Some Dives Just Aren't Cool

*CLOSED (Thank Buddha)- but potentially re-opened down bridgeport E., Waterloo)
Now this place was a dive. Pink, pastel paint, checkered tiles, wallpaper from decades ago curling off walls, tables with limbs like chess pieces, over-produced novelty photographs of exotic animals hung in gold frames (of which my company contended reminded him of his parents’ basement), water stained ceilings, menus made out of construction paper, some options crossed out when whatever cooks decided they just didn’t feel like cooking them anymore. How on earth do I ever end up in these places? This is what I’m asking myself in retrospect.

So, what’s a dive, dear readers? I throw the term around a lot, and I know I owe a solid explanation, because I eat at a lot of places and a lot of them don’t care much for atmosphere which in an ironic twist of fate creates a kind of fun atmosphere, assuming you like to pretend you’re in a movie and are planning to maybe knock off a bank or leave a horse head in someone’s bed. Anyway, to me, and for the sake of all future reviews punched out by my fingers, a dive is a restaurant with a poor, neglected appearance simply because the particular proprietors, I firmly believe, depend on the quality of their food to carry the reputation of the restaurant, not the way it looks. In the popular discourse of our restaurants the omerta is as such: good looking place means good eating experience; therein lies the paradox, my eating compatriots, because some people in attempt to rearticulate that old code of honour seek out dives believing that they are as legitimate if not more than those places hiding behind fancy appearances. A poor appeal to a perceived nostalgic past, I reckon. There are tons of cultural anthropological, gastronomical reasons for why else they are the way they are but I’ll leave it at that.

All You Can Eat Hot Pot has been around for about a year’s time, albeit, a rather neglected one; at least, that was the impression I got when I entered the place. I asked for a takeout menu and was apologized to, the lone cook there offering up what single menu they did have, the same menu I asked for again when I returned to actually eat a week later but was refused. Instead I was directed to the paint chipped wall and the menus taped against it; it was there that my company and I, a fellow cook and comrade in culinary arms, chose from an array of casseroles, noodles, and appetizers. And, of course, there was the all-you-can-eat hot pot, running from 14.99 and up, depending on what meat and soup broth you chose to have with it. Though a sucker for a deal, I convinced my party and I to try the inexpensive and seemingly appetizing options on the menu. From baked eel cakes to lamb on rice, it was a plethora of potentially pleasurable eating. Yes, my theory that dives always serve the most enjoyable food was bearing out yet again. It was me, my compadre, and the two lone cooks. No one else.

We chose what we were told was the most sold dish: braised spare ribs with noodles, and to that added appetizers of salt and peppered chicken, eel cakes, and the intriguingly named Taiwanese sausage. Good portioned items for a good price; though we ended up getting the appetizers after we received our noodle entrees. To that we added a strangely brewed and fruity red tea on the verge of slimy (a symptom of over-brewed and old tea) and a dirty jug of water. This place was a dive alright. I was getting excited. Though we had our noodles in front of us we patiently waited, at least, for the first appetizer: the salt and peppered chicken. Pieces of chicken coated in a light dusting of flour, salt and pepper, deep fried and slathered with a sweet sauce I couldn’t place, the dish lacked the adroitness of conscious cooking. That is, it seemed like the two kids who cooked our food didn’t know, nor care how good food could be. They needed mentorship I thought, they needed passion. The chicken was fried to a point of being dry.

When the eel cakes arrived my friend guessed it was ketchup used for sauce, perhaps a play on the dish of fish and chips? The eel, deep fried in a tempura cake had a crisp bite that at first was reminiscent of the rind flavor of a melon, immediately overpowered by the salty fishiness of the fresh eel. An interesting medley, and if there was any point to the ketchup it was to cut through the at times off-putting fishiness.

The Taiwanese sausage, at first glance having the appearance of thick strips of bacon, had a fatty tenderness accompanying any well prepared pork. My only qualm with the dish was the sauce- another flavor I couldn’t place accompanied by an unwelcomed fruitiness.

	Ugh. Udon.

Our noodle dishes were nothing special. The ribs’ dry outer appearance suggested that they were in fact brewed with a beef broth for a long, long time, which was well respected among my company and I, and the meat itself was rather tender. The noodles used were, surprisingly, udon, something I hate to see in a Chinese dish and feel cheated against whenever I get them, the commodity being a cheap substitute for good Chinese wheat noodles. As my colleague and I debated the certainty of the broth, whether it was made from scratch or a mere facsimile (I chose the latter, my friend chose the former, suggesting the cloudiness and the flecks of beef supported its authenticity), we both agreed that there was some flavor, aside from its typical beefiness, trying to get through, and that because it was an over-stewed, oversaturated concoction, whatever it was just couldn’t get through.

It was while gazing into the abyss of that broth when I noticed a small fleck of what I thought was spice, but much to my balk, alas, was a small insect. We had a conundrum on our hands. We sympathized for the small mistake and didn’t want to make the place feel bad about something that happens from time to time, debating the best way to handle the situation until finally my friend, in his experience as a cook expressed that he would like to know any mistake so as to know better next time; I agreed.

After getting the attention of the cook and telling him the situation, he asked if we wanted him to take it out. Another bowl would have been a better gesture, but I dismissed his own complacency by telling him that it was alright, and to just be mindful for next time because some customers may not be so understanding. I continued eating, buggy soup and all, keeping my readership in heart. But if the soup bug debacle wasn’t bad enough, when reaching for my second eel cake I couldn’t help but notice, in the light of the afternoon, the small white sheen that came off a hair baked into the cake. I picked it up and pulled it out, calling the cook back. I felt for this place because it seemed to me that it was slowly disappearing, though I couldn’t know for sure how busy it may be, especially as an all-you-can-eat hot pot place, but there was always the possibility that those cooking here just didn’t care.

