The Ship

The Augusta Street district of Hamilton has become known for the quality and quantity of its pubs. The Cat and Fiddle and the Winking Judge are noted for their longevity; the Pheasant Plucker and Aout and About are recognized for their comraderie.

One of the newer residents of the avenue is The Ship, previously the Spotted Pig, previously the much-missed salon de thé, Delicieux. It has undergone these transformations rapidly, in the last three to four years, but the nautical theme appears to have been the winner, appearing to be popular with the locals. We threw on our most casual ascot and a pair of our more cheerful cuff-links and sallied forth for dinner on a cold and snowy evening.

If one were to summarize the tone and tenor of The Ship as a restaurant, one would necessarily identify it as a pub that is popular with that bearded, flannel-wearing segment of the younger generation known by the term -- and we hope our research has not failed us here -- as "hipistes". Their horn-rimmed glasses and wool cardigans are dotted about the place, even counting among their number, if we are not mistaken, the proprietor of the pub itself. We tolerate -- nay, demand -- that personal style be the choice of its wearer, so long at it is worn with grace and confidence; however, we took note of the clientèle in order to make sense of the décor in the establishment.

The walls are strewn with what might, in a pub with a different set of patrons, be taken as earnest references to maritime culture. Paintings of clippers, clay busts of grizzled sailors' visages, and yes, even the requisite fish-net draped along the wall were all among the bric-a-brac meeting the eye in any direction. But given the look of the customers, we suspect that the effect of these accoutrements is intended to be "ironic" -- not in its literary, or what one might call its actual, sense, but in that more common modern sense which might best be defined as "something which I find funny, but I know not why".

But no matter. The décor is agreeable enough, and we had arrived not to look, but to consume. We began with pints of beer, and on this score we entreated the server to identify for us a beer of the darker sort -- we felt that, when rubbing elbows in a maritime pub, a pint of something black might endear us more easily to the locals. The server informed us that they had no dark beers tapped at the moment, but offered a selection of red and amber beers that might meet our approval. We glanced towards the bar and found that, indeed, a good dozen or so beer-taps were on display, so we selected a Mill Street Extra Special Bitter, which was indeed quite enjoyable.

We perused the menu for some time. It is comprised mainly of sea-food items, from the common, fish and chips, to the interesting, salmon pot pie, to the unexpected, alligator and chips. A small number of interesting terrestrial dishes were also on offer, particularly a sausage and sweet potato shepherd's pie; and indeed, the special that night was a caribou Hamburger-sandwich topped with mushrooms. Having heard that the venue's reputation for sea-food preparation was quite positive, we opted for halibut, which was to be breaded, fried, and served in the style of a Hamburger sandwich. Our dining companion, who dines at The Ship rather more often than we, chose instead the special.

The meals were served reasonably quickly, and our disappearing beverages were replaced to fortify us for the repast as well. We are pleased to report that cook in the galley is quite capable; although we do not see great challenge in breading and frying fish, we find it a task far too often performed incompetently. But out halibut was crisply fried but not greasy, had a coating that afforded an appropriate snap, but was not overly thick; the fish itself was hot, flaky, and moist. Paired with lettuce and homemade tartar sauce, we felt this was an excellent approach to the fish-sandwich problem.

The caribou Hamburger-sandwich was a rather surprising tower of meat and condiments. Our server arrived shortly before our suppers to inform our companion that the chef was nearly out of mushrooms, and that he hoped our companion would accept, in lieu of a full complement of mushrooms, cheese on the sandwich instead. Our companion acquiesced, and his chopped caribou steak was indeed topped with a great deal of cheddar cheese, as well as no real shortage of mushrooms. The meal was by all accounts quite toothsome.

The only slight hiccough in the evening came with the cheque; the halibut sandwich, which was marked at $13 on the bill of fare, was in fact charged at $14.69 in the final accounting. While we do not deny the higher price was appropriate for the well-made meal, and we chose not to bring the discrepancy to the attention of the server, we were nevertheless slightly annoyed at the mistake. However, we decided that the server was probably not at all at fault, and tipped generously for her attentiveness.

In all, The Ship is a welcome addition to the Augusta corridor. Well-made food of a slightly different bent from the typical pub food is always welcome, and we intend to return to sample further items from their menu.

