It Ain't All Gone

When you inevitably find yourself making a day of visiting (what’s left of) St. Jacob’s Market, you may give glance to the antique stores and other outlets surrounding the cusp of it. If you’re like me, you may take a lifetime to slowly approach every building if only because you take a long, long time in life gathering interests and acting on them. Years ago, I spent a good portion of my time antiquing, looking for anything made in Occupied Japan. I found like, two teacups. Anyway, after that, and more recently, it was a serendipitous interest in cosmetics that had me looking for supplies in the bulk store next to the antique store. I know what you’re thinking. And you’re probably right. Anyway, most recently, not a day or two before, I was told about the eatery sharing the space with both places. Yeah, I saw it in the past, and acknowledged it. But like I said, it takes me a long time to act on interest. Don’t live like me, kids. Otherwise, you may regret having stayed away from the Crazy Canuck for so long.

That’s right, as thick as the name may sound, it’s cozier and more welcoming than you’d think. Its crew is small, and quintessentially Canuck, humouring me with nicknames like ‘big guy’ and ‘bud’, enduring my indecisiveness, and having nothing but earnest at my embarrassment for not knowing what chomo (chocolate milk) means. The menu’s eclectic, and I can finally say that and mean it. The space, almost as much; seasoned with Canadiana, with a single wall of record sleeves of anything classic rock and Canadian: Kim Mitchell, Rush, Max Webster. License plates from every province, snowshoes- Its identity encompasses so much of what I have always xenophobically believed when I think of my own cultural identity. Why? I don’t know. This is a food review, not a psychology study. 

It was a tempting menu though. It took no shame in deriving its ideas from every culture it could think of. From taco pizza, to pizza poutine. I finally settled on the day’s special: A sliced beef hoagie with a posturing, and therefore hypnotizing, mango chutney coleslaw; pizza poutine, not poutine pizza, and what the place called a ‘snowshoe,’ for dessert. Between you and me, that’s what I was waiting for.

I lazily waited for my casserole of fries covered with meat sauce, two seasoned slices of salami, and baked mozzarella, reminiscent, of all things, of a chicken parmesan. I laughed tenderly to myself. Beside it, my hoagie, which, if I didn’t know any better, was a slider smaller than my fist, packed with resilient steak slices and topped with slaw. My enthusiasm for the thing waned as much as its old bread, which absorbed the flavours of the air from the fridge. Mean to say, but no less true. Its coleslaw, a little too curried with the yellow stuff and distracting from the idea of mango chutney made into a vibrant salad. The cabbage was limp and too fermented to cherish any good flavor. In two bites, it was gone. I couldn’t reconcile whether I should have been happy or sad that it was gone so soon. But that was as bad as the meal got. I treasured my poutine. It wasn’t anything in the forefront of poutiness, but I’m damned if I didn’t love its tangy, peppery, savoury meat sauce, or its crispy fries with an indescribable malty flavor. The weirdest association, but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. It was rich, it was hardy, it was mouth filling. If the Canuck couldn’t do poutine, I guess it would have been a culinary hoser. But culinary hoser it was not. 

And my snow shoe dessert? Let me tell you: a deep fried fritter in the shape of the footgear, topped with vanilla icecream and rained down on with cinnamon and sugar, floating in rich raspberry coulis. My adulations were embarrassing, but I couldn’t help ooze over crispy dough with a tender, airy, chewy inside. I chopped off pieces, went after my ice cream before it listfully melted away, mashed everything in the coulis, licked the plate clean. After that meal, I reckoned the Canuck’s food could make any guy crazy, because by the end all I could think was, O Canada!




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Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Sunday
10:00 am - 06:00 pm
Thursday, Friday, and Saturday
10:00 am - 08:00 pm

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Don't Judge

If you were apt to judge a place just by walking in, you may not pay Safa Kabob any mind. Still, don’t let its glowing menu board deter you. The motif of the fast food restaurant certainly engrosses the physical space, what with its washed out lighting, quiet atmosphere, and spacious dining room. But given a little toleration, the Middle Eastern kitsch that decorates its sand coloured walls may be just enough to charm you. It certainly charmed me.

Now, I’m not particularly polished when it comes to Traditional Eastern cuisine, but I’m acquainted with enough culinary consultants who are more than happy to spoon feed me when it comes to trying new things, and this time was no exception. Luckily, my fellow comrade in culinary arms was well versed and able to enlightenment me on just what made Safa Kabob Restaurant the modern twist on Traditional Eastern cuisine it claims to be. In fact, what makes it different from other Middle Eastern cuisine is its fusion with markedly Indian dishes that share the same underpinnings of Middle Eastern flavours, but aren’t particularly combined in any fantastic way. That said, the option of a menu that offers kabobs, curries, wraps, and specialty dishes still offers great choice and a meal that can easily fill two for under 30 dollars. 

We elected to try a dish from every section on the menu, and were ambitious enough to eat every dessert. We ordered the lamb kabob (11.99), a seasonal favourite of the place, using its limited but privileged supply of fresh Ontario lamb chops, the beef Gosht Masala (10.99) curry dish, and Safa’s eggplant vegetarian dish (10.99). Confoundingly, our desire to sample every dessert was dissuaded, as we were assured all we’d need to drink was the jug of Mango lassi (5.99), more than enough for two. It was a moment before I could come to terms with a restaurant trying not to sell its customers everything on the menu, but the trolley cart wheeling out copious amounts of naan bread and dishes of rice along with our meals had me rethinking why I had been leery in the first place. 

