Burgers for the Boy

I’ve been sick this past week, and soup did no good for this succulence seeking soul. I needed to carb up, Bro. It’s a risky thing eating next to nothing a near week and then having the gull- no, no, making the conscience choice- to seek out the kind of sustenance that could either put the bench presses back in my gym routine or make me another kind of sick. That said, I’m willing to bet the latter is more likely, mainly because I’ve never been to a gym in my life. There is, however, one kind of place I frequent more than I’d like to admit, which certainly can make any Baldwin or Betty meet their carbohydrate requirements.

You’d think the burger place would have me jaded by now. How many have I reviewed? How many have I complained about? Snaps. I complained briefly about burgers a few posts ago, but when carb cravings hit you, carb cravings hit you, and nothing satisfies more than deep fried, stuff your face, can’t breathe fixings. And, I admit it, there was still a place I had my meat eating eye on. Hey, I heard things; anyway, by now my hamburger restaurant reviews have been pretty underwhelming, so I figured what’s one more potentially sub-par review?

Frat Burger has been getting a questionable buzz. Maybe because it’s located across Wilfrid Laurier University and the fraternity mindset is a questionably easy marketing ploy in them there parts, but that’s all the cheap fraternity jokes I’ll attempt to make. For all we know, dear readers, Frat Burger could be the burger golden boy this town needs. The grindhouse guild all the best brothers want to be affiliated with (last frat allusion). Either way, I would be the judge of that.

Let me first set a cynical, anachronistic, and unimaginative stage, larger than expected, corrupted with time-honoured movie posters, a beer bar, chalk boards, neon signs, televisions on sport channels, stools, those old swollen plastic chairs that have sparkles in the fabric and steel legs. I could go on. Everything you could possibly imagine in a sports theme eatery Frat Burger does well to reproduce. Did I mention the wooden booths? Why? Perhaps to move customers in and out quickly? Although I can’t imagine Frat Burger thinking like a cramped Japanese Ramen shop. How about the industrial ceiling? Aw, yes. I could certainly go on. But you understand the platitude of the place even if you haven’t visited it. You’ve lived long enough, and watched enough television. Don’t fret. I didn’t say I didn’t like it. It has the ambiance it needs.

But what I love about Frat Burger is the food. The simple menu, the uncomplicated choices, the burgers and the fries and nothing else. Okay, some poutine too. And drinks. But nothing else. That’s it! The choice is easy! The portions worthwhile. I’m always a stickler for price. You all know I am. 4.99 for a plain burger may seem somewhat pricey. Extras like sauces and cheeses (one extra dollar) and bacon fixings (a comparable 1.25) can certainly add up. But when it does, it still isn’t that much. The most expensive item on the menu is a 6.99 Portobello mushroom cap burger with thin bun; the vegetarian burger, a quinoa, lentil bean base, 4.99 too. Of course, if you purchase fries with your ground sandwich there’s some lax. A huge serving can be a mere 7 dollars before tax. But the price alone isn’t what won me over, oh no.

Seated charily by the help, I was offered a beer to start, but declined, having expressed my marked discomfort of getting over a bad cold like a bad breakup. Whiskey was the next suggestion, and though I felt the waitress was a woman after my own, potentially alcoholic, heart at one in the afternoon, I expressed that water would have to suffice. Next, we talked burger. I yearned, for whatever reason, for the soy based savoury sensation of a vegetarian burger, but was stopped there to be told about the vegetarian option. No fakers at Frat Burger, unfortunately for me. Hey, sometimes processed can be damned good. So I settled for that dear ground round, smothered in guacamole and guyere cheese, accompanied with pickles, tomatoes, lettuce and, of course, fries. Low and behold, that was all I was gonna need.

Settled in front of me in a basket with brown wax paper was a palm sized burger in a soft white bun, and a whole lot of fries. It wasn’t too disconcerting. The more I thought someone was pulling the one over on me, the more I thought I could work with. I picked up the burger, and though the size intrigued me, I soon forgot about the burger being the size of my tiny hands, because I had already bitten in. The lettuce a little limp, the guacamole a little bland, and the guyere a little dry, I thought nothing of it all, the chucked paddy being a spectacle for any eater. Pure ground beef dripping clear with juices, not fat, and a flesh that was pink inside made me wonder just what was going on? The paddy was enough on its own, sharing the characteristics of a medium well steak, the meat needed no spice, no seasoning. It was firm, it was moist, it absolutely melted. Or maybe it was me.

