Out & About #835 | The HK Café Hunt + Applewood Farm

Since graduation from academic, Labour Day long weekend held little signficance beyond announcing the end of summer and surge in traffic congestion. I suppose it would also coincide with the CNE's final days of operation and the looming reduction of daylight (Do we still have Daylight Savings?).

​The sleepy polar bear inquired of proposals for the three-day rest period, to which I responded with ease. We settled for the second option, a typically autumn venture of apple picking. Frankly, I had been surprised to find that farms had opened for fruit picking this early in the season. Though, we later discovered the downside of early September visits.

The itinerary was prepared by none other than myself, who compiled the geographic coordinate-based list in Google Maps in a matter of minutes. First on the list was LCBO. Seeing as we would be headed northeast anyway, the addition seemed only fitting. Knowledge acquired from Japan Festival had piqued my curiosity on the exclusives offered at the Hwy 7/Woodbine location, which was supposedly one of the few stores in Ontario that received limited-time selections from Japan (and Korea).

​Forever fashionably late, we departed approximately forty-five minutes later than planned - my fault, of course - and made our arrival around noon. The skies were grey, with not a streak of sun in sight. In spite of the dreary weather though, we found the overall cooler temperatures and absence of humidity to be far more desirable than the previous day's heat and storminess. Positioned by the entrance was a sampling station for Corona seltzers and Tempo Gin. Having consumed breakfast several hours prior, I regarded the offer warily. In contrast was the reaction of the sleepy polar bear, which was excitement and approval of the relatively mild canned beverages. The staff member observed our expressions carefully, noting my lack of fondness for the seltzers and marking her findings on a paper pad. The seltzers tasted synthetic and reeked of aspartame, even when the faux sweetener hadn't been listed in the ingredient list; Tempo Gin was far better in comparison, though my preference lay with the more carbonated choice of beer.

​Sparkling Choya, Chocolat Nigori Sake, and limited edition Premium Ume Shu from Izumi were acquired at this stop. The bottles were unloaded from the cart and costs totalled on the screen, earning a look of bewilderment from my helper.

Seeing as neither of us were particularly hungry yet, I inserted a last-minute stopover at Oomomo. With the parking situation chaotic, I escaped into the department store first. Coffee filters were nowhere to be found, thus I merely settled for new cookie cutters and laundry nets to maximize one of three coupons obtained from the store's stall at Japan Festival.

​A late lunch was the next order of business. Having decided on Cafe de Hong Kong the night prior, we began to trek across the crowded First Markham Place asphalt lot to the adjacent plaza. At seeing congestion levels soar, I suggested navigating by foot to eliminate the process of having to maneuver out of the lot, dodging the plethora of parking seekers along the way. It would reduce the lag time arising from faulty logistics planning of the lot.

Unfortunately, the lineup before the eatery would be come into view well before we traversed (half jaywalked) across Fairburn Drive. Silently regarding the scene in shock, we regarded the numbers on the clock anxiously, for the apple picking destination was to shutter at 5 PM. It was already 2 PM.
Weaving through the curved queue, I proceeded to tug the handle of the first glass door. Wedged in between the double doors was the most microscopic of waiting areas and a tablet for joining waitlist information. The setup was nearly identical to that of Kamen's. The wait time approximated 58-88 minutes. This timeline failed to align with our schedule, but I opted for a spot on the list anyway to validate their claim.

Turning towards the sleepy polar bear, I began to solicit input for next steps: "So did you want to try Brown Donkatsu?" I chuckled, knowing that a friend had recommended Sonoya's successor.
"We could." The sleepy polar bear began. "But we came for HK café food."
And I was in complete agreement. A quick phone call to our runner-up restaurant of Mount Joy Station Café informed us of table availability. Thus, we proceeded eastward. 

​A lover of stars and pigs had recommended the establishment for its beverages, and I had incorporated the stop into our agenda without a moment's hesitation. In addition to being en route to Stouffville, it filled the void for cha chaan teng fare.

