Still Burgin'

You’re probably tired of reading about hamburgers, and with due reason. It seems this summer the things are all I write about, so I don’t blame you. But please, dear readers, bear with me one last time, and take comfort in knowing that my burgin’ has given me a wide perspective on the patties our dear city has to offer.

At the request of yet another mouth I was led to Jack Burger Pub, an alleged dive bar turned hamburger joint. I’ve known the red bricked house on the corner of Duke and Ontario Street my entire life, parking in the adjacent lot many-a-time, hearing the rabble from within, neon lights glowing without, never having the gull to enter on my own, or with a friend even. But those were different days. Days when Jack Burger was old One Eyed Jack’s, a bar most probably didn’t look twice at. So, why would I?

Well, as a staunch advocate of good, focused menus I was nothing but thrilled when a friend told me to check out Jack’s: a place with three menu options and nothing else. Now, it may not be the focused mastery we want with foodstuff that takes time and effort, like a perfect bowl of ramen, or good cup of coffee, but the dynamic is something I certainly appreciate and wish to support.

Straight and to the point, Jack’s allows its customers to choose from two kinds of patties, vegetarian or meat, or Jack’s 8” hot dog; from there, you have the option of making a myriad of combinations with toppings, some at extra charge, but who’s counting.  There’s also the choice of salads, and cool nostalgic novelties like milk shakes, what Jack’s menu explains as ‘real’ ice cream, and soft drinks in glass bottles. Now, if you know me by now, you know I’d rail against such appeals to a nostalgia most of us reading aren’t even old enough to have experienced; but I won’t in this rare instance, because glass bottled coke has an appetence different from what we drink out of a can or plastic bottle. Don’t believe me? Go to Jack’s and shell out the 3 dollars to try one. Gone is that overbearing carbonated saltiness the kid’s from Hong Kong go gaga over. Relish in the pungent caramel syrup that sweetens the liquor. Personally, I’m glad I threw my prejudice to the wind. This time.

Spoiling myself further I asked for a Jack burger with smoked bacon, blue cheese, and the usual burger fare. All that, and a side of poutine. Then, after a patient 10 minutes, laid in front of me was a fine grained sesame patty stacked with pickles, lettuce, chopped tomatoes (not conventionally sliced), bacon, and a blue cheese that liquefied as it smothered a pale looking patty, not seared like I’d expect. The first bite shocked me with the pickles’ fruitiness, the rich blue cheese mellowed any sweetness, and the chewy demeanor of burger and bun, balanced perfectly in proportion, made the chuck disappear in a matter of minutes, leaving a mess of mustard and ketchup in its wake. It wasn’t the best burger I’ve had, but it certainly was genial enough. The side of poutine was another story: fries smattered with grains of salt smothered in an even saltier gravy and curds that didn’t melt, even in 30 degree weather. Nothing out of the ordinary, and like so many other poutines this city has to offer. Alone, however, the earthy flavor of the fries was a delight. Otherwise, I’ve no qualms with Jack’s. And if you’re in the neighbourhood, and if you want a burger, there it is, patio, bar and all.


ANY PAYMENT
45 Duke St. West in Downtown Kitchener.

Hours: unknooowwwnnn.

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PHO SHIZZLE

My resolute fight for culinary relativity seems one of my more redeemable qualities. I’ve said in the past that it’s taste that matters, but even that is subjective to my own preferences- my memories, my Faye Wongs; and therefore, you needn’t ever take me too seriously on the grounds of good food. I am a humble eater. I try to give honest reviews. However, there is one sphere in which my orthodoxy remains vigilant, supposedly unchanging- uncompromisable. Except however, in rare, so far, yearly cases. 

I like to devote whatever patriotism I have in my body to where we eat and kung fu. That said, no heart can ever serve two masters, which is why I have a tendency to wane in the prior. My city has great spaces to eat. It can hold its own, and we owe that greatly not to the haute terrors that tyrannically rule our palettes, but the proletariat parboilers, poachers, and pastry bakers  who autodidactically serve novelty to our tongues. Sometimes, however, novelty can be so great, and so alluring beyond food that I can’t help but entertain it.

It was such novelty that brought me to a place in a city I’d never had the intention of eating and writing in. I’ve known this place to exist for a long long time, and it was always a fanciful ambition of mine, albeit rather flaky one, to eat there. But when  a place hashes out novelty restaurants and fine huneyz, who am I, with my limited time on this plain of existence, to refuse? Hey, the heart wants what the heart wants. If I haven’t said so already, I’ll say it now- an opportunity lost is one lost forever. 

Considering only its stellar, phonetically punning namesake, Pho Shizzle Viet Thai has nothing miraculous to offer its eaters. That said, I don’t blame it.
 

Located in Cambridge, Ontario, it holds as much of a monopoly as is possible in a place that is arguably the largest culinary wasteland in my region. In my city, Pho Shizzle might be in danger, but with little competition to encourage it, it has no need for any creativity beyond Viet Thai favourites. Is this bad? Not in the least. Some people dislike it very much. My company couldn’t trust a space with a live fish tank. She claimed there was something fishy about it. And although the tank is a lucky convention in some Asian restaurants, this dynamic is neither here nor there. 

