Slave to the Grind

I’m not particularly intimidated by Stratford’s downtown. When I was a kid, I was intimidated by the whole place, a symptom of my love of theatre and yearning to act and do something perceptively important to my young self. Those weren’t better days. I like my more cynical, less intimidated older self. I’ve never any qualms about calling shenanigans, as you all already know, I’m sure. So when it came to coffee in the city of Stratford, I wasn’t cowed by the possibility that someone somewhere was serious about coffee. Tea on the other hand, now that’s a different story I’ll reserve for later. But coffee, no way. If someone somewhere made a pour over, I’d had thought my meanderings one frigid Wednesday afternoon totally worthwhile. Sure, people talk about restaurants and how great of a culinary experience Stratford offers, but chances are I’ll never really have the cash to spend and know. Anyway, if that is the case- if the newspapers are right- shouldn’t that include coffee? If there’s good coffee, let me know, because when it comes to the brew in the city, I think the point to choosing a good café lies in your preference of which third space. What would you like to be associated with? What matches your pastiche? What gives you a laugh?

 

 Joey and I had it on good authority, after visiting the cherriest of tea drinkers, that Slave to the Grind Espresso Bar was super serious. And we believed it, given the context that the tea drinker provided the tea for the joint, and hers was out of this world. So we went, we meandered, Joey left, came back in with a Styrofoam cup of poutine, meatballs, and spaghetti sauce, and I treated us to a couple of cappuccinos, and one big peanut butter cookie the size of my head. And that was more or less it. Still, I was happy with some fun options: spelt cookies, a strange chocolate concoction called the Full Monty (if memory serves), and considerate gluten free options here and there (if memory serves). But, there are no meals. No sammies, just good old baked petit fours. I’ve never any problem with that. I quite like the idea of a coffee shop that keeps it simple, short, and about coffee. At the Grind, you can get the second wave essentials: anything from an espresso machine and the typical percolated brew. Alas, no pour overs though. But that didn’t draw me away from the place’s charm, the barista’s cute claim that my cappuccino’s foamy white blob wasn’t for lack of technique, but was, in fact, a fat swan. I laughed. It was enough to make me like the place.

Its 60s retro riddled space wasn’t my cup of coffee, but I could understand the appeal of brownfielding the obsolescent things of our American grandparents. A rotary phone on the wall, molecular chandeliers, a fantastic laminate faux wood ceiling. The place cried out for dynamic camera shots of the things. It was fun, it was small, it was a little run down, but cozy enough to offer a place for at least 12 customers to come and sit. Soon there’d be more room. A sign said so.

So, it wasn’t all coffee. Certainly, on a strip that had a lot of others, coffee seemed only a small part. Fun had to be a big part of it. Ironically though, there is the tea, which is definitely worth the trip to the place.

Slave to the Grind Espresso Bar
46 Ontario Street,
Stratford, Ontario
N5A 3G8


 
Mon: 8am- 5pm
Tue-Sat: 8am- 6pm
Sun: 9am- 4pm

   
ANY PAYMENT

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Damn

Public Kitchen and Bar is wasted on location; and though I’m abraded by its dining room’s pinache, reminiscent, to me, of the first apartment a freshly minted university girl graduate passionately decorates with retro and white, I can’t help but worry if its kind of cuisine is being overlooked as it situates itself in Kitchener’s more quiet neighborhoods. But seeming cosmopolitan and stranded may be the only thing that works against the poor little tapas bar. It’s certainly not the food. And though I can’t help but argue that people would prefer it in the deep down depths of the city, especially if they want to drink and eat and drink some more, the better part of me knows eaters will have no scruples about making the uncool trek to its little strip station.

Beggarhood makes me a scrupulous gourmand, but Public gave me no excuse for some of the tastiest food I’ve had in the city’s haute circles. Yes, tapas are usually a little pricey, but for a generous hour Thursday and Friday nights you can have some of the most aggrandized dishes for a ridiculously reasonable price, and maybe a little something extra to splurge on. 

Splurge I certainly did. I got everything I could, a heaping bowl of mussels for two in a bright sweet Romesco sauce, a cassoulet of white beans and stewed pork, bruschetta, patatas bravas, all at 5 dollars apiece. It was almost cruel getting everything I did for so little. To absolve my guilt, I added rolled taquitos with an avocado mousse. It was a lounger’s dream.

The mussels were the favourite, brought out first and accompanied by thin crisp twice baked fennel speckled bread. Saffron made it glow, red peppers and tarragon (I like to imagine) made it sunny and citrus like; and a mysterious sweetness had me flabbergasted, challenged by its flavor and in love with elements that made it Asian in its phantasmagoria of taste. The cassoulet was nostalgic. Creamy stewed beans and tender pork hock infused the dish with a smoky savoury flavour my company and I were fighting over.

Next, our bruschetta, riddled with vegetable ratatouille and garnished with pecorino cheese, cubes of salami, and a pungent ramp pesto had me a little leery, if only because the pesto looked too fresh for something available only a month out of the year. Still, it was another incredible dish, with mellow tender vegetable compote cooked enough to maintain body and bite. I liked the chewy alien texture of the salami in the medley, the softer bread, but would have preferred something a little warmer in my mouth if only to prevent the cheese from becoming a little elastic. Still, it did nothing to ruin the thing.

