Pizza Pedantic

I’ve much personal angst when it comes to the gourmet pizza joint. Maybe it’s because of the cruel tutelage of an uncle who dedicated the second half of his life to making some of the city’s best pizza, and who constantly fixed mine; maybe it’s because of the painful memories of lifting a paddle up into an oven that was taller than myself- burning my knuckles, bruising my ego. Or maybe it was the standards of almost all places, which made me forge health inspector letters in desperate attempts to fix the complacent sanitation problems that my employers refused to acknowledge. Whatever the case, my experiences with the pizza place, even the most cosmopolitan one, serve as some of my first disjointed experiences with the food industry, and make me feel, even today, a little leery of every spot. However, today I felt I owed it to my readership to face the Neapolitan demons that keep my own gastronomic identity in constant flux.

Mon Ami: Pizza and Restaurant is another culinary symptom of charmed cosmopolitanism. Declaring itself to be the best, a motto appropriated by an ironically large number of pizza places in this city, Mon Ami situates itself in the urbane tech location of Kitchener’s Tannery Building, visited by the most technologically intelligent and gastronomically inclined (presumably).

Its space may be as tactful as its rhetorically pandering menu. Bamboo place-mats rest atop thick wooden tables, and even heavier wooden chairs with faux log appendages wait patiently for customers who look to leisurely fill them in and make the malapropos chateau that is the restaurant’s dining room. I can only recall spaces like these in popular history in the coldest forests of Eastern Europe, or, more surprisingly, in the isolated teashops of kung fu movies- the Chinese invented pizza anyway, right? Add to that plastic stone veneers and a stone oven, and you stand to come a little more nostalgically close to the assumed pizzerias of the culinary world’s authentic past. Then again, design choices like wall lamps and paintings of England’s flag turn the dining space into something riddled with so much unfocussed romantic cathartic that it’s hard to take any gormandism seriously. And unfortunately, the menu does the same to bolster this pedantic gastronomic dynamic, which is an obvious tactic for charging customers a little extra. That’s right dear diners, at Mon Ami Pizza, an inappropriately French name for a fare that is obviously Italian, you are allowed the choice of gourmet toppings (for a little more money), or classic toppings- a pizza pie paradox if I do say so myself. And if a pizza from 9.99 to 24.99 isn’t, for whatever reason, what you want in a pizza shop, don’t fret, because there are the unavoidable menu options that seem more obligatory than essential, like chicken wings, lasagna, salads, and sandwiches. Now, it’d be unfair to judge these things, because I tried nary a one, but with the many premade pizza options, I wondered, why bother?

A small 9” pizza was what I limited myself to for lunch. That, and a quick espresso. It always intrigues me why coffee exists in pizza shops like these, and also makes me a little hopeful; hopeful that these pizza connoisseurs will go the extra mile and care for coffee as much as they supposedly do for pizza. Alas, that wasn’t the case today. It was a dull and stoney brew, watered down, and a little bitter, with grit at the bottom. Absolute sacrilege.

The prosciutto pizza was my choice meal. Something I’m familiar with, and one of the pizzas I’ve learned to prepare with fearful and artisanal accuracy. Topped with ricotta cheese, spinach, mushrooms, herbs, and of course, that cured temperamental meat: prosciutto, I was willing to risk any future relationship with Mon Ami.

I was quick to respond to the thicker than usual pieces of prosciutto topped with cheese that were yellowed and dried out in the oven. I dug around for mushrooms, cooked unevenly, and was disappointed by the flavor drowning mozzarella. On top of that, there was the usual sprinkling of oregano I see on too many gourmet pizzas.

The prosciutto itself had an overpowering salty quality more reminiscent of fried bacon than that cured, almost fermented flavor of a fresh slice of the meat. In my pizza heyday, prosciutto was put on at the very end when the pie came out of the oven so as to avoid any saltiness. This time, that wasn’t the case. The potential for any unevenly baked mushrooms was also avoided by making sure the things were the last toppings put on the pie. Instead, here they were mixed throughout without a chance to lose all water. With an unwelcomed amount of cheese, they were either moist or still raw- but at least fresh enough that they weren’t too off putting. Surprisingly, and against all of my own prejudice, the spinach –which I thought would do absolutely nothing for the dish- contributed a beautiful grassy flavor that calmed any unbearable saltiness. And the other saving grace? When the crust wasn’t saturated and wet from sauce, it had a nice light texture, almost like cake. Unfortunately, this was few and far between. It was more flaccid and wet when I picked it up by hand, the ingredients sliding off in clumps.

By the end, I found myself forcibly adding fuel to the fire that was in my belly. I can’t say the pizza was absolutely bad, but I can say I expected better. Maybe it was the space, it seemed too new, too professional, albeit culturally mismatched. I’ll be bold and say this much: Mon Ami makes expensive pizza, and if you pay for it, you’ll get a slice of pie that isn’t half-assed like the boilerplate pizzeria pizza slices we happily pay low prices for when we’re just plain hungry. So you won’t get half-assed pizza. That’s all. Pizza that’s not half-assed. NOT half-assed. That’s all, Mon Amis.