Bistro Narra

We descended upon Bistro Narra with high hopes; we are repeated visitors to Narra's sibling restaurant, the Apricot Tree, and we were more than happy to patronize the family's newest offerings.

The clincher, however -- if we may proffer a pugilistic metaphor -- was the esepecial crêpe revelrie that is currently ongoing at said Bistro. We consulted with our dining companion, and concluded that if crêpes were on offer, then of crêpes we ought to partake.

Bistro Narra was underattended when we arrived; this state of affairs, we are happy to report, would not last, as several diners appeared whilst we were partaking of Narra's wares. We began with a poached shrimp appetizer. We are partial to crustaceans of all sorts, and although we are not partial to avocado, we enjoyed them with the obviously homemade guacamole tower that accompanied them.

All of the wagers were, of course, off once the main courses arrived. Our own selection was entitled the "Shrimp 'n' Love" crêpe; we are unsure of the moniker's origin, but we hoped that it accurately reflected the care with which the dish was prepared. We were not disappointed; we were, in fact, so enamoured with the brandy-sauce as to demand that our dining companion taste and enjoy it herself immediately upon its arrival, which she did with much approval.

And yet, we were to meet even greater heights before the evening passed. Our dining companion selected the lobster crêpe, and entreated us to taste of it almost immediately. We did so, and were treated to the genius of flavour that are fixtures at the Apricot Tree: herbal essence, present without dominating; sauce, with body and creaminess to befit their medium; main ingredient, allowed to display its sweetness and delicacy without restraint. This was, we aver, an excellent lobster crêpe.

But all was not completed with the lobster crêpe. Our dining companion insisted, we maintain, that the PB&J (which initials, we learned, stand for "peanut butter askance fruit-jelly") crêpe would cap our repast. This was a crêpe enwrapping peanut butter mousse and tidy rectangles of strawberry jelly; it was accompanied by a most agreeable strawberry sorbet, which we discovered to contain a refreshing, fruity flavour, as well as a number of small white chocolate morsels to add texture.

We hope we do not belabour the point to describe the crêpe's peanut-butter cream filling to be perfectly balanced between crushed nut-meat and creamy umami; the strawberry jelly to be perfectly composed in strength of both flavour and texture; and the wholesale effect to be a rarefied balance of salt and sweet; savoury and satisfying; succulent and... we imagine we have illustrated the character of the dish by this point.

In short, Bistro Narra failed in any aspect to dissatisfy. We noted also that they had taken the very best of The Apricot Tree's table-staff to attend to Narra's patrons, which is to be commended; if any criticism is to be levelled at the Apricot experience, we have found, it is typically at the table-staff. But Bistro Narra here surpassed all expectations.

We hereby commend the arrival of Bistro Narra, and wish it well -- with or without the especial crêpe menu. Our hopes are with you.

You would dislike us if we were to become angry.

First, we are forced to acknowledge with saddened visage and downcast eye our regrettable absence of these last many months. It was not our intent to disappear for so long, and the longer the disappearance, the greater the hesitance to return.

If our return is welcomed, our friends would thank Burlington's Nonna's Cucina Ristorante for inspiring it. For we have not often left a restaurant in such bad spirits as we left Nonna's tonight.

Our friend was arriving by aeroplane to Toronto from a business voyage to Saxony, and we were tasked with conveying him from there to Hamilton. As his arrival was near supper-time, we thought that a stop for a meal on our way to be in order. Our party numbered three; our other companion wished to try a newish Italian venue in Burlington; we called Nonna's and made a reservation. All was, we thought, rather well in the world.

When we rolled up to the door, we found that our reservation to have shown good forethought, as the restaurant was middling busy, and not a single parking-space remained in the lot. No matter, we thought, and parked behind a closed office next door. We arrived at the hostess's podium three minutes before our reservation time.

Unfortunately, a couple of other diners had arrived shortly before us, and although we could espy several empty tables in the dining-room, the hostess, a busboy, and a server could not together find an appropriate place for them. Solution: we watched in disbelief as they gave our reserved table away to the couple. With her problem so dispatched, the hostess turned to us and inquired as to whether they might assist us.

It took some time to sort out our seating -- it was rather confusing for our trio, after all, having solved the first difficulty only to be presented with another. But after an expense of only time and patience on our part, we were presented with a table and three menus.

