Please Wake the Captain

If by chance you find yourself environed by a wilderness of big box stores and country, your stomach sojourned in a sea devoid of worthwhile culinary delights, the captain of The Boat: Fish and Chips will be more than happy to throw you an onion ring the size of a lifesaver, saving not only your stomach, but maybe even your faith in good treasured food, even if it’s fare as feeble as fish and chips.
And there may be no bodies of water in sight, and The Boat might stick out more than the lighthouse beside it that advertises The Boat’s existence, but when you try the fare, you may be inspired to cast yourself out to sea, lest your stomach tow you that way.

Don’t worry, I’m not getting soft. Even your dear gastronomer was suspicious of the boat with sailor silhouette, wooden seagulls, and multiple open signs, stranded in the lot of an antique shop. But the novelty of the thing was enough to see if its food was true, especially on a bizarrely warm winter morning in February.

I made my way to the stern and noted the ordering window: shut, dark, and dim. The only thing to grab the attention of the figure manning the kitchen was a buzzer and a crude, but tenderly written, sign courteously asking customers to wake the captain when they were ready to order. I, on the other hand, was lucky enough to have been spotted eying the posted menu by the captain himself.
Aside from a roadhouse literally manifesting nautical kitsch, the menu did a good job of maintaining the same seaside theme, keeping in mind the typical canned drinks and odd menu option of a POGO. A branded corn-dog that some of us may be familiar with. That’s as much as the menu strays from its genre, I think. But that’s a small fault. Otherwise, it’s a Maritimer’s dream. Simple, straightforward, to the point. Enough meal options to satisfy any passerby, and so little that they all fit on the back of the place’s business card. That was more than enough for me. But if that isn’t waveless enough for you, the prices will be enough to make you drift happily out to sea. So affordable, it’s a wonder this boat stays afloat, but I’m definitely not complaining. The food is well worth it and the price makes it seem too good to be true. For a slash fund of 8 (tax included) dollars I was happily spoiled with fries that flooded out of a box, stuffed with a fillet of battered haddock, coleslaw, and the captain’s own humble dessert of the day: a sinful medallion of deep fried chocolate. And just in case that wasn’t enough to satisfy me, I did myself the service of ordering an equally large box of 5 dollar onion rings, displayed to me like a wedding proposal, but big enough to be worn like bracelets. A 13 dollar meal that could easily satisfy two seafaring people.

My batter had just enough salt, was light like a cloud with a crispy silver lining. It cracked and shattered as I chopped my fork into it, my lemon wedge’s juice rolled right off its golden concentration, and the haddock, though moist, still managed to have a smooth and feathery, yet toothy bite.

My deep, purple hued fries were rich and meaty. The bits of skin left on their edges gave them not only an earthy reserve, but a deep charred undertow. I would have liked them crispier, but when packed like they were in a box, it’s hard to avoid any sweats. Not to worry though, dear readers, the Captain had a solution for that. Charred right under the burner in the oven at 350 degrees- and I’ll be damned if it didn’t work. I’m still astounded by the cook’s trade secret.
My coleslaw was a mere affection. The artificial processed stuff we come across at so many other eateries (though I have to admit, a guilty pleasure). However, that said, there was too much right going on to really feel wronged.

My onions, fried in a batter of pepper and dill were nothing out of the ordinary, but certainly done appropriately: the crisp batter was balanced by the natural sweetness of the onions, which, I might add, didn’t pull apart like the chewy strings that make the fare so off-putting. The captain certainly runs a tight ship.
And my chocolate fritter? I’m at a loss for something that was so satisfying. A waffled texture and a thick chewy centre (not runny) with a nice cinnamon note that had me wondering how it was done, and how much more decadent it could be, as blue collar as it was. Love at first bite? I think so. That said, let The Boat’s Sirenic foods call you out. Don’t be fools and leave it stranded.

THE BOAT: FISH AND CHIPS
805 King Street North
Waterloo, ON
(NO NUMBER)

THURS-SUN 11AM- 7PM 

CASH ONLY

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The Toxic Other

This morning on television I saw a chef make what he claimed was an Asian soup. An udon soup. As far as I'm concerned it was a bastardized version of Asian cuisine which had as many different blurring flavours as possible, and which just muddied it up and made it an exotic Othering dish for the Whitest of eaters. Now, as per usual, I'm a staunch supporter of nothing authentic, but goddamn if I wasn't shocked. This 'chef'- I think his name was Rob Fini- is no chef in my mind. Why? His coup de grace was drizzling olive oil into a bowl of 'udon soup.' Why? Because, he claimed, it looked good.

Fuck flavour, fuck focus- just put flavours you call 'Asian' in a dish- ginger, soy sauce, fish sauce, mint, coriander, basil- call it Asian. What the hell's the point? There's nothing there you can appreciate, mainly because there's nothing there to focus on. Now, I've been to Japanese hole-in-walls in J-Town in Northern Ontario where the Japanese chefs make dope fusion cuisine between Italian and Japanese, like an udon carbonara- that shit was dope. It was simple and it had focus.

Rob Fini- if that is your real name- you're a playboy- not a chef- or at least, not a good one. Go write a cookbook for rich White women. As far as I'm concerned- you don't know how to eat.

