You Should Only Eat What You Don't Understand

Birthright afforded me one of the most humbling privileges: a going away dinner. And while it took all of my pride to accept, I was little more than touched and motivated to be as considerate as possible when choosing a locale.

I often associate food with pangs, and there are innumerable places I’ve eaten at that I’ve never written about because who I ate with was just too painful. Love and food, depending on context, can be a remarkable thing. When I’m a more centred man, maybe I’ll tell you all those stories.

So while it seemed I was considering the preferences of my beloved family, my chophouse of choice was charged with my own voluptuous stirrings for the person who recommended it so long ago. I had never visited it, but felt now was a convenient opportunity, since its cuisine appealed to my family, and, in a strange Borgesian way, managed itself as a conduit for my yearnings of some beautiful interloper. I guess I’m not as altruistic as I think I am, just appropriately opportunistic.

I say this because as I’ve said many times in the past, Indian cuisine is an alien foodscape for my poor palate. Yes, even still today. But Bollywood Bistro was more than a safe bet for me. Some woman I’m smitten over loves it, my family likes Indian food, and, subsequently, it offers Hakka cuisine, an interesting culinary creation that happened as a result of Chinese occupancy in India at some point in history. Sadly, the Hakka choices seemed less than stellar for my familiar self. That said, I couldn’t know any preparation without trying it, but felt the situation warranted not necessarily playing it safe. Instead, and being absolutely out of my element with such a generous menu, I humbly requested my brother-in-law, familiar with the cuisine all his life, to do the choosing. It was only a matter of time before our table was a deluge of cuisine, emblematic samosas, fish fritters, chicken tikka, lamb seekh, butter chicken, methi lamb, and the lightest, softest, most lightly crisp garlic naan I’d ever had the luxury of sinking my teeth into. So buttery and warm in fact, lobster wouldn’t have even been a better substitute.

But before all that, we were welcomed with dipping sauces and crisp flat bread. A bright, glowing cilantro sauce of yoghurt, lemon, and the leaf was hard to stay away from; I’d have happily drank it on its own. Then again, every single sauce, dal, mash, and paste could have been left alone without any accompanying meat. I left that kind of stuff for my family, my naan was the only meat I wanted. But what kind of eater would I have been if I didn’t at least give everything a try.

Packed with potato, peas, and dry spices, our light crusted samosas were the perfect excuse for more dipping, the bright buzzing cilantro sauce quenching against the pastries’ spicy chilli stuffing. And the fish pakora, yet another reason; though the tender, moist, light white fish could have easily been finished alone, its frittered flesh loaded with cumin spice.

Now, I know nothing about butter chicken, as much as I’ve heard about it all my life. Still, my sister and brother-in-law would have liked a little heat, but my naïve tongue had no problem with the balmy tomato, cashew, buttercream sauce. And our smorgasbord of marinated meats gave us no reason to complain. Deeply coloured lambs, and warmly seasoned poultry piled on a medley of pickled onions and cabbage paid perfect homage to the warm reds, yellows, and oranges of the decorated walls and Rajastani doorways. If I were any more versed, I’m sure I would have appreciated every morsel even more; still, I was floored by so many flavours, especially by lamb that was rubbed with heady amounts of coriander.

But even after all that, our prized choice of the night had to have been our methi chicken. A lentil paste stewed with fierce fenugreek and cilantro made every one of us more than happy to give up the chunks of chicken inside to each other if it meant smothering our bread with the stuff.

By the end, full, heavily spiced stomachs anchored us to our seats, but in no time, our palates were upheaved by the meal’s ending: a spice bowl of fenugreek seeds, anise, and candies. At first it took me a minute to understand: it was the oldest kind of after dinner mints, and its medley of seeds woke us out of our full, satisfied states. We were warmed, and well on our way, and I was wondering when I’d be lucky enough to come back, and with whom? 