Of course, with our returning traveller at the table, we were not short of small-talk, but after ten or fifteen minutes conversation languished and we began to cast about for a server of some description, whom we could perhaps ask for an imbibement and perhaps a small bite to eat. After watching a young gentleman take orders from every other table in the section, and beginning to fear we were the subject of some elaborate prank, the young gentleman presented himself to us, and asked if he might bring us some drinks.

Water, certainly, we suggested; a number of suitable dinner-time refreshments, we added; and if it would not be too much trouble, perhaps he might take our dinner order as well? Grilled calamari to begin; the lasagna for our traveller; pizza quattro stagione for our other companion; and bucatini amatriciana for our good self.

We ought, we think, to say a word or two concerning the menu. A number of appetizers are included, as well as a handful of salads; these run about twelve to fourteen dollars. Then a selection of pastas and pizzas; these similarly priced at about ten to fourteen dollars. Also a selection of pesci and carne; these approximate sixteen to thirty dollars. Finally, the contorni; these side dishes each six dollars. We gathered that the carne and pesci are presented unencumbered by side dishes. The pastas and pizzas therefore represent an attractive value; the Insalata Cesare, being a normal-sized bowl, after all, of vegetables and dressing, represents the lowest value for one's dollar.

The Calamari alla Griglia, however, remains a contender for the title. For at fourteen dollars, there were presented a total of two smallish grilled squid; they were cooked nicely and dressed reasonably well -- lacking salt, we felt, and overburdened with lemon zest -- but we found the entire presentation somewhat misrepresented by its price. Still, chefs being what they are, we were ready to forgive upon receiving the rest of our order.

We watched the kitchen door in vain; we watched the levels in our glasses slip further and further towards the tabletop. The diners around us had all received their meals, even those who had arrived after us; yet we waited.

At long last, our meals were presented -- by a gentleman other than our server, as it happens. The lasagna was reported to be toothsome; the pizza crust quite good, and the sauce well-flavoured. Our bucatini were accompanied by a pleasant tomato-sauce, and topped with a crisply-fried round of pancetta, all of which we received gratefully. However, the pasta was studded with overly large and rather undercooked lardons of pancetta, as well as small chunks of similarly undercooked onion. While we were not terribly impressed, we were by this point leaning towards the ravenous side of the hunger spectrum, and were willing to give these defects a pass.

Our food was soon gone, except for a couple of pieces of the pizza; all of the glasses on the table were now dry. And, from the time of the delivery of our meals, we had been alone.

Of course, there were others near us, though many customers in our area had begun to depart. We cannot say whether a severe and localized weather-pattern might have covered our table in a fog, or what black magical art (in which neither are we schooled, nor do we believe one jot) might have obscured us from human view. But our server steadfastly refused to appear, and no one else had taken his place tableside.

Ten minutes after our meals were finished, we began to attempt to flag down one of the gentlemen who had visited our table beforehand; we found no success. After fifteen minutes, we waylaid a passing server on her way to -- heaven forfend! -- serve her customers, and sent her on with instructions to summon our own server, whoever or wherever he might be, immediately.

After only another few minutes, our man hove into view. We asked in no uncertain terms that the leftover pizza put in a suitable container for transportation, and the bill be proffered, post-haste. Our server made inquiries as to our enjoyment of our meals, and whether any orders of coffee might be forthcoming.

Feeling that our plain directive had somehow been misunderstood, we again ordered the pizza boxed, and the bill written up, without delay.

Our server, at this point, leaned across the table towards us; looked us keenly and squarely in the eye; and instructed us not to become upset.

Now, we are neither brigand nor dastard; we do not readily fall to the pugilistic arts when a viciously-phrased letter or stern phone call might prove more successful. However, stare across the table at us in such a manner, especially after woeful dereliction of duty, and then rudely suggest that our own countenance ought to be adjusted; there, sir, you have made a Rough Customer of the Droll Bastard.

We neither turned nor blinked; we raised our voice a decibel or two; and, hoping our furious gaze might bore like a drill into his shrivelled soul, gave our directions again, forming them this time into clear commands; and informed him as well that, since we had been abandoned for quite some time now, we felt quite able to decide for ourselves how upset we might be about the level of service we had received.

