Archives for August 2013

182 Blossoming Lotus – Let’s do lunch

August 29, 2013 by andysomething 2 Comments

For a long while I thought this place was called Blossom Lotus, which is kind of bland and a bit confusing (lotus blossom, surely?), but a close inspection of the menu reveals its true name: Blossoming Lotus. This is a much more satisfying name, poetic even. Both are preferable to Vegetarian Food which a big yellow banner shouts up and down the street.

This is our first daytime outing. We are having lunch with Ashley, Paul and the Nedsky. Ashley and Paul have been dog-park friends for a long time (Ned is a more recent acquaintance — but not by that much, I realise — 5 ? Already?) They are the rare and valuable kind of dog park friends who talk about things other than dogs and who get your jokes.

It is also important that our dogs are compatible. Both are medium-sized, black, and obsessed by found objects (ours: balls, theirs: sticks). They are very relaxed dogs who ignore each other amicably. The only fly in the ointment of our relationship is that they are vegetarian. We have been wanting to inflict the quest on them for a while but we had to wait for the alignment of a decent (or at least plausible) vegetarian eatery and a time slot to suit young Ned. So, Saturday lunchtime at Blossoming Lotus it is. Will it be open at lunchtime, I wonder? Of course, Strop laughs in the face of my doubts.

The place is indeed open, if not exactly rushed off its feet, and there is a very pleasant smell on entry. It reminds me just how hungry I am. There is a big display of hot food at the front which is targeted at the takeaway market.

Blossoming Lotus brands itself as a Thai vegetarian restaurant. It comes from the same Buddhist vegetarian tradition as Green Gourmet but it is less hung up on the whole meat analogy thing. There is a lot of nattering going on so it takes a while for us to settle down and peruse the menu. Paul and Ashley have spied a couple of things at the front that take their fancy, along with the menu items.

We order Golden Parcels (hard to go past with that name) and Curry Puffs to start, following these up with an eggplant dish (I was too busy having fun to take notes, and unfortunately the Blossoming Lotus does not have a website – which is where I usually go to check what we actually had to eat), something with black bean, and a pork analogue. One of these was Number 37, but I have no idea which one. We also order fried rice for young Ned to coincide with the entrees.

The young man taking our order is very friendly and patient in the face of our confusion and indecision. Ned occupies himself with some urgent colouring-in so he doesn’t have to put up with grown-up distractions. He is going to a birthday party after lunch apparently and needs to get in the zone. The birthday boy is apparently called Nirage (I know it doesn’t look right to me either), and the present is a Hero Factory (no idea – Lego apparently). Ned makes me feel very old sometimes.

The entrees are crispy and golden. The fried rice is huge and unusually delicious, so we all have to help Ned out with it. When the mains come they are good too, with the eggplant proving to be the crowd favourite. The food succeeds at being fresh and tasty, and doesn’t panic too much about not being meat. And there is lots of it.

During the meal Ned takes great delight in pointing out to Paul and Ashley, that most of Strop’s vocabulary consists of bad words that are banned in his house. It’s as if their nice vegetarian family has suddenly found itself sitting down to eat with a cannibal. The offending words are apparently hate, stupid and, my personal favourite, idiot. I sympathise with Strop, we are currently discussing the election, and it’s hard to see how you can carry on a conversation without those words unless you are going to use really bad words.

So all in all it was a fun lunch, and Blossoming Lotus turns out to be a far tastier vego experience than Green Gourmet. Next up is the Japanese joint next door.

177 Newtown Thai …and the winner is: Menu Item 37

August 24, 2013 by andysomething 6 Comments

Its a mid-week excursion this time due partly to a booking, for The Theatre, Darling, on friday night, and to an argument about whose turn it was to do the cooking. It should have been me, but after my triumph with crumbed cutlets on Sunday night I had run out of ideas. (The crumbed cutlets were excellent if I do say so myself, even thought the only crumbs available on short notice were quinoa infused – but don’t get me started on the whole quinoa thing).

