Die Bread, Die

The Weltanschauung that codifies German Baked Specialties Ltd., or GBS for short, may be that it dabbles in the sales of German baked goods that are made, and therefore consist, of authentic German ingredients. That’s right, the new bakery located on the Uptown strip and no more than a month old has been abuzz with the most svelte of palettes (to sound as ignorantly German and sophisticated as I possibly can). What puts GBS in the current running as a potentially great bakery in a city with deep German roots and a lot of German culinary influence is the very dynamic that each loaf of bread, so I am told, is made and baked 60% in Deutschland and then shipped out here to the little town of Waterloo where the process is completed and customers get the privilege of having something of European quality put in their authenticity seeking mouths. Now, unless you think about what you put in your mouth, eating from GBS can seem like a kind of battle of culinary Imperialism. One can buy the food because of its quality and very well elevate themselves to that level of gastronomic sophistication, knowing where to get the best bread; or, one can refuse because it doesn’t support local eating- the carbon footprint is a big one. These are in fact two points I’ve discussed with those aware of GBS’s existence as of late, and as a gastronome I eat the drama up. Regardless, I’m not a hard sell when it comes to eating, and considering where the bread comes from, it certainly is affordable and I think worth a good try.

I considered coming late in the afternoon a good advantage, only to be caught in the eye of a storm of customers because GBS, unlike other bakeries around that I’ve been to, was still knee deep in dough. Surly bakers rushed in and out with treys of bread, while their more gentle counterparts attended to me as best they could. All-the-while, there I was, treading connoisseurship in a sea of housewives and flaneurs. The Bourgeoisie sentiment of the space was enough to remind you of your great Imperialist Aunt’s house. You know? The one with dendritic prints on her wallpaper, a gaudy glass chandelier, and a fireplace where your Uncle reads about, I dunno, Thatcherism? Yes, GBS certainly sets its long interior up as a narrow yet dazzling 3^rd space of the Bourgeoisie, as paradoxical as that may sound. I can only imagine what the spirits of our political ancestors would say. But don’t be so quick to judge, because though GBS offers a focused bill of fare (that being bread), it gives good reason to just stay in and enjoy. Coffee is one of them. I had to get the coffee, because during my second experience hearing about GBS I was made to promise to buy the coffee, the only coffee the place offers. One simple, focused, allegedly brewed right, cup.

Now, I may have learned kung fu from a grandmaster from the hills of Hunan province, how to eat from a kid from Hong Kong, and how to cook from an old Thai woman, but everything I learned about connoisseurship I learned from a woman who knows it better than I know myself. Who ate fish so fresh it was like fish candy, who picked wild berries as a child and ate them immediately with fresh cream, and who to this day keeps a lemon tree and red hen in her backyard. And as always, my old Bourdieusian master was right. It was one clean cup; no acrid, tannic acidity, but just tart and clean. The kind of stuff that makes the back of your throat roll over in submission. There was no need at all for any sugar or cream. My only qualm may have been that it is offered in one large cup; still, for a cheap price in retrospect. Aside from a good cup, GBS offers other great café-esque fare like doughnuts, light and chewy, and covered in chocolate fondant a little rich for my mouth. Closer to a soft cake rather than the gooey things we’re used to in the superfluous doughnut shops of our town. GBS has cheese cake, it has spreads for slices of bread, it even makes an array of sexy sandwiches running between 4 and 5 dollars. And mark my words, if I wasn’t drowning in a sea of Saturday afternoon socialites I’d have stayed for a slice, but I was satisfied asking for the helps’ favorite loaves.

A loaf at GBS will run you a good 5 dollars, give or take a little more. That said, they’re a good size, and asking for an even half is ample enough in my humble opinion. First, I was offered a dark organic rye. A loaf with a chalky exterior, it was the toughest of the group, but a potent rye nonetheless. Strong and full bodied with a smoky smell and even smokier aftertaste, it was the kind of savoury flavor you’d expect in German cuisine; a perfect partner to any pastrami.

Next, I was shown the polenta; a delicate corn bread with a muted flavor, but resilient shell dusted with cornmeal. Its interior was pliant and its flavor enhanced by a sprinkling of sunflower seeds throughout.

After that, I went after the rye sour dough. Hearty, but surprisingly not dense, it was another rich rye, this time with a charred back note. Any character from the sourdough was weak, but instead a mild sweetness permeated throughout.

Thanking the bakers and on my way to work a shift in underemployment, I was graciously met with a spelt loaf before I left, free of charge. That’s right, even gluten freevangelicals can enjoy what the GBS has to offer (kinda). GBS just may be the bakery that raises the bar for the elder bakeries still operating in this city, but lacking in a city where bread may have become too comfortable.

German Baked Specialties Ltd.

226-291-1147

94 King Street South

Waterloo, ON N2L 1P5

UPTOWN

Mon.- Sat.: 930-5

closed Sunday

Any payment

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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.

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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

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