It was not a battle he could have won. His gaze dropped to the table; he gathered the remains of our dinner into a pile and toddled off, returning quickly with the bill. We paid by credit, scribbled the most appropriate amount for a tip, and made to depart.

The serving-gentleman, to his minuscule credit, stopped us at the door. He attempted to explain that he did not mean to upset us, and that he was a professional, but it being a busy Saturday evening, he could not help --

We stopped him there, and asked his leave to make a point or two of our own. First, we had been abandoned at our table for some time, without a query as to our satisfaction since our meals arrived; this was unacceptable. Second, we did not tolerate anyone, especially members of a staff whose pay depended on our custom, leaning across tables and staring us down. Therefore, we concluded, since we could not see reason to return, we could leave the matter there.

We turned our back on him, and on Nonna's Cucina Ristorante, and passed into the far more agreeable night air outside.

Breaking Fast in Cambridge and its Environs

While we appreciate, and wish to encourage others to enjoy, the finer and more august aspects of the palate, we are yet moved, altogether too often of a sunny Saturday morn, to hie ourselves down to a local toasterie and make our way outside of one or two rashers of bacon, slices of toasted bread, banger-sausages, and lightly fried chicken-eggs. We are fortunate to find ourselves among an abundance of establishments ready to ease over a yolk and home-fry a potato on demand. Herewith we shall provide a rounding-up of our local experiences, both positive and negative, of breakfasts eaten under and around the local weekend edition.

We caution the reader that the vignettes to follow are presented in no particular order, and we urge our dear reader to infer our scatter-shot rankings only from the content of our opinions.

Cora

With a Montreal pedigree and double-digit price range, one might expect something special from Cora. One will inevitably be disappointed. For this breakfast-house -- and they do, we assure you, specialize in breakfasts -- seems to have put the sizzle mostly forward, and the steak, if indeed there is any such thing, securely in a back room, defended by an angry, and possibly armed, leopard. On our two visits to the place, our breakfast was accompanied by a rather embarrassing construction of sliced fruits; the breakfast itself, however, was not so much constructed as tossed, with apparent abandon, at the plate. For this we paid, on average, in excess of twelve dollars per diner. The coffee was also inferior. We recommend giving Cora, as you would any other strange Frenchwoman accompanied by tropical fruits, a respectful berth.

Toasters

It was here, we can say without fear of contradiction, that we first encountered the term "Newfie Steak". While we were more than cognizant of these terms' individual connotations, we were at a loss to understand what their combination might signify.

"Fried bologna", our server explained when pressed, which seems unfair to Newfoundlanders, living, as they do, only slightly to the right of a large population that seems equally dedicated to the consumption of the very same emulsified luncheon-meat. However, we felt that any establishment wishing to hide its Bologna-style-sausage-related preparations must have some sense of discretion, and we became instant fans of Toasters. Having dined there numerous times, we wish to attest to the friendliness of their servers, speed of their service (even amid the Saturday morning crowds), appropriate temperature of their coffee, and enjoyableness of their food. We hope they continue there for some time.

Country Boy

We have heard rumours of ill-treated staff and inadequate food-safety procedures at Country Boy; this does not, it would seem, dissuade the punters a single jot, as they line up manifold at Country Boy to attend his breakfast-hour. The breakfasts here are at least harmless, and at best adequate; however, we cannot help but feel that said Boy has confused us with his cattle, and expects no more than to milk us and shove us heartily in the direction of the pasture. We find the food edible, but the loud and crowded atmosphere slightly less than tolerable. We expend the effort to make our way here very rarely indeed.

Cambridge Restaurant

Near the entrance of the Cambridge Restaurant is a photogravure from the inter-war period that depicts Preston's Main Street; a shingle proclaiming a restaurant may be clearly seen by any keen-eyed viewer. This attests to the establishment's fine and long-standing claim to the august address among Preston's finest and longest-standing businesses. Here, if one can find a table, it is well worth one's while to hail a passing waitress and order up an egg or two, accompanied by both sausages and hashed-brown potatoes.