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Almost Missed Connections

The culinary cries of a neoteric picknicker serendipitously pulled me back into my new playground of gastronomies. And while my language here sounds like a missed connection from the London Review of books, I’ve little doubt my conscience would have allowed for my just stopping and eating, and forgetting Willy’s Fresh Cut Fries, the seemingly selfsame kindred spirit of KW’s own David’s Fresh Cut Fries. Yes, I was smitten passing in the night, seeing its green shack lit up in the dead of winter, and lucky enough the next day to have a reason to visit, thanks to a new mouth to feed.

I quashed any curiosity for the chicken and egg debate: which came first? Dave’s or Willy’s? Did it matter? Does it, still? They’ve both their own kind of charm, and to discover which is more edible is an overwhelming task; one I no longer have the funds for. They’re both stick to your ribs food, and the day’s unnecessary storm gave me good reason to eat anything fried. There are some things I’m more fond of though: namely the nameless dog that circles Willy’s quarters, and that Willy’s is always open even in a winter storm. Heck, its fare is even cheaper than the menu says, and it shares its lot with a car garage, which enthusiastically led my company to believe it was a cover for something a little more dangerous. Pretty fantastic. But it’s not all roses. We were dashed by Newfoundland fries that were nothing but soft bread and gravy. No discernible stuffing, no cheese, no onions or peas. Our deep fried pickles too had us a little curious. Until I bit into my own I had wondered if what my comrade was eating was deep fried zucchini posing as a tasty gherkin. Sure enough, crunchy spears were there sleeping among plainly sliced courgettes.

Humble menu posturing aside, when we ordered our feed we were looking on wholeheartedly. It had all you’d expect from a trailer abstrusely anchored between someone’s yard and a brake and steel autoshop: Burgers, fries- prepared to your liking; poutine- of course; perogies, onion rings. Not to mention democratic inclusions of kabob, shawarmas, and gyros, which led me to believe that these items were Willy’s specialty, even more so when the cook suggested I choose a gyro over my company’s burger. And sure enough, I did, but not before bureaucratically making sure to include everything fried that I could in my order. Willy’s Platter was a meager appetizer that could pass as a good independent spot of grub. Fryer grease perfumed the air, and oil bubbled out sweet nothings while I anticipated tender battered chicken fingers (not processed!), capsule shaped mozzarella sticks stuffed instead with cheddar, deep fried pickles, and low-key zucchini slices yet again.

I was pleasantly surprised by my gyro though. Soft, forgivingly chewy pita wrapped itself around earthy cuts of shaved meat tossed with firm wedges of tomato, and crisp red onion, balanced by generous sprigs of curly parsley. Every bite was a memory of my informal induction into the culinary world all those summers ago when that kid from Hong Kong happily filled my stomach with sandwiches of beef and cilantro shoots. Willy’s may not have absolute gastronomic glory, but like me, you may be able to find a just little love in one of the strangest places.

Oh hai, doggie!

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Diamond in the Rough

A weaker, more fragile self likened my kismet move to Cambridge to that of Napoleon’s banishment to Elba. I dreaded the ghost stories told to me by youth in revolt: there’s nothing to do there. It’s a giant flee market- outlets everywhere, no good Chinese food. The great paradox of the place, from what I could understand after multiple run-ins with early twenty-somethings- tattoos and ear plugs and barbells and all- was that if you wanted to understand the kind of city dweller, you should spend some time in a garbage dump. I found no humour, nor sense in the statement. For if you’re one telling me that everyone living in Cambridge is garbage, are you yourself not the same garbage? 

Riddles aside, and leaving any Socratic rhetoric alone, I did my best to tread lightly with my ethnographic accounts. I oozed arrogance and snobbery without even trying, but just by merely asking where to eat, or talking tea with, of all people, young tea enthusiasts. Coffee was another touchy subject. Starbucks was their cup of tea, if only because they got it for free. 