​Our arrival was made at about a quarter past two, with me expressing awe at atypically speedy Markham travel times. As the sleepy polar bear griped about faded line paintings and revisited poor parking, I strode in to find not a single vacancy.
Within seconds, my presence was acknowledged by one of two serving staff. The first, an older lady speaking Cantonese, assured me that a table would be ready soon, for there were a total of three that simply needed cleaning. She then disappeared behind the curtains, into the kitchen. The second, a middle-aged lady speaking a mix of Mandarin-laced Cantonese, would appear some seconds later, and an identical conversation would take place.

I disappeared into the corridor along the north edge of the diner in search of lavatories. There was one stall allocated per gender. Amongst my first observations were dimness and alack of paper towel dispenser. The stack of crunchy brown sheets had been kept wrapped and placed atop a now dysfunctional vertical dispenser, adjacent to a bottle of bleach - labelled in Chinese. A single roll of toilet paper resided atop the toilet tank. There were not a toilet paper dispenser, nor a storage cabinet for backup rolls, in sight. Wrinkled wallpaper decal along the perimeter of the stall adopted a brick-like layout.
A final visit to the stall was also made prior to our departure, at which point urine could be found on the seat. While the men's stall had been identified by the staff as available, I refrained from usage upon witnessing the seat splatters and overall grimy nature.

The sleepy polar bear and I were granted a spacious four-seater. I perused the menu for items of interest, browsing between the A-B-C-D-E meal sets without finding items of interest.
Frankly, both of us had our minds set on specific dishes: a Portuguese Pork Chop over Rice for my ̶d̶i̶n̶i̶n̶g̶ all-day companion and Baked Ox Tongue over Spaghetti in Tomato Sauce for me. With HK Cafes retaining a generally accommodating approach with substitutions, with the older lady gladly responded to chicken-for-pork and rice-for-spaghetti swaps. ​Included as part of the meals was a beverage of choice. I took to a hot HK Milk Tea, while the sleepy polar bear opted for iced at an additional loonie.

​Small bowls of Russian Borscht soup were served to start. Darker in hue and thinner in consistency than others I've tasted, the broth was surprisingly tangy with ample quantities of lettuce, potato, and even beef chunks.

​Occasional drafts could be felt from behind, as if fans were constantly in operation inside the kitchen.
Posted next to the kitchen access, underneath additional menu options, was the password to a private Wi-Fi network - a true bonus for meals with quick turnaround times.​

​Our meals arrived in shallow ceramic platters atop rectangular handling plates. Distinctly yellow with a light char, the Portuguese Pork Chop over Rice was passable, but not particularly life-changing, as per the sleepy polar bear. I found the porky pieces to be boner than fleshy, despite being well-seasoned and crisp at its edges. The sauce, on the other hand, appeared to be a milder rendition of the jarred substances lining the shelves of BTrust, as it offered little to no depth.

​My own Baked Ox Tongue over Spaghetti in Tomato Sauce was utterly dismal. With a revolting red sauce bearing greater resemblance to pigmented cornstarch-thickened gloop, there were barely any hints of tomato, or even ketchup for that matter. The noodles, while cooked to the appropriate, non-al dente consistency, were bland underneath the tacky monstrosity; instead of coating the spaghetti, the supposed "sauce" simply rested on top, contributing no more than the presence of colour.
Sliced into thin strips instead of inserted in whole pieces, the ox tongue was oddly tender without much edge. Stir-fried onions and mushrooms were found underneath the compilation, adding an element of confusion as uncustomary constituents of the dish.

​Iced HK Milk Tea was found to be sufficiently sugary but watery. The hot rendition offered robustness, though was a tad too milky for my liking.

Although affordable and hassle-free as far as the parking situation, we conclusively agreed on seeking out alternatives for the next HK café craving. 

​As we pulled back onto Markham Road around 3:11 PM, I received a notification from Cafe de Hong Kong. There was a slight margin of error, for wait times averaged 93 minutes as opposed to their claimed 58-88 range. We began to contemplate workarounds for the next trip, from making the destination our first stop to merely checking in on Yelp in advance.