However, we hope our reader will permit us a slightly amusing and thoroughly horrifying aside. On one visit to the Camb., we requested of a server some milk for our coffee (the coffee, we maintain, requires such doctoring to be consumed with appropriate weekend gusto). We were surprised at the alacrity with which she fulfilled our request, proffering in a quarter-second or so a small glass of the blanc-et-froid. However, we goggled -- yes, our dear friends, goggled is indeed the appropriate term -- when our dining-companion notified us that the speed was due to the server's acquiring the milk from a nearby table whose occupants had recently vacated. Upon a brief inspection, we ascertained a noticeable amount of women's lip-pigment affixed to the rim of the glass. We cannot say how we proceeded through the meal, but we assert that little more coffee was drunk that morning.

C.C. Family Restaurant

Under the tiger's head that adorns the C.C. Family Restaurant shingle are the words "BEER" and "ICE CREAM". While we cannot think of a way to combine either food, much less in the presence of a tiger, we were swayed by the nearly constant crowd at C.C. to attend there for breakfast.

The dining-room was packed with, as might be expected, diners; however, the servers managed new entrants with a cheerful mix of English and broken English, and we were never made to feel ignored or abandoned. Their menu is unadventurous, but the food was served at a speed and temperature that is to be marvelled at, even in this age of readily-available Tim Horton's Breakfast-Sandwiches. While the hash browns lacked seasoning, the meal was enjoyable and the buzz of other happy patrons around us was gratifying.

50's Diner

We have waited upwards of twenty minutes for a table at the over-large 50s Diner of a warm, clear Saturday morn; in the appropriate company, such delays are borne with a shrug and slight, permissive smile. However, upon being shown to our eventual table, we cannot help admitting that it is with a sense of a debt unpaid, because amid the erstwhile Buddy Holly and Big Bopper hits playing nearly without caesura, we cannot feel that the food lives up to its billing. Most meals are accompanied by a couple of ounces of seasoned baked beans; the eggs tend to be cooked well, and the hashed potatoes tend to be quite appropriate to the venue. However, we feel often that the lineup is not worth the hassle, and shuffle off to the Cambridge or Toasters instead.

City Cafe

What can be said of a bakery whose staff take such pains to serve their customers, whose bagels are hand-dipt in sesame seeds and baked with loving care in a wood-fired oven, whose coffee is pleasantly rich and safely organic and fair trade? We can only say that we despise the single-serving packets of cheese-flavoured edible oil products, and wish to eat City Cafe's bagels with a more appropriate condiment. Otherwise, however, the place is perfect -- indeed we understand the weight of such a judgement, and we stand by it! -- and we urge all who attend the establishment to happily round up the price of their purchase, and never request change from the workers there. We all must encourage this attention to both quality and humanity, wherever we find it.

Elixir, Bella: a Study in Contrast

This past evening, we chanced upon such bad fortune as to patronise a Mississauga restaurant known as Bella Cucina. That happenstance led us to think on another, slightly less recent visit to a newer Cambridge establishment, the transplanted Elixir removed from Toronto to reside on Main Street in Galt.

We remember, soon after venturing into our new Cambridgeshire home, finding a rather quaint Mediterranean-themed restaurant at that selfsame address; it was called Carnevale, and despite its ill-considered moniker it brought forth meals with bravado, which we appreciated, though it was inconsistent, which we did not appreciate. Carnevale failed, was replaced by we recall not what, and presently was converted to the new home of Elixir.

Having read a review of the place by Drew Edwards, the Record's current bull in the culinary china-shop, we were intrigued enough to try Elixir for ourselves. We enjoy the bistro approach to life: good and wholesome, yet close to home, with a relaxed air of camaraderie. Yes, we -- even we -- pocket the cuff-links, loosen the cummerbund, and exchange our freshest collar for a slightly less starched version on occasion. We donned our about-town ascot and sallied forth to sample the Elixir.

Our initial impression was one of deja vu; however, far from indicating some supernatural force at work, we simply found that the decor and chattels were exactly those of Carnevale, complete with tables containing a plaster rendition of certain Mediterranean islands in the centre. This unfortunate inheritance made the balancing of our San Pellegrino both difficult and annoying, and we hope the owners will consider new surfaces for their tables in good time. In addition, we found an unpleasant odour of must whose source we could not detect; this did detract from the dining experience, and accelerated an otherwise pleasurable repast.