	I'd like to blame the picture on the pizza itself.

Mon Ami Pizza & Restaurant
519-570-9992
151 Charles St. W.
Kitchener

Mon-Wed: 11:00am - 9:00pm
Thu-Sat: 11:00am - 9:30pm
Sun: 12:00pm - 8:30pm

Any payment

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The Silk Road

I feel pretty comfortable with all of you, dear readers. That’s why I was turning over in my mind telling you a story of culinary heartache. How a rich second generation Chinese girl from Beijing first introduced me to the food of mainland China, out-ate me, stole my heart, and how that kid from Hong Kong, in reckless panache-y Cyrano fashion, attempted to woo her for me, and the food-hole it all happened in. How we tried, and we failed, and how some fish brought us closer together. Yes, it would have been a romantic backdrop for one of my most treasured places, but a new place caught my eye instead, and if there’s anything food has taught me, it’s that I’ve loved women, but I’ve loved food more, and no heart can ever serve two masters.

Trivialities of aside, if you happen to be one of the privileged fuerdai occupying Laurelwood’s suburbs- buying homes, studying, missing the red land, and yearning for food (I can only imagine) both familiar and done extremely right, then why not give Bogda Restaurant a try? Don’t let its salutation of ‘Central Asia & Japanese Food’ fool you, I did that already. To be brutally honest, its 5 dollar student special attracted me, but its unfocussed, all encompassing menu had me expecting the most mundane culinary delights, like sushi and fried rice, and whatever else existed across the pan-asian menu. Luckily, any prosaic pap was off the menu today, and my company and I were given the choice of 3 things on the menu. Over and over again. But before you prejudge my presumably blind adoration of yet another place you assume I romanticize, only to find out it’s alright after you visit it, let me ask you, is there any place in this entire city that makes hand-pulled noodles? This is obviously rhetorical. Bogda is the only place. And its fusion food fare, ripe with Mongolian, Uyghur, even Turkish influences. If authenticity is a real thing, and we are to kid ourselves that it is, then Bogda is as close as Asian cuisine comes around here. Even if two or three items on the menu (two or three affordably stupefying items) are the only things made as fresh and from scratch as possible.



My heart burst when a plate of pulled noodles was placed between me and my company. I’d spent years searching, summers reading anthropological studies, long nights attempting to make something even remotely close, and here it was finally in front of me. Each exponentially long strand was chewy, buoyant, and fresh, territorialized with knolls like little hands that grabbed every bit of sauce they were soaked in- a true characteristic of fresh made noodles which dry quickly, and are controlled only by the most practiced hands. We ate round ones, ones that were broad and flat; every kind of fresh noodle Bogda’s matriach could create, we ate with jubilation.

Our first dish, ban mian: flat noodles, a paradoxically round udon, was paired with cuts of greens, cabbage, dry roasted chili peppers, Szechuan peppercorns, beef, and a small spirit of ginger all in an acidic savoury sauce that I likened to stewed tomatoes. It made our tongues tingle, moored us with the nutty, spicy elements of the chilis that dominated the sauce’s astringency, and upheaved itself with the citron flavours of the peppercorns and ginger.


Our next astonishing, and large, plate was a lamb stew nested in broad, flat noodles. It was one surprise after the other. Garnished with, of all risky things, fresh leeks, it was a close cousin of our first dish, accompanied this time with generous bits of garlic, cumin, dried chillis, Szechuan pepper, potatoes, and a meaty broth that each noodle playfully dived back into after escaping our chopsticks. The pieces of lamb were so tender I found myself chewing even the bones. The leeks’ pungency cut through any richness, something I never experienced before.


And if those noodles weren’t enough, we were offered a courtesy plate of even more, this time slathered in a simple sauce with slices of carrot, chili flakes, and greens. And though we may have had more than enough to eat, we made it our duty to try the lamb kabobs. Fragrant pieces of lamb welded to the steel skewers they were cooked on. Their earthiness was complimented by the spiciness of the cumin and chili, pearled by the moisture that oozed from each bit of flesh. Fatty at times, and if pulling hairs, a little dry, but good nonetheless. But what do such mild faux pas matter? I finally found the fresh noodles I spent a better part of 5 years looking for. Yes, dear readers, the road to heaven has been a steep one, but it has finally led me to Bogda Restaurant.

