Archives for May 2013

129 – Kai on King – Our first casualty leads to food that flees and the thrill of the hunt

May 23, 2013 by andysomething 3 Comments

The first disappointment was Star Trek – a big, big mistake. I tried to defend it from Strop’s scathing assessments but came up with nothing – she even hated the continuity. I have totally blown any action film goodwill I may have been able to generate over the years, in the two and a half hours that travesty took to unfold. It’s going to be payback time from now on – lots of meaningful subtitles and issues-based capital C Cinema. Oh well, I’ll just get on with watching Game of Thrones on my own – no change there.

The second disappointment came in the form of our first quest casualty. We arrived on-site at 127 King Street only to find Jester Seeds a darkened husk. We had only been there the Friday before, when we had a very enjoyable end to our evening at Asakusa, getting merry with exotic cocktails. Now, only a brief week later, it has gone. Our first real-time example of the infamous King Street Churn. We cursed, we ummed, then we turned left and went next door to Kai on King. The quest’s first sushi train. Toot toot – insert link to train whistle mp3 file here.

Now we'll never know what that stupid name meant — Now we’ll never know what that stupid name meant

Sushi train – there is so much to like about the concept. Yum Cha meets industrial revolution? Yum Cha for robots? I don’t know why but I am inordinately fond of a dining experience that involves moving food. It adds a whole other layer of excitement and tension, and it often leads to the deposition of new layers of body fat as well. As the food comes towards you there is lots of anticipatory salivation as you try to work out what it is, then there is the moment of query as it reaches the apex of its trajectory relative to your orbit, “Sushi with green things and black sprinkles on the outside. Do we want that?” While you are trying to decide, it starts to move away from you and panic sets in. Quick get it, you think, before it goes, before someone else takes it. (Just wondering, has anyone ever been tempted to pick up someone else’s bag at an airport luggage carousel? Just to see what happens? No, me either.)

Following our poor choices last week at Asakusa, Strop informs me that she has made a new temporary rule: no more deep fried anything. I regretfully agree as I watch the soft-shell crab sushi trundle quietly past.

As we had anticipated, the Kai on King sushi train contains a lot of sushi, but there is also a smattering of sashimi and little signs advertising hot soupy and noodle-y foods as well. Wasabi, ginger and a very cute mayonnaise bottle go past, and there is a tense moment when Strop decants their contents into little bowls then manages to get the containers back into their original spaces on the conveyor belt as they go past on the return journey, by leaning precariously over the tracks. The ginger is the good not-pink kind, but the bulk wasabi turns out to be disappointingly mild and we resort to the little sachet stuff, which happily produces the correct level of nasal conflagration. Mayonnaise drizzling is very evident in the sushi (a trend I personally deplore), but we still manage to fill ourselves up without too much effort, leaving quite a stack of plates for the cashier person to count.

It's ok, I can do it — It’s ok, I can do it

There is nothing fancy here – it is an adequate, comfy local eatery. They even have a pile of magazines for you to read if you are so inclined or a bit lonely. I imagine it is reasonably popular with local students but I can’t imagine going out of our way to eat here again.

Next up is the highly anticipated Atom – lots of good reports have been word-of-mouthed to us – and the return of Number 37. Can’t wait.

Where's a man supposed to get a cocktail around here? — Where’s a man supposed to get a cocktail around here?

126 – Basil – Mid-week beanie jealousy and pizza

May 11, 2013 by andysomething 2 Comments

Strop is a knitter. She has been called an extreme knitter by some who know her well, and even a complete knitter. Some of you may have seen young Ned adorned in her handiwork back at the Cheeky Czech. She is a knitter on a mission to leave no head uncovered. Every unsuspecting baby that comes within foisting range is to be supplied with a colourful winter head warmer. Rates of pneumonia are plummeting across the nation thanks to her efforts. But Strop is not satisfied with just churning out the same old thing time after time. No, her designs are evolving, new and exciting shapes are flying off the needles. One of the first to benefit from her new line is Matilda, long-time-great-mate of The Stropolina. It must be admitted though that the glory of the new model has caused some ructions in the ranks, and while Matilda is thrilled, The Stropolina has let it be known that she would like to upgrade her own woolly prototype.

To celebrate the handing over of the new hat we are all going out for a pizza or two.

Basil is a small place with a tables at the front and a kitchen at the back. It is quite busy when we arrive but we drag a couple of tables together and sit ourselves down. Matilda is quick to note that being Tuesday there is a free bottle of wine on offer if we spend more than $30. We’re definitely in the right territory here. We quickly order a bottle of Italian Montepulciano (rough and ready and, importantly, free) followed by a Potato and Rosemary (the number 37 of pizzas), a Napoletana, a Santorini and a Carolina.

The specials board - we didn't notice it — The specials board – we didn’t notice it

Cheap and cheerful is the order of the day at Basil. The wine glasses come with a blue tint, little fish patterns, and thumb prints. After the wine is opened Matilda decides she isn’t drinking (driving) and neither is The Stropolina (the wine’s too rough). Strop and I just smile at each other and refill our glasses.