And pleasurable indeed it turned out to be. We ordered the braised lamb shank -- the daily special, we later discovered, by virtue of one entire dollar being deducted from its menu price -- with a dish of calamari in white wine, tomatoes and herbs. Our dining-companion elected to attempt the spaghetti Bolognese, which, we hope it is not improper to indicate, was as we expected, for we know her preferences quite well.

The calamari appeared in good time, and in good humour. It was buoyed by an appreciable, but not overlong, exposure to heat; we have always contended that calamari benefits from either thirty seconds' cooking, or three hours', and we believe this to have been cooked with a baleful eye applied to stop-watch rather than hour-glass. The squid was tender and flavourful, the sweetness of the meat balanced perfectly with the acid of the tomatoes and wine, the savoury yet not overpowering application of herbs, and the pungency of the garlic. We were, we readily admit, impressed, and we impatiently applied bread to sauce in anticipation of the next course.

On that: we are a lover of the ovine flesh; we tend to hear the word "lamb" uttered by a server and agree eagerly at that point to whatever they might offer; we trust, therefore, to luck, and are oftentimes disappointed. This time, however, we not only avoided disappointment, but barred it from the building, ordering it in the sternest possible tones not to present itself again without written apology and letters of reference. The lamb, to be direct, was perfect.

The shank, overall: trimmed masterfully, so that there remained an appreciable amount of fat and collagen, but never so much as to offer more than an accompaniment to the meat.

The meat itself: tender, flavourful, delightfully seasoned, braised within three or four microns, we estimate, of perfection.

And the sauce. There was a fresh, vibrant, and personable tomato sauce, of that we can be sure. The rest we must consign to that marshmallowy part of the memory wherein we store our first opera, our first kiss, and our first realisation that we might actually skim Dickens rather than read him. We retain the memory not in particular, but only its pleasurable surrounding sensations. To the point: it was a sauce conceived of pure and true understanding; prepared by the deft, nearly unconcerned attention of a master; and applied with the sure hand of the friend and confidant.

Our dear friends, we urge you to order the lamb shank.

Our companion found her pasta dish equally agreeable, and although we tasted it and found the ragu exceedingly agreeable, our recollections of that night tend to return to that beautiful, perfectly-balanced, perfectly-applied tomato sauce accompanying the perfectly-cooked lamb shank. We understand that there were mashed, or whipped, potatoes involved also; we cannot account for those, except to note that our plate was cleaned of every speck of dinner-related evidence before we allowed the server to retrieve it from our earnest grasp.

And now, for the contrast.

We were in Mississauga, on business; is there any other excuse to venture there? Our fellow traveller and we felt a modicum of peckishness, and we recalled, previously having journeyed through the area, an Italian-themed restaurant near the intersection of Hurontario and Eglinton Avenues. We suggested this, found assent, and arrived at Bella Cucina Italian Ristorante. Our friends, do not let yourselves be misled as were we; there is indeed a kitchen, of a kind, on premises, but otherwise the sign is an outright perjury.

We will dispense, as far as we can, with detail. We entered, were offered a table, ordered a boite or so of mineral water, and selected the lamb fettucine for ourselves, and the lasagne for our companion. The water arrived soon; the bread, accompanied by its rather tiresome plate of cheap, nearly flavourless and completely characterless olive oil and balsamic vinegar, less so. And then arrived the meals.

We shall dispense with details regarding our companion's lasagne, except to note that it was ruthlessly microwaved; was swimming in what a certain Chef Boiardi's estate would have considered a sauce; and contained a layer of, if one is willing to believe us, mashed potato. While we have now heard of ham as a component of the Calabrian lasagne, we defy anyone -- anyone -- to explain this incomprehensible inclusion.

Our own dish was just slightly better. There was lamb, and there was fettucine, and there was a tomato sauce, all of which had been promised on the chalk-board of daily specials. But the pasta was undercooked -- that it was undercooked only slightly is of no consequence in an expressly Italian venue, for there is either cooked correctly, or failure. And the sauce was of an unpleasantly strident acidity, completely lacking any comprehension or knowledge of the lamb it was to accompany, and completely obscuring the flavour of the several bits of julienned vegetables that were also in the dish.

