Out & About #733 | Miga + The Rec Room

Civic Holiday long weekend commenced at around 1 PM on Friday. Efficiency had led to an early end for all work activities on my part (though the same could not be declared for a project colleague who struggled with synthetization of meeting discussions).

I proposed for lunch at Miga, intending to splurge on a well-deserved meal of meat. Since our midsummer visit last year, the restaurant has expanded its patio area to introduce artificial flowers and potted plants, a translucent overhead covering, and picnic tables equipped with grills. By the entrance was a floral arrangement with "Miga" in white, sans-Serif font. The restaurant name was also clearly visible from both ends of the patio area - this time formed by faux fuchsia petals. Potted plants prompted a tropical vibe that was mirrored even beyond the patio, adorning the ceiling of the indoor dining hall.

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​We were accommodated immediately at our time of arrival. Seating options varied between smaller tables shielded by patio umbrellas or slightly larger tables with overlapping clear panels for UV protection and diffused illumination. Our preference lay with the larger tables in the main seating area. The hostess informed of the malfunctioning grill of our choice; without much desire to labout for sustenance, we proceeded without apprehension.

Our requests consisted of LA Kalbi, an item of long-time longing, and Braised Short Rib. With initial inquiries regarding two kalbi-based dishes, we summoned a member of the service staff, first by ringing the bell and later by waving given its defective status. We were informed that one of the dishes would be served in a stone pot with rice, while the other comprised purely of strips of meat. The Premium LA Kalbi was offered in strips of either two or three, priced at $26.95 and $39.95 respectively. More economic was the dolsot edition, associated with a cost of $21.95.
"How many strips does this one have?" I pointed to the stone pot selection.
"Two." The bespectacled young server responded, "I believe it is two, as seen from my peripheral."
"Okay." I stifled a chuckle at his choice of vocabulary. "We'll go with this one!"

A short while after order placement, a trio of banchan arrived, along with sweet potatoes in oligotang. The amount was admittedly scanty, so we picked at it slowly in anticipation of the entrées.

​The LA Kalbi arrived sizzling and scorching hot, encompassed by the alluring scent of caramelization. It attracted the eyes of our neighbours, who peeked over briefly before diving back into clamourous conversation. After securing a few quick snapshots, we proceeded to uproot the rice grains underneath, tossing evenly with the sauce before compacting against the hot stone bowl. In roughly twenty minutes, the undersides would crisp up fantastically while absorbing the exquisite essence of kalbi.
True to the server's words, roughly two strips of marinated short rib rested atop the white grains. They had been cut into individual portions of ease of consumption before plating. Each section was tender and flavourful, boasting uniform marbling of flesh and fat.

​The Braised Short Rib arrived minutes later. Priced at a whopping $36.95, we had retained high expectations for the dish. Braised carrot and daikon rounds were found in single-serving quantities, much to our dismay. The tower had been arranged in a format yielding the illusion of abundance, yet it was only upon digging deeper that half of the dish was bone stripped entirely of meat. Similar to the LA Kalbi, the chunks were undeniably tender, having likely been simmered upwards of one hour. The caveat lay within its braising liquid - a too-sweet solution to ingest in the absence of steamed white rice. We acknowledged the culinary efforts required to debut the dish, yet nonetheless found its price too steep for revisiting.

​Towards the end of our two-hour seating limit, vibrant drinks were observed to land on the adjacent table. They were introduced to their guests as non-alcoholic renditions of classic summer cocktails. I summoned our server yet again to inquire of the ingredient substitutions of said alcohol-free concoctions, who stuttered and agreed to investigate on my behalf. His answers came back shortly:

• Lemonade for Margarita
• Pineapple juice for Piña Colada
• Orange juice for Strawberry Dacquiri

The drinks were quite popular, given the constant whirring of the blender throughout my treks to the washroom. We settled on a Strawberry Dacquiri, soliciting sharing glasses for the sizable drink. Instead we were provided two smaller portions, distributed evenly between coupe glasses and topped with fresh blueberries.
Pale pink and generally icy in nature, the drink was a far cry from SK's publicized ode to summer. Refreshing it was, but warranting its sixteen-dollar price tag it was not.

​Staff swaps were witnessed towards the 3 PM mark, making it challenging to obtain our bill. I strode up to one of the two hostesses to express my case and was instantly guided indoors to the cashier. We departed in high spirits with neatly packed takeout containers; the meal had been splendid, and consistent with previous endeavours at the K-BBQ establishment.

​The latter half of the afternoon was spent at The Rec Room.

Volumes of eager arcade-goers had returned, though beyond the standard wait times for Pump It Up! and air hockey, there were no issues accessing my favourites of Grand Piano Keys and Speed of Light.

I managed to secure the top two scores on the green keys, while both of us succeeded in obtaining the 500-ticket jackpot on a separate game.

​Bowling was suggested as our last activity of the day. Departing my house in haste, I had forgotten an extra pair of socks for the shared rental shoes. As I slipped into the left foot, my toe hit a barrier. Under the assumption that the barrier was merely a crumpled paper towel left in the disinfecting process, I proceeded to retrieve it with calmness. Absolute horror befell when the item emerging from the shoe was not paper towel, but rather a crumbled stocking from the previous user. We gagged, disinfected, and resumed the setup process.