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Come and Catch the Sickness

	It's art, dad.

Vegetarians beware. Carnivores rejoice. Omnivores, you too. The Lancaster Smokehouse has inherited one of the city’s most proletariat of spaces and made a place for the most troubled of us eaters looking for food to pacify us against a sea of working class troubles. Where the portions will spoil you, and the waitresses will introduce you to other waitresses, if you’re charming enough to ask them. Let your troubles melt away, come and catch the sickness, because you haven’t lived until you’ve eaten at Hog Tails BBQ’s bigger little brother.

You heard right, the popular joint has expanded its business and transformed a dear old dive of mine, the Lancaster House Tavern- a place where serious drinkers would mock you by asking where your sherry was- into a champion of barbecue and Southern eating.

Now, I ain’t ever been to New Orleans, but I reckon if I’d a’ gone, this place sho’ woulda reminded me a momma’s cookin’. Maybe papa’s. Maybe ma brudda, o’ a’ sista’s. A forty-five minute wait at a shy hour or two before the place is set to close on a Friday night can’t tell no lie. The food’s gotta be great; either that, or the remote location makes it the most exploitable restaurant in the area. And don’t let the look of the place fool you either. The tables may remind you of your grandmother’s farmhouse, it may look like a ghost of its former self, trying to come to some sort of covenant with its new conventions, it may look like everyone’s having a family reunion at the same time in the same space, like some big picnic with walls. It may even remind you of some sort of tacky set up for a joke. Something along the lines of: a school, a pool hall, and a basement apartment decide to diplomatically go into the restaurant design business and accept each other’s respective love for orange walls, lacquered tables, and cobblestone pillars; punch line, laugh, and so on. Will it affirm an identity in the future? I don’t know. But I don’t care, because with an atmosphere of lively customers, a band playing blues and guitars squealing higher than the pigs slaughtered to make the pulled pork sandwiches, the look of the place is the most of the Smokehouse’s troubles. That’s right. I said most.

I can’t begin to properly tell you what’s on the menu. An array of fare from expected barbecue dernier cri like ribs, and sandwiches, to Louisiana favourites like gumbo, shrimp calas, and jambalaya, to anomalies like pig tails. Yes, it has it all, and we got it all: Carolina style pulled pork sandwiches, pico de gallo- that’s salsa for those of you who don’t know- and what the place calls Texas fries. Or what the waitress affectionately described as ‘poutine on crack.’ We laughed. But don’t worry, dear readers, I told her there was nothing funny about mixing food metaphors with drug abuse. We ordered so much, the staff obligingly put two tables together. People couldn’t help but stare in appetizing admiration. And if you think it cost an arm and a leg, guess again, nachos were plentiful, the fries were larger than two grown mens’ heads and the pulled pork a mile high. But we’s a just gettin’ started.

	I wish she was my neighbour. Coincidentally, I wish I had better camera skills.

Like the hoi polloi we were, we asked for everything at once. No need for any eating pretenses, we intended to dig in and dig in we did.

Our pico de gallo was a fresh cut of big clumsy cubed Roma tomatoes, green onions, red jalapeno’s, cilantro, olive oil, and lime juice, partnered with house nachos sworn fresh, but unfortunately, rather stale and greasy, not crisp and airy as expected. And although the salsa was a quenching compliment to all the savoury food we ordered, it did little to hinder the chips’ stale quality. The size of the salsa’s pieces was also a mess to eat. Without the tenacious quality we expect from popular salsas- that kind of viscosity that grabs onto whatever is dipped in them, we were hard pressed to tiredly fork it onto each chip. I could appreciate the sentiment of making a fresh salsa, but hated the practicality. Still, that was about as bad as the meal got. It was all uphill from there.


The Texas fries were the paramount player of our meal. Fries swamped by blushed bits of tender pink brisket and fatty gristle the size of my fingers were smothered in a white cheddar cheese and gravy. I was glad the place had the boldness to sell such a daring dish. The fries absorbed a smoky quality, and the peppery cheese blended well with the silky quality of the meat. For an 8 dollar dish it was more than worth it.

Our piled high pulled pork sandwich was a calm combination of bald slow cooked pork, mild but uplifting thanks to the homemade peppery coleslaw piled on top, and the sweet familiar sauce on top of that. I was relieved the pork was an arid constitution, not saturated in its own juices like the sandwiches I’ve had before that do nothing but make every grinder I have fall apart, resulting in a wet, frustrating mess. Of course it was messy, but it was fun. And the chewy Portuguese dinner roll that wrapped itself around it did a good job of matching the pork’s own textural tone.

For me, it was a dream come true for barbecue, and if dreams come true in New Orleans, then they certainly come true at the Smokehouse. And if, by some culinary act of providence, the Smokehouse ever decides to make beignets, I’ll have no qualms about never waking up.



The Lancaster Smokehouse
519 743 4331
574 Lancaster St. W, Kitchener, ON
N2K 1M3

Mon – Wed: 11am – 9pm
Thurs – Sat: 11am – 10pm
Closed Sundays

ALL PAYMENTS

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