BOGDA RESTAURANT
645 Laurelwood Drive
Waterloo, ON
N2V 2W9
 
519-725-0885

Mon-fri 12pm-9pm
Sat 12pm-8pm
Sun- 1pm-8pm

Any payment

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D'Island

I’ve never eaten Jerk, nor have I ever made the effort to cook it. I did have a sibling who grew up eating the stuff and exposing me to ox tail and rice more than I’d care to remember. That said, you may not think I have much right to write about Caribbean food in general. But here’s my rhetorical counterpoint: having never eaten Jerk eliminates any bias ostentation I may have about the cuisine in general; there are no cultural culinary underpinnings to influence my perception besides the food’s actual taste. It all works in your favour, comrades. Your gastronomic guide isn’t familiar with all foods. Maybe I’m a little ashamed, but only a little. I’ll admit it, I only started food writing to motivate myself years ago while studying Chinese and Japanese, even more so to not feel so bad about dropping mad cash on congee for years. I’ve spent a small fortune. My beleaguered mother said I could have gone to cooking school using the money I spent. Love you too, Mom.

But eating’s an adventure, after all. That’s why I do it. To keep my life as novel as possible. For the most part, it works. A wise man once said, if you’re unhappy with your life, introduce more things to it. A superficial admission, but not without truth. Inspiring quotes aren’t how I keep my life interesting. But looking for new places is, and the Island Grill extended any gastronomic novelty in my life for at least one more week.

I never thought I’d be backed into any comestible corners in my life. But sometimes it happens. Sometimes it can be a blessing. Today was a good blessing. Even though the two places I went to prior were closed; even though I remembered the days I would wait outside the noodle shop beside the Island Grill’s plaza when I was early for my Chinese class thinking about how I’d probably never eat at the Island Grill. I was more cynical in my youth. I’m much more optimistic now. Like today, for example. I thought it might be nice to pretend I’m somewhere warm, far, far away. It might be nice to try something new. And it was.

The space may have seemed sparse and ill-matched, but it wasn’t uninviting. I liked its original dining space: patriated by Jamaica’s colours, crowded with a la carte items behind a glass counter, riddled with DVDs, spices, television, a welcoming cook and his grandmother. Next door was its bigger dining hall, fit with booths, club lights, a very well equipped bar and speakers. Though a quiet afternoon, I wouldn’t be surprised if the Island Grill saw some exciting nights. With all that and a ubiquitous mural of palm trees and sand I couldn’t deny its cajoling island feel, postcolonial, and weathered (in spirit), but enticing nonetheless.



Having no bearing on what to eat we were given some jerk chicken to sway us. Jerk chicken it was. The menu isn’t intimidating, but it does have enough food to make you think deeply. From curries, to hamburgers, to island favourites, all with island overtones. The a la carte caught my eye. Pastries and dumplings, cheap and inexpensive, waiting to me plucked from behind the glass. I asked for the gizzada, a Jamaican tart filled with shredded coconut and spice, resembling the butter tarts we’re so conventionally used to, but with an obvious twist. An affordable 2.50 for two palm sized portions. I certainly couldn’t complain about the price, or the flavor, though the hearty composure of the thing made chewing something oriented toward strong jaws. Nothing would stop me from getting it again though. Maybe the black cake, or other a la carte items.


When we made up our minds, picked our novelty Caribbean soft drinks and sat ourselves down we asked for, of all things, the jerk chicken. A safe bet, but pushed by the cook nonetheless. Accompanying that was a large bowl of fluffy rice coloured pink by red kidney beans, aptly referred to as peas by our cook, and maybe a little equivocated. It was a portion we thought unnecessary, but later appreciated as it helped to slurp up the rich sauce left over from our jerk chicken.


Accompanying the dish was a chicken soup, flavoured with thyme and hot spices, squash and the bad bits of chicken I personally love to grind between my teeth. It was a familiar thing, coloured amber by the squash, I assume, used to make it. Our salad, another equivocated fare, was a good helping of coleslaw, which I always look forward to. This time however, it missed that vinegary tang I so often love in the stuff. This time it was light, regardless of the savoury mayonnaise used to dress it.

Obviously, our jerk chicken was the most exciting. By the meal’s end we could have done without the side dishes- and the menu does give you the option, making it even more affordable.

If I’ve any disappointment with the dish, it’s that our food came warm rather than hot- an unfortunate symptom of the big batches of food cooked at a time and warmed later. Still, I managed to overlook it, distracted by the rich flavor of the sauce reminiscent of dishes stewed in tomato. Adding to its element was a spicy, smokey flavor that penetrated the meat and turned it into a moist, tender pull that fell off the bone. Not tough, not dry, not elastic like poorly cooked chicken. Again, this chicken could have just been served on its own, no need for sides that are mere pretenses. And even though the flavours weren’t new, the menu remained curious enough to lure me back in the future with hope of something new, novel, and exciting.

Island Grill
2934 King Street East
N2A 1A7
519-895-0010


Sun 8:00am - 9:00pm
Mon-Thurs 8:00am - 11:00pm
Fri-Sat 8:00am - 2:00am

Any Payment

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