The patatas bravas were certainly the heartiest. Crisp potatoes dusted with paprika were paired with a simple aioli sauce that left a distant brassy finish on the tongue; and though the dish had an otherwise bland pairing, nothing stopped us from dipping our potatoes in everything else. Unorthodox? Don’t ask me, I don’t know. But I liked doing it. And playing with food didn’t stop there. 

Our taquitos, rolled and stuffed with chorizo and Oaxaca cheese, came with an assembly of avocado mousse and spicy oil painted on the plate. And taking the small but potent side salad of cilantro, lime, and peppery arugula, gave us eaters a fun food palate to paint, combine, and create with. It was something neither of us had any objections to enjoying. I’m almost conflicted with the ever changing menu; sad to see good things go, but excited to see what else the place can cook up. For the city’s only tapas focused bar, I don’t see the necessity to change, but I certainly see the passion. Regardless, I am privileged to have tasted the effort.

PUBLIC  KITCHEN & BAR
295 b Lancaster Street West
Kitchener, Ontario N2H 4V4
(519) 954-8111

Thu – Sat: 5pm-1am
Sun: 5pm – 10 pm

ANY PAYMENT

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Reliable

I’d spent the later part of a sick day turning over in my mind what I could do to get over the poorer judgments of overdrinking on St. Patrick’s day, and all I could think about was not going into any pub at all. Avoiding every kind of solid food, supping on nothing but a single bowl of soup broth, graval, and bay leaf tea. But deadlines are deadlines, and even if mine isn’t an iron stomach, I still had to go out there and eat. 

I did whatever I could to meet a happy compromise; go on internet forums, ask around for places that wouldn’t have me gagging, wondering what, if anything, I could put in my spent stomach, until Joey offered me the evident answer: soup. It was a fantastic idea. The problem was, or so the internet food community told me, that no place anywhere offered soup as a meal all its own, unless of course you considered pho. I did. But from that, an even further, foreign convention: Chinese soup. I really didn’t entertain it any further than that, however. In fact, I had Joey and I driving around and scoping out as many places as we could before I surrendered to the thought of eating at a place that lay underground, without a sign, and built on a foundation of having you boil your own food in soup broth. Yes, I was so hard pressed to find a place that I disdainfully decided to go to a place I had been avoiding for months. A place I would have avoided for a lifetime if not for my bad judgment that led me to looking for the hair of the dog. A place I know is the reincarnation of a place I chewed out years ago. But, as Joey optimistically said, ‘maybe it’d be better this time.’

Mushu All-You-Can-Eat Hot Pot had me at a moral impasse. I’d known what it had been, and had a good idea of what it still was. Its filled dining hall meant nothing to me the nights I passed by, but the residuals of a hangover and the urge for something soupy had me ready and willing to entertain its hidden bearings, or the ragtag crew of youngsters trying to run a hotpot restaurant without a sign.
I had no qualms with the plastic leaves wrapped around exposed pipes for decoration, the Mediterranean floor tiling, the cold temperature of the room. I was surprised by the prohibition of tea. Anything remotely close to being offered was hot water. But no tea. I couldn’t even buy it. Was Musha a cash grab? A cost cutter? Either way, I would have to come to terms with the experience of feeling like a Mongol in the dessert. But hey, what was lacked in hospitality was made up for in hot pot. I suppose.

It was an interesting menu. You could pay for complicated broths, or choose from the ones they offer for free. Pay for a little all-you-can-eat, or a lot, depending on the ingredients- anyway, I’ve never any scruples about denying myself seafood, especially if it saves me five dollars. And if you really read the menu close enough, you can get some interesting additions for free. The print’s small, but they’re there. There was even a sauce cart, so you could make your own little dipping concoction; and if you didn’t have any ideas, there was a courteous plaque on the wall giving you recipe suggestions. It was actually pretty intriguing.

A spicy Szechuan and savoury pork broth were our two options, with a whole slew of options ready to be lurched: taro, yam, cabbage, curd, chicken, beef, noodles, sausage, and fungus- our favourite.

Hot pot, it seems, no matter where you get it, is never a true misadventure, especially when you essentially cook for yourself, and pay people to shop for you. That said, there are things you’d probably never know to get yourself. Or, if you’re really raw, know where to get. We were dazzled by a sweet nameless sausage, boiled in our spicy Szechuan sauce, immortalizing the convention of Chinese cuisine’s sweet, salty, savoury, spicy philosophy. And when those bits of chili and barley coated the inside of curled sheets of tofu curd- let me tell you- I was glad my lack of discretion and jaded attitude had me settling on Musha after all.

Musha (Xu Yuan Xuan) All-You-Can-Eat-Hot Pot
Unit 5 2 king street north
Waterloo, ON,
n2j 2w7

(519) 722-3612

Mon-Sun 1030am-1130pm
 
Any payment

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