So it’s a quick Dogbladder at the Marly before we rendezvous at tonight’s target, Guzman y Gomez. But after sticking our noses in the Mexican’s door we quickly decide that one big table in the middle (currently fully occupied by Young People) does not qualify as tables and chairs as defined under Rule 4 (thank you Rob.) Having already eaten once or twice at Newtown’s GyG, and many times at the Australia Square GyG, I am prepared to make a call on the whole Mexican Standoff thing. GyG is better than Mad Mex because I have never had a cold burrito there.

We quickly reverse out of GyG to see what is next on the running sheet. And there it is, right next door: the prequel to Newtown Thai 2. Oh dear. Be brave.

On the bright side however Newtown Thai has a door that closes and glass in the windows to keep the winter chill out, so at least we will be warm. It is also very busy which is a good sign. After a quick scan of the drinks menu we decide that the Ice Pinky or the Ice Greeny are just not going to cut it tonight. We are going to need alcohol. So while Strop settles in and does the ordering, I toddle back up the road to purchase some beers to lubricate the passage of the food and ease the up-welling of the chat.

I have barely prised the tops off a couple of bottles of White Rabbit/Dark Ale with my trusty aluminium extrusion key-ring bottle opener (courtesy of a window salesman who mistook me for an architect), when a couple of mixed plates of entrees arrive at the table. The highlights are some nice succulent satay sticks and the deep fried bread with minced chicken topping (enigmatically called Kar Nom Pang Nar Kai). Already this place is better than its sequel.

Next up is the obligatory Number 37, which tonight has turned out to be a salad. Even though it is a cold night, this is a pleasant change. In the past number 37 has usually fallen into the stir fry or stewy section of the menu. Plar Goong is a prawn salad with big juicy prawns and lots of greenery and plenty of flavour. It is tonight’s winner as the last dish, Mussoman Curry is a real let down. The sauce is very sweet, the peanuts look as if they have been sitting in it for a long time, and the beef is dry and over-cooked. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong with the potatoes.

As it is a school night, we decide not to risk dessert and instead wander back down the hill to the safety of Camperdown, in plenty of time to fall asleep in front of Gruen Nation.

Newtown Thai is better than it’s sequel but there are plenty of better choices for Thai food on King Street. Next up is a vegetarian joint across the road, and a date with Nedsky.

174 The Animal at Newtown Hotel – The lion doesn’t sleep tonight

August 17, 2013 by andysomething 6 Comments

We’ve drifted beyond the Marly’s sphere of influence, so no stop for a quiet Dogblister tonight. Instead it’s straight on to the renovated and spit-polished grunge of the Newtown Hotel. Up the stairs, past the big lion mural, stepping carefully over the lion tracks, to The Animal. No burgers tonight, this place qualifies as a restaurant, even though it is in a pub (Refer to Rule #6). As pubs go the Newtown is loud and dark, and upstairs, The Animal is louder and darker still. We are after a table for five – I tried to book but the website is one of those annoying impenetrable ones that makes you want to drive a fork through the forehead of the person who designed it. So, unable to make a booking we are living on the edge, just turning up and taking our chances.

“No worries,” says the young man who greets me at the front desk, “I’ll just check with the boss”, a young woman, whose rank seems to be indicated by the number and quality of her tatts. I have now been joined by Jamie, and we wait patiently while the gatekeepers poke at a screen and conduct a rapid fire discussion. Eventually we are told, “That’s fine but we’ll need the table by 9:15.”

Suits me, I’m usually in bed by then.

The decor seems to consist of bare brickwork, horse heads, and faintly glowing dangly light bulbs. What little light there is, is provided by a single tea-light candle. We are soon joined by Strop, resplendent in a bright red dress. Wendy and Matt are both running a bit late so we decide to get on with ordering. Jamie pulls out his iPhone and deploys the flashlight/magnifier app in order to read the menu. I have left my head-torch at home so I have to wait for him to interpret the menu for me. Apparently we are in Greek spit-roast territory here – which is a fine place to be. As we are hungry, and because we have no idea when the others will arrive (it depends on a complex formula involving chaos theory as applied to the interaction of friday night traffic, Sydney buses, and Newtown parking), we decide to go ahead and order. We choose a kind of banquet menu for the table which promises roast lamb and lots of other goodies.

