfortunately, I was misinformed. What I got was a sparse plate, complete with half a mango, cubed awkwardly, not quite ripe, giving it a sweet, light citrus flavour I personally enjoyed, (my company told me it was something they didn’t really enjoy, the mango tasting unripe, and my liking it probably being a result of working in a Thai kitchen for so long) and a scant cup of sticky rice smothered in honey and sprinkled with sesame seeds. All for a lousy 4.95. Creative. Or so far removed and having nothing to do with the real pleasures of eating than pornography does sex. Yes, it was a poor, performative attempt at food pornography. Dressed up to be something it wasn’t. I would have preferred bigger portions. Forget what it looks like in a mom and pop’s shop. The attempts of big restaurants to dress food up works because it’s about three things: rare ingredients, looks, and whatever status it affords the person eating it.

Mango with sticky rice (and honey)- ghetto fab.

Northern Thai should be food for the every man. It should never be divorced from its nutritive state and taste qualities. If anything, the visual should be second, because when that restaurant snobbery permeates beyond trendy restaurants and trickles down to the mom and pop’s shops and there comes a cheap attempt by plating to make the food seem like something it’s not, it loses its humility and quality for the eater who is, more or less, an every man. I’m blue collar, didn’t my request for free tea tip you off? That attempt at food sophistication is no better than a snuff film. It kills it; there is nothing more there than the democratization of food. Sticky rice has quality, but it isn’t sophisticated, and when you try to make it so, you just make foodies like me kinda angry. I mean, rice and honey? C’mon. That’s for children in the ghetto. Don’t believe me? Two words: Alicia Keys. When I pay 4.95 for one cup of shitty rice, the least you can do is give me some damn coconut milk on the side like the picture said. I didn’t ask to enter a realm where people divorce food from its qualities and surface appearance becomes all-important.* Maybe I’m too well fed and took it on myself to know too much about food. Aw, ignorance is bliss, especially when it can be used to seduce. At least places like this can still work for the guy trying to impress that girl who is totally and utterly clueless (RIP Brittany). But now I’m being way too harsh. There were other menu options, and the menu was rather diverse, albeit similar in selection to other places. Hey, whatever sells, baby.

For the some odd 15 dollars I payed for a meal, it wasn’t half bad; and why does Northern Thai have so much good feedback? Because it plays to familiar, popular consumer tastes. It’s safe, and thus, it succeeds. It’s average at best, but better than bad. And that might lead it to redemption.


Northern Thai
95 Queen Street South,
Kitchener,ON N2G 1W1
(519) 745-4451

Tweet