Class all the way — They probably seemed like a good idea at the time

While we are waiting for the pizzas we talk about Matilda’s upcoming Big Trip. Where are the best places to go in London, and Paris, and New York. We reel off suggestions for a while, arguing the merits of new versus old Tates, the V&A, and the John Soane museum, in London, The Met in New York and the Musee d’Orsay in Paris. Then we get side-tracked into food (Quesadilla, it’s just a toasted sandwich isn’t it?) and music. Matilda is a singer and one of her regular gigs is wrangling a jazz ensemble made up of 13 year olds. Apparently the best fun is letting them go for it in a free jazz session for the last 10 minutes. I’m not entirely sure what free jazz is but Matilda assures me that playing a trumpet into a bucket of water is an essential part of it.

When the pizzas arrive they are light and crispy, with fresh clean flavours in the toppings. Not Gigi standard, but not at all bad. I will be definitely be trying out the home delivery service.

The Stropolina starts reminiscing about food, reminding us that while she was growing up she had to put up with an exclusive diet of bow-tie pasta with prickly parsley and tinned tuna. And that I, in particular, had scarred her sister for life by force-feeding her Tahini Bolognese. What can I say, we were poor.

It’s been a fun night at Basil. The pizzas are good but the service is a bit mixed. One of the waitresses is a petulant pom who seems to find any request a bit of an imposition. At one stage she is seen making hand gestures behind the backs of a large table of theatrical-types which suggests she thinks they are up themselves. She might be right but they’re probably not the only ones.

Next stop is a bar that does tapas called Jester Seeds. God knows why.

119 – Asakusa – It ain’t no Fuji Tempura Bar

May 11, 2013 by andysomething 4 Comments

It’s catch up time. For those of you who were busy talking up the back, we had to skip Asakusa as it was inexplicably closed on Anzac Day. So Strop and I are back-tracking in the interest of no-rivet-unpainted. It’s been a busy week, starting with slapstick and farce on Monday at One Man Two Guvnors, then pizza with the gals on Tuesday (more on that down the road at 126), sleeping on the couch through Shaun Micallef on Wednesday (fast becoming an unattractive habit), and a late-night-feminist-comedy-fundraiser show on Thursday. So I’m really looking forward to nothing much happening on the weekend, but first we need to clear up the untidiness that is the absence of Asakusa. It is also the first time for just the two of us since the infamous visit to Newtown Thai 2 back in March and I am quite looking forward to a quiet and intimate Japanese tête-à-tête. So after my newly established ritual of a quick ale and a glimpse of televised sports at the Marly (Dogbolter and ice hockey tonight), I arrive at Asakusa to find Strop ensconced in a window seat busily Facebooking away.

Asakusa is a large double-fronted restaurant and has been around for as long as I have been paying attention, so presumably they are doing something right. We have been here before, a long time ago, but I can’t remember anything about the experience although we obviously did not feel the need to rush back. It is sparsely populated when I arrive – things don’t start early in Newtown. Strop and I have a quick discussion about what Asakusa actually means – I think it has something to do with cherry blossoms or maybe crayons, having mixed it up with sakura – but we get immediately sidetracked by an argument about the relative merits of “asking someone” (Strop’s inclination) and googling it (mine, of course). We are interrupted by the waitress before anything is resolved. She is wearing an attractively calligraphed label that says Trainee. Hmmm.

By this stage we haven’t made any decisions other than, as winter is still coming, we won’t be have sushi, but we will be having sake. We stall Trainee (telling the waitress to come back later is never a good move in my experience, I think they start to make assumptions about what kind of table you are) while we quickly read the menu, decide to have a bunch of entrees, make selections, then wait for Trainee to come back again. It takes a little while as we are in the far corner and the place is starting to fill up with noisy young people, but eventually we place the order and get on with nattering. The sashimi arrives first quickly followed by the sake. The good thing about sake is that you can feel it doing you good right up to the point when you fall over. Strop always likens it to tripping but this is an analogy too far for me. The sashimi is only salmon but it is good and turns out to be the highlight in a relatively lacklustre collection of flavours. We are partly to blame for this, in deciding to go for a kind of japanese / tapas fusion we have ordered an awful lot of deep fried things. The tempura veges are crispy and not bad but the fish cakes are bland, the octopus is chewy and the soft-shell crab is two halves of one very large beast – it is hard to handle with chopsticks and lacking anything much in the way of flavour. Strop reckons Asakusa isn’t a patch on the Fuji Tempura Bar, which was the first Japanese restaurant we went to, back in the seventies (that’s right, young people, the seventies) where the flavours were new and bright and generally amazing (Hello Don).

Where's my yakitori? — Where’s my yakitori?