I was always afraid to cook a burger like this, but I was glad someone had the cuts to keep that raw, yet paradoxically fresh flavor. Sure, I didn’t like the idea of kids in sweats cooking my food, but it was so good I didn’t care. Before I knew it, like some sirloin spirit, it was gone.

Nothing was left but a basket of fries cooked to a deep golden brown. My only qualm may have been the flaccid character that accompanied them. The element of crunch was a simple memory of all the fries of my yesteryear, but the bold starchy flavor was still there, smothered in salt, and all the collected flavours that came together in a clean deep fryer. But even after, I was still dreaming about my burger. It’s a huge claim to say that Frat Burger offers the best burger I’ve had in town, but even as I type this, I’m still willing to stand by it.

Frat Burger

519.954.FRAT (3728)

1a & 1b- 247 King St. N,

Waterloo, ON

N2J 4V2

Mon-Wed: 11:00 am- 1:00 am

Thu- Sat: 11:00 am- 3:00 am

Sun: 11:00 am- 1:00 am

Cash, or credit. No debit.

Tweet

The Yellow Menace

I couldn't resist a cheap Chinese meal- and I kept passing this place so I figured: whatever. The counter girl was cute. I hope she reads this. But I hope she stops there, because it's typical Chinese-Canadian fare. Unpopular, cheap, and loved by the old and White. Fr realz. That's all I saw coming into the place: old White women. Late teenage Cantonese boys cooking for old White women. Go if you want a cheap lunch, but don't support the continual Orientalization of China cuisine. The most interesting surprise? They dice the vegetables instead of slice them. A sure fire sign of catering to a White, barbaric, Western demographic that pierces with a fork and knife, not the tender touch of two tiny chopsticks. How unorthodox. Oh, and the Coup de grace? the cook- again, a late teenager mind you- who comes out of the kitchen to stomp down the garbage in the lobby with his cool converse shoes. Someone was more concerned with looking like Jason Derulo then showing a little culinary grace. Another day my heart breaks. I cried on the inside. There I was, a man who yearned to work even in the most pathetic of Chinese food joints all his young life. Even Star Wok. And there that kid was, stomping garbage and wishing he could be laying chicks in a rap video. I know. I heard him and the other cook belting out Cantonese love ballads around the corner of my booth. But no, people see my Whiteness, not my passion. They see his Yellowness, not his complacency. The theatre of culinary performance is still big business to the old people who keep shitty places like these in business. I can't blame them for living on food that was processed, and over-salted, and loving Star Wok's rice reminiscent of Uncle Ben's instant rice. Whatever. Let's not forget the mixing of pre-made sauces for a stir-fry, like chili sauce with peanut. Oh yeah. I went there. I'm taking it personally. But droppin' truth bombz like Reagan did drugs, I wouldn't be surprised if Star Wok stuck around but eventually plateaued in the realm of profit. That's right, this star won't fizzle out any time soon. Again, diced vegetables- seriously? Yeah, it's cheap but so what, last time I checked, even successful, tasty food restaurants buy cheap ingredients, but can still make good tasting meals. Proof that food is the ultimate commodity fetish. Value applied to the artisanship of the cook, who's creativity is enough not to make crap, and ballsy enough to make you think you should pay for it. No Barthesian shit here. There are no rare ingredients inaccessible in this town- hell, even in Chinese food. Let's stop catering to bad, unhealthy, dare I say, overweight palettes, shall we? Maybe we can introduce a better fare, and eliminate this dreaded food Orientalism.

Oh, and if there's one really important lesson I took away from this venture, its to not put a packaged egg roll in your bag, unless you want an oily memento. I'm talking about a stain. An oily mess. An apparition of Mao forever reminding me of what real Chinese food isn't. Happy eating.
Love,

Weezee

Star Wok94 Bridgeport Rd E
Waterloo, ON N2J 2J9
(519) 886-1688

Tweet

Like an Old Master

Pho ‘95 is a place that’s managed itself as an effigy in front of my eyes for a long time. A place that, to me, seemed like a kind of Byzantium, shrouded in legend, in urban mystique. An obscure, yet pervasive place that’s existed in the mythos of Kitchener-Waterloo for so long. And yet, for so long, I’ve kept myself out. There were never any real objections to the spot, everyone I spoke with who ate or didn’t eat there always told me that, “Yeah, the food’s pretty alright.” Was that why I never even bothered visiting it, having eaten at literally every other Vietnamese spot in town? Maybe there were more pressing places to go, places readers would value more. Maybe Pho ‘95 is too obvious, and maybe too much of my reputation as a gastronome is at stake. But I’ll be honest, my stomach is tired; tired of hamburgers, Chinese food, café fare, places too barefaced and unfamiliar to my old hungry heart. So I thought, as an homage to myself, and to my humble beginnings, I’d visit a place with the dish that ushered me into food appreciation. Anyway, it only seems fair that this column pay homage to Vietnamese cuisine at least once in its lifetime. And what better place than Pho ‘95? It’s like an old master. One of the oldest, rooted places in town.