I didn’t mind Pho Shizzle. I don’t mind Pho Shizzle. Maybe I was smitten. Maybe I was in the mood for something a little familiar. A little sexy.  But, if the Viet Thai menu is as big as it always is, any place can be novel. Good or bad is neither here nor there. The Pad Thai didn’t taste like any other Pad Thai I’ve had. But, good or bad is neither here nor there.
 

So, how did I make for an interesting trip, aside from choking on tea? Novelty drinks helped. An iced jackfruit cocktail filled with colourful crushed ice and the kind of fruit syrup your relatives from France bring you home every time they visit. Don’t forget the fleshy husks of mulberries’ yellow cousins, sitting at the bottom, tasting mildly like bananas and reminiscently chemical; chewy and crisp, juxtaposed next to the slivers of tasteless gelatin that made the drink a textural playground, a dream for the child in my heart.
 

I sprung for the pork vermicelli bowl, if not to learn from it. A favourite of mine, its clean soapy qualities are always a return, especially when the side of sweet sauce is poured over every piece of pork, lettuce, sprout, coriander, and mint bound together by slippery rice vermicelli. Every time it’s a good wake up call. I’ve never hated the dish anywhere. With charred pork slices flavoured only by their own juices and the grill, as well as crunchy cucumber sticks, it was a buoyant adventure. Shoot, It was a great Friday. Do I owe it to Pho Shizzle? I do in part. With an entrée that had me stuffed for only 10 dollars, Pho Shizzle had me appreciating the familiar things in life.
 

Yes, young masters, whether it was the food, company, or poetic ambiguity of this roaming review, something about where I was that night had me leaving it loving it.

Pho Shizzle Viet Thai Restaurant
(519) 658-4796
100 Jamieson Parkway #11
Cambridge, ON
N3C 4B3


Any Payment

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There's a Fire

Not more than two years since that hallowed of diners, Mel’s, went up in smoke in the great university plaza fire of 2010. I recall the plumes in the sky during twilight that night, riding my bike, trying to clear my head of the vice grip of a thesis that attempted to analyze cooking shows as a kind of food pornography using Deleuzean theoretics. 

Granted, though I never really was a staunch supporter of the place, I knew it held a flame in the hearts of all the students that depended on it for late night bites, or morning after binges. Yes, lest we forget, Mel’s Diner was a moderately okay place. So, you could imagine my intrigue when I spotted such a simulacrum elsewhere in the world. I hoped it belonged to someone else. Someone fired up enough to exploit that honored name. Why? I kind of like being the bearer of bad news, especially to the patriotic. We live in a culture that feeds on drama, after all. Think: reality shows. Think: Glee. So, you could imagine my trepidation. Yes, I was doused with disappointment. It was Mel’s reborn, but in the vast wilderness of development and big box stores. 

There it was, brand new, looking fresh with photos, strangely enough, from its old location, hung on its walls, not damaged in the slightest. No yellowing, no broken frames, no fixed glass. As if nothing had ever happened. I was having a Twin Peaks experience.

Calm greys, navy blues, neon pink lights, and glass tiles decorated the space, making it seem to me a more elegant place from what it was before. The red booths were still there too. I liked it. Yes, Mel’s deserved its new location, it deserved a little self respect; it deserved its antithesis crowd of octogenarians. No rowdy students here, unless you read this and decide to go. Know this: if you do, you better have a way of getting there. But don’t let that deter you, it seems more nostalgic as a destination farther than a stone’s throw away, as if located back in time. That also said, I was no veteran of the Mel’s before it. This visit, for me, was a kind of baptism by fire, because I had no recollection of price; I had no recollection of menu; my only recollection was that it was a popular breakfast place, and if you want to know about any deals, you better bring a seasoned veteran, because they don’t tell you about them on the menu. My company made it his business to ask about Mel’s Favourite, an affably affordable 3.99 breakfast platter of eggs, pig, and toast. To the point, he had no qualms about the stuff, and from my end, it did look pretty alright. 

I went another route, opting for a monte cristo sandwich, stacked with ham, turkey, and cheese. That, and the best iced coffee around, or so the menu insisted; a huge claim, in my opinion. Though not unappetizing, it was far from setting the world on fire. A familiar syrup stirred with ice was all it was, sweeter than I would have liked, but ironically tempering my salty meal quite well. Not that that is a particularly good thing. The dualities of Mel’s seem to rest in the appetence of salty and sweet. Translucent fries crowded my plate, sodium bearing against whatever earthiness the potatoes wished to impart; no doubt a symptom from dusting every single batch fried and thrown into the fryer’s shared oil. The ham in my sandwich was no different, nor the cheese, its glassy edges making me wonder how old it may have been. And as I peeled it off, I wondered about the lukewarm, chalky, dry turkey that thickly set itself between egg battered bread that was so soft it needed not be softened by eggs at all. But hey, who knows such food lore? Who cares about standards? Mel’s exists. And, as I was cheerily told, I, as well as all of you, can rest assured, for someday that old lot will be rebuilt with Mel’s third incarnation. And if you can’t wait, you can always come here. I can only hope however, that Mel’s tries a little bit harder. Because you know, moving three times is as bad as a fire.  

Only thing worth photographing, quite frankly. Ain't he handsome?

 

Mel’s Diner 

645 Westmount Rd E, Kitchener 

EVERYDAY 6-9 

ANY PAYMENT!

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