A forced 2 hour conversation left me jaded and unsure. Maybe where I was, for the most part sojourned, really was a sad, sad place, with little night life, and the depraved civilian riddling so many of its spaces, that locals were just turned off of going out and sharing space with them. That’s my biggest qualm with the city’s people so far. But urban politics aside, I was resolute to make my time here as positive as possible. I have a bigger home, nine foot tall showers, HBO, and a restaurant stove my dear mother made a promise of buying all her life. In these past two months, my days, for the most part, have consisted of cooking whatever elaborate meals I could on a stove that doesn’t belong in a suburban kitchen, recording television, reading whatever theory I can get my hands on, and practicing what little kung fu knowledge I have left in the dug out foundations riddling my neighborhood and its million dollar homes. When the scaffolding goes up in one home, I make an effort to move, night by night, on to the next, until everything’s all done. For now though, excavators are still my alarm clocks, and my unfinished kitchen, my own little restaurant.

Architecture is another thing that has occupied my time, as well as the odd teashop, the multiple libraries, and all of the city’s beautiful rivers. There certainly are spaces worth trafficking, which makes me question what the young have told me for so long. Either that, or my years dreading this place have awoken an old appreciation of urban study. Serendipitous, no doubt. And when I feel a little more adventurous, I campaign Joey to come and explore with me. We’ve been to quite a few dives, and so far, liked them all. It seems on most of our outings we’ve converged fluidly with an older crew. Are we getting old? Or is the city just cliché? Polite adults peppered with a majority of bored young people who are too lazy to go out and make their city a playground? My flaneur behavior makes me think it might be the latter. There are, after all, three different downtowns, all charming in their own right. If they’re not cosmopolitan enough, they certainly will be in the near future; but I’m sure the youth will complain it’ll be too expensive to live by that point. Alas, the grass IS always greener. But, I’ve found the grass here to be just as green as my old home. I’ve found an apiarist, a Viet-Thai grocery store, and what I consider to be probably the most impressive coffee shop in the Region. Is that a big claim? Good, because I stand by it. 

***

I’ve been slowly making my way around every café in town, looking for a local bag of beans if only to avoid the devastating shelf life that ruins any chance of a really great cup. And certainly, giving the city’s youth the benefit of the doubt, I expected to find absolutely nothing, just drip. Around here, the barista has been muscled out by laziness and big box stores that could deliver the same simply because no one was trying, or so I thought. 

Monigram Coffee Roaster’s location caught my eye. The building’s outer urban charm, and simple bold font design stamped onto its outer wall lured my cynical attention. It echoed the coffee cosmopolitanism I associated with so many third wave coffee joints. It was obviously the last place I went to look for a bag. And I expected nothing else. Something along the lines of beans brought in, but better than a grocery store; at least there might be  some contact with the mad scientist roasters around Ontario. I was caught off guard by my own defeatism though, because when I went in and asked if they had any bags, the shop's patron pointed to a shelf behind me next to a roaster. I was relieved to know I had finally found a place with fresh beans, but floored more by the knowledge. 

I didn’t really care about the roaster; in fact, when I see any in coffee shops, I never fully trust the places using in house roasting as a selling point. Why would Monigram Coffee Roaster’s be any different? So what swayed me? To the point, my questions of connoisseurship were answered with finesse. There were multiple kinds of beans, each with their own profile; they were shelved, dated the day of their roasting, and thrown away every ten days. Nothing around here is fresher. 

Monigram offers guests the coveted pour over, and the NEVER seen Siphon Coffee maker- the most regal of Japanese coffee invention. In the summer, I was told, they even offered the 24 hour cold coffee drip. All third wave theatrics not even done in Kitchener-Waterloo, pour overs aside. Monigram Coffee Roasters is as surreal as coffee can get. I’d say it’s cornering the market, but in the city of Cambridge, more specifically, downtown Galt, it’s playing a game all its own, and it doesn’t care that it cares a million times more than every other coffee shop. It cares about coffee, not the pretense of coffee for the sake of going to a café. This isn't coffee for the sake of the Enlightenment. It is an epitaph for the gastronomic greatness that can someday riddle this city though; perhaps a dooming one for the cynical youths that claim there is nowhere good to go. I reckon if I still lived where I used to, I’d make the trip out to Monigram before I would the places in my old back yard. If only I knew sooner. But luckily, I don’t have to. I bet my cool coffee friends feel pretty foolish, and if you don’t head to Monigram, you should too.











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