The game marked my first foray onto the lanes since elementary school (and Wii Fit). I soon learned that my badminton tendencies carried over in my swinging, leading majority of the balls into the gutter.

By 8:30 PM, I was famished. No longer were the aftereffects of the late KBBQ lunch present. A mild dose of satiation remained, however, leading me to suggest salad for dinner. Basil Box, the nearest establishment capable of catering to this craving, had shuttered by this time, along with other members of the mall food court. In The Food District was La Carnita, yet the only item bearing some degree of similarity was a burrito bowl "with mostly rice and a few pieces of lettuce", or so the girl had bluntly informed me.

The clock was ticking as I hastily searched for acceptable alternatives in the vicinity; the unwanted unleashing of hangriness was imminent.

​Without much else piquing interest, I suggested fresh. Skimming the menu, salads were observed and so was the overarching theme of healthy eating. We sped off, parking before their corner of the plaza. A partially covered patio had been set up just before the doors of the restaurant, inclusive of artificial grass and strings of incandescent bulbs.

In we marched, and only inside was the realization was made: fresh was entirely "plant-based" - ie. vegan. fresh was not to be confused with freshii, where the assorted varied vastly from starch-thickened, "meat" masses.
While not particularly keen on soul-less sustenance, I was far too hungry to consider heading elsewhere. Dine-in guests were instructed to seat themselves within the patio or at one of the not-so-socially-distanced tables inside, as table service was provided. The menu could be accessed from a QR code pasted at the edge of the table.

​A member of the serving staff, likely dedicated to serving all customers in the patio area, plodded toward us. I began to pose inquiries about certain items, none of which were met with adequate quantitativeness nor qualitativeness. Deducing the menu descriptions for ourselves, the order comprised of Goji Grapefruit Kombucha, the Goddess bowl, and the Chipotle Bacon Burger.

Bottled in nature and entirely outsourced, the Tonica Kombucha was comparable to the other instances of the fermented tea beverage and more or less as unenjoyable. Along with pressed juices and chai sodas, the drink menu comprised of radlers and "craft cocktails"; the sighting befuddled me, for the impression was of "plant-powered" conjured a sense of health eating, an aspect bearing weak correlation to alcohol.

The Goddess bowl was available in Small and Large, yet portion sizes varied only by the amount of carbohydrates in accompaniment. When faced with the choice of rice or soba noodles, I opted for the latter, completely unaware and uninformed of the additional one dollar surcharge. It was the cheapest, slyest trick in the book, executed by our waitress with the most unapologetically impassive demeanour.

Despite being prided as a welcoming medley of steamed leafy greens with house-made dressing and tahini, its appearance appalled at first glance. The shallow plate comprised of no more than two layers of separated bok choy, barely-softened wilting kale, a few shriveled florets of seemingly frozen broccoli, and a heavy-handed dusting of pine nuts. My familiarization with market prices resulted in a resentful outcry: with kale priced at $5 for two bunches, Shanghai bok choy at ninety-eight cents per pound (on a good day), and fresh heads of broccoli at $1.99 per pound, the combination was confirmed at a value well under five dollars in total, labour-inclusive. At the plate's edge were two triangular sections of "ginger chili tempeh", the most repugnant slabs of soy-less, starch-suffused sodium I had ever had the misfortune of tasting. This was no Miku, however surely brimmed with barbaric Miku-level prices.
The side of soba noodles were served in a similarly small bowl. As I relocated the buckwheat noodles before, I perceived warmth from its container and observed dullness on its surface. "Oh dear." I thought. Upon closer inspection, certain strands had severed - an obvious indication of overcooking and lack of cold-water rinse. A stabbing of the brown-grey threads returned nothing, for the noodles were limp, tearing and plummeting back into the bowl from which they had perished. Beyond disrespect for package directions, the frail qualities implied uncertainty, lack of longevity, and discontinuance in life - an abomination even outside the weeks of Chinese New Year.

​​All dressing and sauces had been requested on the side, for I was fond of neither tahini nor random house blend mishmashes. The tahini was tacky, adopting a slurry-like consistency and offering minimal nuttiness. A sampling of the sauce was rewarded with a peculiar, bitter aftertaste, leading me to abandon both containers altogether. The taberu rayu was revealed to be a savoury condiment combining the kick of chili oil and mellow fragrance of sesame oil. Only with its existence could the disgustingly sodden soba noodles be consumed.

​The experience was despicable to say in the least. Even with raging appetites, not a single item on the table was passable. Service was sluggish in spite of the off-peak hours, further failing to establish communications with a pleasant attitude. Within the waitress's tone were implications of our supposed ignorance, lined with passive-aggressive hostility.

The Chipotle Bacon Burger on the other end of the table was "alright", in the most moderate of evaluations. Fries were quite decent, though salted heavily and presented in a modest quantity.

​I departed feeling less than content, both in regards to the soul and stomach. Indigestion and an absence of bowel movements followed in the days after, further appending to my overall detestation for the restaurant.

A visit to the bathroom entailed no relinquishing of funds, no interaction with the patio waitress, and no ingestion of the franchise's abhorrent feed, constituting the sole instance of triumph of the nine o'clock supper.