And there was, apparently, lamb. It lacked flavour as abjectly as it lacked seasoning; it was braised, but the braiser was, we contend, either an idiot or a vandal. For meat, gristle, and fat were in approximately equal measure throughout the dish, and in completely unequal measure in any given forkful. We might find an ounce of meat here, clean and pure; then a stringy bit of gristle there, accompanied by a morsel of fat; then a half-crown-sized slice of fat wrapped around a ha'penny-worth of mutton-flesh.

It was inconsistent; it was difficult to consume; it was unfortunate in nearly every way. And as we picked through it, determined to derive sufficient sustenance from the meal to propel ourselves away from the place, and Mississauga itself, we thought on the lamb we enjoyed with such gusto in Cambridge, and how very far away it was, and how the chef at Bella, such as he might be, has farther, so much farther, to go.

We have added Elixir once or twice to our diary for the upcoming weeks, so that we will not fail to see them before we depart the sunny shores of the Grand and the Speed. While we might find other tables worth attending in our new locale, it is important, we believe, for both the intellect and the soul, to remember with fondness and enjoy unreservedly those tables that have borne meals worth savouring; for there lie our true selves. If we may not be the ones to create beauty, we can all, we hope, perceive it, appreciate it, and, if we are of sufficient character, offer a taste to others as well.

Delightful Cantonese

We may have implied at some earlier date our affinity for all types of Asian cuisine; our favourite, we believe, is the charming practice of dim sum. Some aspect of this meal, with its array of small and tasty tit-bits, manifold sauces, and dumplings of most any variety, touches us deep within and provides the most satisfying of lunchtime experiences. Done well, it is a true culinary delight. Done only passably, we are nevertheless almost always satisfied.

Our choices in the Kitchener-Waterloo area are, unfortunately, scant. We have sampled the fare at Cameron's numerous times, and while the food is typically well-made, it is far more expensive and far less varied than the offerings in Mississauga and even Hamilton. King Tin in Waterloo is preferred on weekends by some, but our experience at their mid-week buffet left us underwhelmed. Risley's in Cambridge came and went with little fanfare; we attended lunch there twice, and found their food merely passable and their manners atrocious (why must we insist on receiving chopsticks and small tableware at dim sum?), and we were unmoved by its passing into the aether.

Thus we were intrigued by a note (or, perhaps, advertisement) at an online forum where local eateries are oft discussed, indicating that a new dim sum experience is to be found in Kitchener. Having our Chinese-born relative in town and no immediate plans for lunch, we found an excursion to be warranted.

The establishment is a former pizza-themed chain restaurant; the exterior has been barely touched, but the inside is bright, clean, and attractive. There were very few other diners present, although over the noon-tide the crowd increased appreciably.

The dim sum menu is, sadly, rather limited. There were almost no dishes of particular interest, and a number of our favourites were either missing or well-disguised. We decided to request a handful of dim sum dishes, and in addition a seafood chow mein to be shared among out party of three.

One of the staff, whom we surmise to be in a managerial role, arrived to double-check our order; she informed our Chinese-speaking relative that the deep-fried squid item on the dim sum menu was unavailable due to a lack of tentacles, and recommended a dish of salt-and-pepper fried squid instead. We assented, this being yet another favourite preparation of ours. We settled in with a pot of tea to await the repast.

And wait we did. We did not consult our timepiece, lest opening a pocket-watch be considered rude by the staff, but we estimate that fully twenty minutes passed before the first dish was placed on the table; it may even have been thirty. However, the dishes arrived approximately together, and were all hot and fresh.

The siu mai and har gow were both of good quality; the chicken's feet were decent, though perhaps a little heavy on the five-spice powder; the bean curd rolls were at best adequate, with a strange unidentifiable taste lingering among them somehow.

The chow mein was remarkable only for its size; it was a very small dish considering its $12.95 price tag. A handful each of squid (too tough), scallops, shrimp, and fish (we think cod) adorned a small patch of fried egg noodles, covered liberally by a slightly too thin black bean sauce. But this sauce, unfortunately, was too bitter. The fermented black bean travels best with a touch of sugar to loosen the clenched jaw and relax the pursed lip, yet the chef had omitted to observe this important principle. We do not propose to tell the chef his job, but really, we request only the most basic of accommodations, here.