By this time I was wishing I had ordered something soupy and noodley instead of entrees. That was when the yakitori confusion started. A previously un-sighted waiter appears at the table saying something about grilled chicken on skewers. I nodded and agreed with him, yes that’s what yakitori is, and yes we are waiting for some. He goes away seemingly happy with my clarification of the matter. We wait a bit longer, drink more sake, and feel better and better. Then another previously unsighted staff member turns up and starts talking about chicken on skewers. Yes, I say, we ordered some. She goes away muttering. I am confused so we have some more sake. Strop goes “Where the fuck is our yakitori?” at the same time as there is a lull in the general hubbub, and everyone looks at her. Well, everyone except the staff. After more sake Strop manages to collar Trainee and put the question to her directly (with the expletive deleted). Looks of surprise abound, luke warm chicken skewers appear. Apparently my answer to the repeated approaches by staff should have been “No, we have not yet received out skewered chicken”. The only lesson I can glean from this fiasco is that I should never be allowed to talk to waiters without an adult present (in my defence I will just say that none of the waiters actually brought the yakitori to the table to ask if it was ours).

I had been going to have dessert – something called Golden Banana – which I assume is code for banana fritter but I will never know now – it was not available. As we finished off the rest of the sake I convinced Strop that cocktails-in-lieu-of-dessert was called for to cheer us up. We decanted ourselves next door to Jester Seeds where we sat right at the front, and spent the remainder of the evening sipping exotically flavoured alcohol while disparaging the passing parade and generally amusing each other. We also managed to scare off quite a few of the younger clientele.

Next up is Basil, which we actually did last Tuesday, but it’s been a confusing week.

Cheeky Czech – Number 124 – Full of Middle European Meaty Goodness

May 4, 2013 by andysomething Leave a Comment

Friday night, time to hit King Street again. I have developed a bit of a habit of arriving early and going to a pub for a fortifying ale before embarking on the night’s eating. It is the only time I get around to watching Super Rugby and it reminds me how much I used to enjoy going to the Brumbies matches in Canberra. I don’t care about the competition at all but I do enjoy the rugby, mind you, the rugby played in the park across the road by the Shammies is more entertaining. In a ten minute sojourn around the park you are likely to see three or four tries scored. They’re not very big on defence.

Tonight we are crossing the road and leaving Asia briefly to visit Europe, and I am looking forward to it. Nothing against Asian food, but we’ve just had six in a row and I fancy a change of pace. We are joined tonight by some local chums. Mark has just returned from a holiday visit to Prague, Budapest and Berlin, so he is along to check for Authenticity – see how I resisted temptation there. Lorinda, Jay and Ned (he’s the one with the hat) are just along for the food and the fascinating company.

Cheeky Czech. The cute name – it brings to mind Mardi Gras revellers – and the yellow colour scheme suggests a franchise in the offing but I can find no evidence to back up this theory. Google Streetview tells me that the site was previously occupied by a wrap bar – whatever that is – called Giraffe, which solves the mystery of the large African themed light fitting. Cheeky Czech is open for breakfast, lunch and dinner although there doesn’t seem to be anything very Czech about the breakfast menu. The blackboards on the street and the walls proclaim lots of special deals which all seem to offer meat and beer in various combinations. I’m liking the place more and more.

We order Czech beers to start and continue with them through the night. Mark accuses me of drinking a Belgian beer but I point out that the menu begs to differ. While we are chatting and admiring young Ned’s skill at putting the little paper tubes of sugar back in their container, our nostrils are being seduced by the luscious smells coming from the kitchen. For entrees we have meatballs, potato cakes and mushrooms. There is some confusion over the meatballs. While I am busy typing what turn out to be incomprehensible notes into my phone, I get the impression that Jay has been talked out of ordering the meatballs because we have all ordered them but no, it turns out that they only have one serve left which I ordered while everyone else was umming and ahhing. The price of indecision. The meatballs are the winners, nice and crispy, but the potato cakes and mushrooms are not so appealing.

For mains we go the full meaty spectrum: pork belly, schnitzel and beef roulade from the menu, and braised beef and roast duck from the specials board. The pork belly is very tasty and comes with very good red cabbage and some rather stodgy potato dumplings. I am probably being unfair to the dumplings: stodge is the whole point of a dumpling. A bit like accusing a duck of quacking. Speaking of which, the roast duck is huge and very good according to Mark. The schnitzel is, well, a schnitzel so no surprises there. The two beef dishes are a bit disappointing – both a little over done, tough even – although I wonder if that is just the nature of this type of European food. The roulade is wrapped around an egg and Strop describes it as being like a giant scotch egg which is an alarming idea.

The service is friendly, efficient, and comes with culturally appropriate accents. There is only one dessert and it is the apple strudel at the bottom of the specials board. It apparently comes with ice cream and toppings. We are a bit worried these might be chocolate sauce, or hundreds and thousands, or even M and M’s. When they arrive the surprise is not in the topping, which is supposed to be honey, but in the accompanying ice-cream. They seem to have run out of vanilla so we get a chocolate and a strawberry as well. The fruity and spicy filling is very nice but the pastry could be a bit lighter. But again stodge – it’s what they do in that part of Europe isn’t it?

By the time we leave, we are all groaning about how full we are. A litre of beer will do that.

I had a good time at the Cheeky Czech, even though the food is a bit hit and miss, and the quirks, like the deconstructed Neopolitan ice-cream I found quite endearing. Next up is Basil – a pizza joint that uses the word gourmet a little too freely for my liking.