Kitsilino Neighbourhoods Dirty Johnny 2002-11-24

Zen Café

Zen n: a major school of Buddhism originating in 12th century China that emphasizes enlightenment through meditation and insight. How any of this ties into the stuffing of my face is over the head of a vehement atheist such as myself but I’ll be damned if an indescriptive moniker is going to prevent me from once again inching precipitously closer to fatal heart disease. Yes, folks, Duck-boy and I donned our “Mantique” apparel, slung on our yoga mats and hopped into our Volkswagen as to travel incognito amidst the uber-trendoids of the Ming Wo set in the prototypical “Kits” environment… Café Zen.

Our tragic inability to get out of bed anytime before one o’clock permitted us to circumvent the usual half-hour to forty-five minute line-up that we’d come to expect and loathe. Immediately, we were bombarded by reminders of the Kits-ness of our environment as the grammatically-challenged drink menu implored us to indulge in such health-conscious beverages as the Chai latte, strawberry-banana yoghurt shake or green tea smoothie. I coughed up the $3.60 for the shake which, while quite tropically tasty, was inadequately sized for a growing stallion such as myself. Of the available juices, Duck-boy opted for the orange over the carrot and, despite the claims of its fresh-squeezed origins, found it to curiously resemble the sweet tang of Tropicana.

Service at the Zen is never as fast as you’d like but I’ll give the hiring manager credit for having a keen eye for a pretty face. No porno whores here but attractive, healthy-looking girls who I’d be proud to have look after my kids while I was out sliming my way into Earl’s girls’ panties. Our slightly sweaty waitress, who’s name seemed inconsequential at the time, was quite a cutie…no, that is a gross understatement, she was in fact so awesome I could have opened a paint can with my dong. Her clumsy, awkward mannerisms only served to endear her to me more and it was sheer professionalism alone that allowed me to focus on the task at hand and not lose myself fully to my daydreams of flying the one-eyed rocket to Uranus.

As it is primarily a bruch-themed joint, The Zen’s comprehensive menu is practically unparalleled in terms of breakfasty choices, offering a broad variety of omelettes, benedicts, pancakes, vegetarian and speciality dishes. Notables include the crab omelette (none of that fake pollock garbage), peameal benedict and the otherworldly crepe menu featuring blueberry, apple cinnamon and florentine crepes. Ahhh, crepes, nothing brings me back to my days in France more than the thought of eating these delicate, battery, nutella and strawberry-loaded Gallic burritos, seven at a time on the banks of the Seine. Yes, the French may be gutless cowards, but I’ll be damned if those diminutive little amphibians can’t cook up a storm.

As much as I would have liked to heed the crepe-tacular call, my anticipation of a visit to the esteemed Café Crepe in the weeks to come diverted my attention to the Heuvos Tapatios. This Spanish sensation is sure to please gourmets and gourmands alike with its selection of fried eggs, green onions, avocado, cilantro, feta cheese and salsa, all laid out in distinct little mounds to be piled upon an unsuspecting tortilla. As if that weren’t enough lovin’ for your oven, the Tapatios is appended with toast, a varied and generous fruit bowl and, The Fiery Mother of All Sausages…chorizo!!! Now, I’ve been purposefully avoiding sausages of late in an attempt to eschew any food product that’s spent part of it’s life in slurry form but this highly seasoned, coarsely ground, smoked swine spectacle is an exception to the rule. Listen up kids, if a strange man in a van offers you chorizo, you respond with an emphatic, “Yes, please!” lest this munificent pedophile rescind his offer.

Duck-boy, clearly being of weaker will than myself, succumbed to his froggy ancestry and bellied up to the crepes florentine. Crammed full of spinach, fried eggs and bacon and served with fruit and passable hash browns, it left the Duck very adequately sated despite his disappointment at the lack of the expected “yolky release”, something he’s been missing since his experimental college days. Gooey, yellow mouthful aside, the florentine earned a place in Duck‘s heart and undoubtedly on his coroner’s report as “contents of stomach” when the old ticker finally surrenders to the years of bacon abuse over brunch one morning in the future.

So, if you’ve got about two hours to kill, don’t mind a slightly cramped dining area and appreciate posters of dorm-friendly, inexplicably popular paintings such as Klimt’s “The Kiss”, make your way to the Café Zen for a true Kitsilano experience. Hell, while you’re there, be sure to pick up your own kanji-plastered Café Zen T-shirt to impress your equally culturally devoid friends while you shop at Lululemon for an outfit to wear to your Ron Zalko tae-bo sessions.

Ciao, hipsters.