The vaunted salt-and-pepper squid was indeed fine, with the squid fried crisp but still quite tender and flavourful. We confess to enjoying the dish completely, until we found an unpleasant surprise near the end of the meal.

Lest our reader feel we have unfairly kept him in suspense, we hasten to identify the source of the unpleasantness: the bill. We have already noted the high price of the chow mein, which is, we maintain, unsupported by the dish's size or quality. However, we advise the reader to be in a seated position when we reveal that the cost of the squid dish -- numbering about a dozen pieces of squid, and ordered, we remind the reader, on the advice of the attending staff member -- actually cost more than the chow mein, ringing in at an unanticipated and decidedly unfair $13.95.

We have indicated, we believe, that we are not afraid of paying for food that justifies its cost; however, we did not reach a state of financial independence by making rash or unwarranted orders at lunch-time. The bill, totalling approximately $52, was obscene. Even Cameron, which, we have mentioned, we consider overpriced, seems a bargain at that rate.

So our advice, unfortunately, is that one ought not to visit the Delightful Chinese Cuisine restaurant. Their dim sum may be tolerable, but their prices and portions are not to be borne: they are to be pointed at and ridiculed, preferably from a distance. We hope that any readers who find themselves in the restaurant's confines pay close attention to the bill of sale before ordering; or, if one is interested in dropping a substantial packet on dim sum, we suggest that other options within a reasonable distance might be considered instead.

Belated Abbreviations

Our principal objection to abbreviations is that they are too short; however, with so few essays in recent months, and so many experiences to recount, we will put aside our own prejudices in order to include a larger number of shorter opinions on a selection of local establishments.

Metro

Metro, on Victoria Street in Kitchener, is regarded by some -- need I mention his name? -- as one of the better local sources of breaded pork cutlets. We are not certain why this might be. While we were amused by the ancient layout and décor in the restaurant, we were unimpressed with both the speed and execution of our lunchtime platters. Our companion received a mushroom-sauce that he described as “goopy” and which looked to us as a concoction of Mr Campbell's. Our own Wiener-style schnitzel was bland and dry. We might forgive a bland, dry schnitzel, but we are not sure we can ever forgive the housemistress, who eventually served us our food, and then addressed us as “honey-bunch”. The gratuity we left behind did not, we fear, adequately reflect the familiarity and affection with which the housemistress regarded us.

Umberto's Bistro

We mourn the lack of decent Italian cookery in the Waterloo region; Umberto's was, sadly, typical of our local experience. We paid nearly twenty dollars for an imitation of spaghetti carbonara that would not have fooled a blind Roman beggar at twenty paces. The prices are high, we suspect, to give the illusion that the food is something other than inferior dried pasta with indifferently-made sauce and no imagination to speak of. Our waiter's habit of obsequiously scraping non-existent crumbs from our table with his little tin instrument provided far more entertainment value than the food provided nourishment of any but the basest kind.

California Sushi

The service is cheerful and polite, the prices are reasonable, and the fish is fresh; however, the limited selection on the menu is evidenced by the sameness of the maki (each “special” roll includes avocado, for example) and the other dishes are tediously standard fare. Their nigiri, though tasty, are unforgivably small. We had hoped for an interesting alternative to Samura and Nagano, but did not find it.

City Cafe

The vaunted City Cafe bakery has arrived in Cambridge, and none too soon. Their bagels and croissants are perfect, and their pizzas remain delicious. We have become rather fond of their lunchtime open-faced melted-cheese sandwiches, too; when we are in the vicinity of Chez Droll, they are our favourite lunchtime treat.

Concordia Club

We have attended the downstairs dining-room at this establishment on both menu and buffet nights; the food is varied, plentiful, and excellent. For a nourishing and enjoyable repast for an agreeably reasonable price, we cannot recommend better in this area. Our most Teutonic friends support our conclusions.

Mayan Grill

We happened to visit the Mayan Grill shortly after it opened in the summer of 2006; we were utterly charmed by the proprietor and her daughter, and we maintain that their Mexican food is unexcelled anywhere north of the 49th. We visited numerous times and sampled every item on their menu with enthusiasm. We note, however, that the establishment appears to have recently closed; if this is the case, then we wish the owners the very best, and thank them for being a very bright spot in the unfortunate dimness of local cuisine. If not, we anxiously await the reopening.