To my vexation the cook was unfazed, and seemed inconvenienced for having had to come and defend his meal, assuring me that it wasn’t a hair but something from clothes. With no more than a tired apology and no attempt to offer a replacement or a free meal, I decided I couldn’t finish. The place clearly didn’t care. We wondered how much farther down this rabbit hole we could have possibly gone, especially if we chose the hot pot. We didn’t bother to find out. Two strikes were enough. With stomachs half full, and like civilized culinaires, we left with grace leaving no tip but still paying for our meals. It was 18 dollars I’d never see again, which is fitting for a place I’ll never go to again either. So much for dives.

All You Can Eat Hot Pot

Mon-Fri 2 -1030
Sat-Sun 12- 1030
255 King St. Waterloo

Cash only

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The Stuff You Wake Up Craving?

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

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

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

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

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

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

	See? Bizarre.

Big John's Submarines

(519) 578-7900

699 Belmont Ave W

Kitchener, ON

N2M 1P1

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

Sun: Closed

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A Passageway to India

Privileged to be in Kitchener-Waterloo means being privileged enough to experience some rare and not so rare, but very much appreciated things. What do I mean, dear readers? Oh, y’know: ramps, morels (both by this point posthumously out of season), Chinese food dives- all of which I spend copious amounts of time remembering. I like to reminisce about the things I’ve eaten in the past; sometimes for overindulgent amounts of time. Memories are the paradise of the mind, after all. So says Zhuangzi- or a fortune cookie I read. I’m willing to bet it was the later, and no doubt from a Chinese place I was eating at. But please don’t misunderstand, my comrades in chow. Though I enjoy the frequency of my ambles through university plazas and the melancholic ballads of Cantonese pop singers that crash out of the surrounding convenient stores late at night, I am nothing if not serious about finding a place that caters to my own voluptuous yearnings and good eating experience. So, when I say this is going to be yet another review of yet another place of Chinese chow, don’t be discouraged. There is nothing to be discouraged about, especially at Tasty Home Kitchen. A new place open nary 4 months.

Now, I’m not one to visit a place as soon as it opens, because it’s my firm belief that every place of eating needs to gain some footing. However, Tasty Home Kitchen’s symptomatic Oriental English translation and idiomatic Chinese characters, I assume understood only by those who really understand the colloquialisms of the language or dare ask about them, dared me not to try and resist discovering just how much of a stone cold dive the place potentially was. And of course, it was no such thing. On the contrary, Tasty Home Kitchen, a seemingly cramped and small restaurant on the outside, but long-stretched hall on the inside equipped with some very personal nodes for more intimate diners proved itself to be very conventional, very cosmopolitan, very twenty-something Taipei. Its earth toned walls, treated wood panels (and chairs), dimmed lights and crisp dinnerware had the potential, if I tried really hard, to make me believe I was eating in ‘Some Big City, China.’ The prices weren’t bad either. They competed well with other fare in the city- the lunch menu especially.

I did my best to order something uncommon in regards to other places around and since it would have to be a quick lunch, I thought I would give the Hakka chili chicken a try. I expected, as the takeout menu had read, to have the option of having fried rice or noodles, soup or a spring roll with my meal. Sadly, I wasn’t even asked, though still met cheerily by the women who served me my meal, which began with a small bowl of sweet and sour soup and a plastic glass of water. Tea should usually the common courtesy. But that didn’t dampen my spirits. The upbeat Mando-pop that trilled down from the ceiling kept me in a very familiar and accustomed mood.

The pungent aroma of sweet chili made its way to my nose but was teased away by the spiciness of the soup as soon as it hit my tongue. I would have otherwise been disappointed, but with such a small portion, and with the expectation of such a culturally rich dish to come (the Hakka dish being the invention of Chinese that settled in India for a brief moment in history) it was hard to pay such a banal starter any mind.

At last, a plate of battered chicken, and chopped onion stir-fried in a dark, salty sauce on top of rice made its way to my table. I was a little ahead of myself, thinking that I’d choose something else on the menu to potentially fill me up if eating what just arrived wasn’t enough. Stir-fried chicken bones seemed a potentially good compliment. But sometimes my eyes are larger than my stomach. The arid crunchiness of the deep fried chicken acted as the perfect vessel for the thick sauce; however, whatever sweetness I expected from the onions to offput the plate’s overbearing saltiness was a wash. Even the spice of the dish couldn’t overcome its salty character. But if anything, I was full, and that was something, though I’ve come to the conclusion that a communal eating experience may have been a better choice, rather than simply opting for one lunch dish. Something as salty as Hakka chili chicken needs some balance, and I got a little of that by asking a table nearby if I could sample some of their pork intestine and starch rice noodles (chopped rice cakes) in hot sauce. It resembled a spicy pickled anti-pesto, strong in fermented currents of vinegar. The pork intestine was fatty, but with a unique floral redolence that lingered in the mouth as I chewed.

Maybe lunch was a bad idea for my roving palette and what I needed was some company instead of asking strangers for food- though I’m sure they would have liked to become friends. For what it was, my salty spicy mess was filling, but I urge you to save your pennies, comrades, and go elbow to elbow down the long corridor of Tasty Home Kitchen and get a lot of good things to eat.

Tasty Home Kitchen

247 King Street N
Waterloo, ON N2J 4V2

(519) 885-8880

All methods of payment accepted.

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