Help me decide if you think I should be a foodie-reviewing travel writer
“Traveling — it leaves you speechless, then turns you into a storyteller.” Ibn Battuta
Let’s experiment. With what, you ask? Reviews.
I’m not sure this is a realistic goal, but I will be honest: I’d love to make a wee bit of coin while checking out the world. Occasionally hobnob with others who call themselves a Travel Writer. But where to start?
Well, let’s continue with our Canada theme. And begin at the breakfast table.
Review #1 Cafe Crepe Express in Vancouver, B.C., 2022
We Google breakfast spots and up comes Café Crêpe Express, only a few blocks from our hotel. Not knowing what to expect, we zig and zag early morning crowds until we come upon dirty faux-stainless steel tables lining the sidewalk. Admittedly, not a great first impression. Honestly, the atmosphere sucks. But when I notice actual French-from-France couples lingering over salami-filled gems and cardboard-cup cappuccinos, I figure this place has to be authentic, doesn’t it?
Picture this: You’ve waited a long time, in a long time, with a large amount of both tourists and locals. Freshly ground coffee tints the air, and the smell of crêpes finely spun and baking on industrial rounds are attracting crowds. You look over a massive list of choices, place an order and again you wait.
There’s plenty of free entertainment, though. Vancouver’s Granville Street buzzes in the background. An older gentleman, huffing and puffing, coated in months of sweat, is running at what appears to be his full speed. Realistically, he is no faster than the pigeons trotting out of his way. His greasy grey curls bounce and suddenly I realize that the only thing he’s wearing are a pair of trousers settled around his ankles and tighty whities that aren’t so white.
You wait.
A woman saunters by. Smiling a mostly toothless grin she boasts a cart, a caged cloud-white goose, and a handwritten sign that reads “See the Vancouver Duck Lady on Youtube.” Her fine fowl can supposedly tell your future. I wonder if it is wise enough to know my future involves twiddling my thumbs.
You wait some more.
And then, the piece de resistance arrives.
Smoked salmon spills from the exoskeleton of a fluffy crêpe. A few bits of spinach innards ooze from cream cheese that tastes like a gluten-y cloud.
You don’t care how long you wait. It’s that good.
Review #2 Shark Club
Imagine breakfast at a sports-themed Montana’s but with a little less country and a little more industrial. That’s kinda what you get at the Shark Club. Single bulbs hang from the ceiling on knotted ropes thicker than my forearms.
There are TVs. Lots of them. As my kids will assure you, I say no to Boston Pizza because I selfishly demand conversation at mealtime. If you’re a lover of watching sports reels while munching decently tasty, overpriced breakie then this is the place for you. I focus on a hearty bowl of the Vegetarian Scrambler. My partner focuses on sportscasters.
Looming in front of me, enough al dente red peppers to choke every sports fan at nearby tables dot the creamy potato, egg, and cheese mix. My partner’s sunny-side-ups are so runny they almost sprint off his plate. A few well-placed grunts assure me they transcend yummy. Unusual for us, silence builds a fence between his side of the wooden table and mine, as his eyeballs are superglued to a Sports Reel countdown.
I’m entertained instead by the interaction between servers. A man, almost too young to boast that seedy strawberry blonde mustache, perches on a stool held up by plumbing pipes. He whistles for coins. The server flips her ponytail from side to side and explains with a heavy Quebecois accent that she left her coin purse at home on her dresser.
“In my 4:00 am rush, I forgot it! Along with my Skytrain pass,” she explains to him. “I had to pay, Sacrebleu. I had to pay with a $20 bill!”
They’re interrupted by a customer’s shouts across the echo-y room. His very accusatory finger points in the direction of the young moustache man. “I’m not paying for this! YOU gave me the wrong bill.”
A few moments later we receive our tab. It’s also incorrect. Call me uncharitable, but I don’t feel like ponying up for the table of four across from us.
Review #3 Waves Coffee House on Robson
Filled with ocean-coloured furniture that makes you feel as though you’re at a very sterile beach, the Waves Coffee House on Robson boasts a staff less warm than their signature medium roast. The Canadian company’s claim is a blend that’s “a classic balance between sweet caramel, nutty chocolate, and tropical fruits”.
It’s not. My taste buds might prefer the description: a classic balance between pots-and-pans-cycle dishwater and re-used coffee grounds. Plus, the grammar witch in me is obsessed with whether the sign should read “fruit” rather than “fruits”. (Apparently, either can work.)
We mistakenly reach for another fellow’s latte. He grunts loudly. I wonder how he keeps his dress shirt the same colour as the teeth I can barely see beneath his frown. Unlike the line-up of a dozen or more people at the Tim Hortons a few blocks west, this coffee shop has only four customers, which includes us. Not a single person in this very blue café appears able to lift their lips or cheeks upward.
I guess you can tell that I’m not recommending the java at this spot.
How did I do?
Maybe I’m too judgmental to rate foodie spots. After all, I wonder if travel pieces make recommendations or if they merely share a story of what you see, hear, feel, and smell. If it’s the latter, perhaps I’d do okay. Or maybe I’m just not meant to snork back eggs Benny with fellow adventure scribes.