Yes, we were laden with a buffet of potent purees and succulent stews, accompanied by undressed salads, plain rice, and ever so popular naan bread. To the untrained eye, I was assured the hodgepodge of food could easily appear dull, and the only thing with any flavor reserved to the humble bowls of beef and eggplant; however, the creative eater could make a patchwork of all the flavours offered. Our vegetarian eggplant dish was a compote of aubergine, onions, tomatoes, garlic, and spices. The oily smash was a pungent, spicy mix speckled with quenching minces of coriander that turned any overpowering salty savoury flavor into something bright and clean. Mixed with rice, it became a fulfilling mix of samala spice reminiscent of the curry flavor we associate with so much Indian cuisine. 

Our beef Gosht Masala shared the same spice foundation, enlivened with a fiery concentrated stew of tomatoes, onions, garlic, and fresh green peppers. The dish’s beef tenderly surrendered to any fork, revealing a deep maroon coloured flesh. My naan bread, with its crisply roasted crust and perforated pillowy interior, had no reservations about wiping up any stew left over in the silver bowl. And the mango lassi did a good job of tempering the fire in our bellies; the small, yet surprisingly filling, jug of pureed mango and yogurt coated and calmed the insides of our stomachs and left a memorial sweetness that lingered on the back of our breaths even hours after our meal. And though our lamb chops were more done than I would have preferred, the charred exterior matched a motif of meat that depended only on its own earthy flavor and very little seasoning. A welcomed gamey quality added a good change to the family of flavours in our meal, and had me wondering why I had even thought twice about Safa Kabob Restaurant in the first place.




Hours
Monday 11:00 AM - 8:00 PM
Tuesday 11:00 AM - 8:00 PM
Wednesday 11:00 AM - 8:00 PM
Thursday 11:00 AM - 8:00 PM
Friday 11:00 AM - 9:00 PM
Saturday 11:00 AM - 9:00 PM
Sunday 11:00 AM - 8:00 PM

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Poor Ol' Fuji-San

If you’re tired of making any kind of effort to visit any kind of all-you-can-eat sushi place in town, your prayers have been answered, because Itamae sushi is the newest ubiquity bogarting on the phenomenon of cosmopolitanism that has been diffusing the neighbourhoods around Waterloo’s university blocks. That’s right, for all the lucky students, all-you-can-eat is a mere jaunt. 13.99 for lunch, 20.99 for dinner. You’d be foolish not to grab a filling, almost irresponsible, lunch every day. And now, when you do, you don’t have to feel like a contemptible in-debt student at an all-you-can-eat facsimile, because Itamae feels and looks a little more urbane. I’m ashamed to say, I found myself hypnotized by the chic, Orientalized space. Cool browns, blacks, greys, forgiving tiled splash-backs; thick, stocky furnishings, pearled dining tables, waiters setting orders on hand held tablets, faux sushi itamaes in blue hakis with murals of origami met with bursts of warm colours on aesthetics reminiscent of the origami motif of the space. Even its centre made the place exalted and heavenly as the gold ceiling reached up to a point representing none other than Fuji itself. The bathrooms had granite counters, and robotic paper towel dispensers; it was a fantastic feast for the eyes, an alright feast for the stomach. Unfortunately, our orders took a good amount of time getting to us, so much so that Joey lost any truck he had with the wait staff, taking his own order and walking up and handing his tab to every sushi chef, making sure he would get what he wanted. And there were the usual chronic mixups and mystery orders that constantly happen at sushi places too.

Itamae offers nothing particularly new, some different menu options, some half-assed desserts masquerading as haute because they look, like the space, really good. That was my biggest tension. I’m a devote fan of egg tarts, but what we received was a beaten egg baked in an obtusely folded wonton, too eggy and off putting. And the Itamae apple pie? Nothing more than an apple fritter, with no spin on it to imply the character or personality of the place. Just an apple fritter. A boring apple fritter. Everything is hit or miss, and that seems to be the complacent accession of all all-you-can-eat-sushi spots. It can’t all be good. But, I argue it can if it didn’t want to seem like a cash grab all the time. Some sashimi was good, the white tuna, clean and salty, the salmon and red tuna, a little stale and brassy from sitting in a fridge. Some sashimi came room temperature, some uncomfortably cool. The eel on my sushi pizza was another climatic affliction. Cold seafood on hot deep fried rice in other words. We did very much enjoy the lotus rolls, though. A series of rolls rolled with bean paper, reminiscent of a thin cabbage, rather than the usual seaweed. And the mango banana roll was somewhat amusing. Mango stuck out of it like shoots of bamboo, wrapped in usual seaweed and rice. It was an ambitious project. The fruit wasn’t as ripe as we would have liked, and the flavours juxtaposed too much to really want it again. Even if a dessert, which it wasn’t, it still fell very short. But again, the menu’s a big thing, with a lot to try, so you’re bound to accept something. We liked the bacon asparagus rolls, and the curry chicken was enlivened by lime and notes of star anise. The grilled mackerel was surprisingly good for something expected so fast.

Itamae sushi doesn’t need to try at anything. Hell, if it had any professionalism, I imagine the waitress would have stepped aside to let me through a hall of crowded people rather than elbowing past me when I approached. But when customers just want to fill themselves us with alright food, forgoing great taste and service, can you blame them? Still, why not just buy a bag of rice? Let’s hope it’s not a representation of the superficiality of cuisine, or anything for that matter, in our break neck developing city, even if substandard goods are conventionally associated with developers just interested in a quick buck. In that case then, I reckon Itamae is in the right place.

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