At long last, we would arrive at Applewood Farm with one hour before closing.

​Visitor volumes resided at the comfortable end of the spectrum: parking availability ceased to be an issue, and attractions could be enjoyed without crowding.

Skies were overcast, yet gustiness minimal and temperatures pleasant for trekking about. Both of us donned light layers for the trip, including activity-appropriate red flannel.

View the full album HERE !

​Having scrutinized the farm map in the days leading up to our trip, I had not only familiarized myself with a three-part apple pie-constructing chronicle, but also evaluated the farm's assortment on the basis of pH/pectin content and ancestral relevance to Golden Delicious.
​The entirety of the farm's species had been evaluated and sorted into categories for eating and baking, for the intent had been to maximize our 10 lb bag with as many varieties as possible.

One had the option of simply purchasing pre-picked apples at the Market stall, but our objective had been none other than the Pick-Your-Own. 10 lb bags rang in at $15, while 20 lb bags at $25. Plastic bags were provided for rough volume calculations, for they would not be weighed afterwards.​

​Admission fees were relinquished at the check-in counter, and into the farm we proceeded.

​With the clock ticking, I proposed exploring along the perimeter of the farm first. By picking apples last, we could avoid lugging the fruits about, bruising them in the process.

We failed to find consistency between the online map and in-situ layout beyond the welcome area: Lots 1, 2, 3, and 4 were nowhere to be seen. Instead, we observed a sign designating the direction of "Lot B", along with a sign for "Pumpkin Maze". Neither of these had been displayed on the infographic, drawing much confusion.

​When the Pumpkin Maze was nowhere to be found, we entered through a row of trees, finding a field of sunflowers and a squat pumpkin patch beside it.

​Majority of the blossoms had succumbed to insect infestation, revealing shrivelled, holey petals instead of expansive, yellow levels.
"They're all pointing in the same direction." commented the sleepy polar bear.
Guess there was a reason for their title.

Sunflower fields are a renowned photo spot amongst GTA-ers, with many being overwhelmed by crowds during peak bloom. But having chosen to visit on a cooler day meant improved ease of access due to fewer visitors. For the first time ever, I would also be able to snap a bud-side shot without fear of crowding.

​Each admission ticket included one free pumpkin or squash, which could be obtained from any part of the farm during our stay. Hovering about the pumpkin patch, I found a perky orange specimen. Instead of taking it back for carving, we declared it too grand a hassle and passed up the plump vegetable.

At this point, we overheard motor sounds of the tractor and dashed towards it with the aim of heading towards a different apple lot. Seating was arranged across two levels, sans railing for support. After some time, the machine began moving, unearthing an incredulous amount of loose dirt along the way.

The tractor looped about the pond without stopping, then found its way back to the entrance. Puzzled, we approached the check-in desk to clarify the assortment of apples and discrepancies between the field and farm map. We were informed that, as it was still early in the season, only one lot was open for picking: Ginger Gold.

"Ah." Our surroundings aligned with this declaration. The downside dawned upon us shortly afterwards: All ten pounds of our allocated portion would be Ginger Gold, a species deemed unfit for baking (as per my analysis).

Maneuvering back to the open aisles, we saw red flesh apples from the corner of our eyes, barricaded off before harvest time. We begun our journey through the rows of Ginger Gold.

Most adopted a pale yellow coat with green undertones; some possessed splashes of rosiness ranging from dusty pink to soft coral. Some were larger, nestling neatly in the palm of our hands, while others more compact.​

​In spite of the time crunch, we stopped for photos along the way. Several families paraded through our frame in the process, with the kids pulling apples from trees, snacking on them, then ruthlessly throwing them to the ground and stomping the fruit to a pulp. I observed the aftermath in utter shock, predominantly by the manner that the parents had watched without providing adequate education nor appreciation for crop rearing.

​Bag full, we retreated back to the welcome area, where good fun was had climbing the hay stack along with kids half our size and likely one quarter our age.

Read Part 2 HERE !