Its size stupefying, its small exterior a humbling declaration of its banquet hall interior. It was uncanny. But casing the joint made me wonder, before Pho ‘95 was Pho ‘95, what could it have possibly been? Its yellowed stucco archways and faux stucco maroon wallpaper reminded me of the Mediterranean reception halls of my youth. Through time, it seemed to rearticulate itself into something more static and culturally performative: fish tanks, Buddha statues, shiny Japanese prints, and those oh so typical fake emerald cushioned chairs and tables that set themselves up in every other Vietnamese place around. It screamed Chinese restaurant, but served Viet food. There were even water coolers with signs pointing in things’ direction in case people were tired of the courtesy of tea. Yes, Pho ‘95 seemed a watering hole for all walks of life; where you could get together with hipster and salary-man alike, have a Styrofoam cup of distilled or spring and make trivial talk about Ray Bands, or the Smith reports.
I was impressed by the clientele that came and went. My eavesdropping even led me to discover that there were a lot of regulars, and valued ones at that, because the staff knew exactly what they wanted right when they came in. I was touched by the sincerity of the staff, the novelty of the space, the suits who came for lunch, the vibrant, yet calm atmosphere. I was more than ready to eat.Pho ‘95’s menu is able to bear even the tiniest of wallets, the most expensive dish being 13 dollars, and even an inexpensive bowl of small beef noodle soup, a meal all its own. That said, I sought that which encouraged me into food-dom, choosing to have the beef noodle soup with raw beef, flank, and cow’s stomach. Why go to a pho place and not get pho? I think I did the right thing.Accompanying that, I chose an appetizer of shredded pork skin rolls; a choice, I find in retrospect, for more tolerant palettes. And, as I am the critical gastronome that I am, I made it my responsibility to purchase that most notable of Vietnamese drinks: coffee with condensed milk.


Like a proper meal, my rolls came first. Stuffed with vermicelli noodles, resilient pieces of translucent pork skin, dull iceberg lettuce, and peanuts wrapped tightly in rice sheets, the starchy rolls were accompanied with a thick sauce of what seemed to be Hoisin and more peanuts. The thick sauce adhered well to the rolls; however, the dry elastic nature of each made eating tedious. The sauce did nothing to temper the nature of something so dry. At a time, I found myself taking them apart and placing them in my soup’s broth as if dumplings. I thought they needed some moisture. The sauce wasn’t bad; however, I felt that old, musty Hoisin huzzah could have been paired better with something a little less torrid.
When my soup arrived, I dove in. It had been a long time since I slurped on the dusty flavor of rice noodles in a salty beef broth. A little cloudier than memory served, probably the most intriguing quality of the broth was the grit of separated fat rowing through the bowl. Usually, one would expect fatty pearls in a nice clear broth, but not here; I took it as a sign that the broth, though not strained to an exorbitant degree, had at least been made from scratch. I hoped, anyway. The raw beef didn’t put up much of a fight, separating easily as I chewed. The flank sunk to the bottom of the bowl, tough as usual and lending spirit to the dish. The slices of cow stomach gave perfect balance to a trio of chewy, tough, and tender. Overall, it was well received.

My coffee completed my meal, arriving as lukewarm as I had expected. Something that percolates so long should be served with ice, so I couldn’t complain, because I requested it without.


It was familiar: creamy with a mouth puckering sweetness that fought off the deep tannic character that came with a long brew. Bracing myself for each sip, I made note of the minute eyes of oil reflected in the coffee’s surface- another symptom of a long extraction. I found myself tempering the coffee’s richness with alternating sips from the cheapest of luxuries: tea.By the end, I was rubbing the sugar crystals that settled as sediment in those last few swallows on the back of my teeth. I loved the stuff, and every minute I spent at Pho '95.
Pho ‘95
Tel: (519) 744-0199
331 West King St
Kitchener, ON N2G1B8

Every day 1030-10

Any method of payment

Tweet