Have I mentioned the music? It is loud and very bassy. And the restaurant is full, so everyone is shouting to be heard over the music. Every now and again I think that I recognise a tune. “Is that Echo Beach?” I wonder aloud, but no one can hear me.

Food starts arriving very quickly. First some delicious hot bread, warm olives (this seems like one of those “why doesn’t everyone do this?” kind of ideas), and yummy taramasalata. While we are fighting over these, haloumi and meatballs join the fray. We are just wondering if the others would even notice if we ate all the haloumi, when they spoil the fun by arriving. Damn.

We are inexplicably provided with some trendy little tuna tins – an empty one which is presumably for the olive pips, and one with a mysterious black substance. Wendy wonders if it is an ashtray (and in the dark it could well be) but it turns out to be some exotic variety of black salt. Squid-ink salt perhaps? Bitumen dried salt? God knows, I’m still coming to terms with pink salt.

We are moved quickly on to mains. Lamb, potatoes, beans, and a Greek salad presented with a big slab of fetta balanced on top of the tomatoes and leaves. Conversation is suspended. All is good. All is excellent.

Conversation gradually re-merges as the plates empty. The music is getting louder (could be Echo Beach again – not so far away in time – or maybe Led Zeppelin) and Strop is the only one who is not leaning forward and cranking her head sideways to try and hear what is being said. This is because she has elegant new bionic ears that target the speaker and create a special little space-time vortex to carry the conversation straight to her receptors. There is a fair amount of “Oh, aren’t they small” and “You can’t see them at all,” type comments when she shows them off. We’ve come a long way since my grandmother had to carry a suitcase full of batteries and valves around with her in order to hear.

Wendy's phone provides the light so Jamie can count the money for the bill — Wendy’s phone provides the light so Jamie can count the money for the bill

Dessert comes in two bowls to be shared. It consists of cake, orange slices in syrup, and a white frozen substance that doesn’t seem to be Streets’ vanilla. ”Froyo?” Strop suggests. Jamie is put to the task of dividing it up as he comes from a large family where accuracy of portion allotment was a key to survival. The dessert doesn’t last long.

We toy with the idea of retreating to the balcony for a cocktail, to get away from the unrefined sounds of Robert Palmer and The Power Station inexplicably playing Echo Beach, until we realise that the balcony is where all the smokers are.

Oh well, time for home then. And perhaps a couple of whiskies.

172 – Burger Fuel – Kiwis working hard for the quirk – Part 2 of the Burger Wars

August 10, 2013 by andysomething 5 Comments

I was busily working on a schooner of Dogbladder at the Marly when I got a desperate text message from Strop: ‘I’m here already but there’s no beer and no toilets.’ Just another fast food crisis on Kings Street. This is the cost of thoroughness, and our failure to instigate the No Plates-No Deal rule in time. Oh well, the lack of toilets and alcohol are both good excuses for not staying long.

It’s just the two of us tonight, strangely no one else was keen on joining in this one. Which is a pity because the burgers aren’t at all bad.

Burger Fuel is a New Zealand franchise that seems to have plans to take over the world. So far these uppity Kiwis have confined most of their efforts to the Middle East – this is the only outlet in Sydney. The place is very crisp and bright, straight out of the convenience-store school of mood lighting. Stainless steel and lacquered pine are used on the surfaces, and there are vinyl banquette seats, in a colour that used to be known as baby-shit brown. This characterless but functional decor is overlaid with a perfunctory attempt at quirky humour, in the form of a mural (a death’s head labelled ‘born to grill’) and a strange light fitting made out of washers and spark-plugs. There are video screens as well, a deplorable but growing trend in King Street eateries. One screen is advertising specials, and the other seems to be showing a kind of Youtube loop featuring cute furry animals being cute, and hapless young men falling off things. I am quite disappointed that there are no bikini-clad women firing AK47s though. The sound track is loud and of the doof-doof baseline variety. I don’t think Strop and I are the target demographic of this franchise – but then that applies to the whole of King Street really.

Deathstar meets death's head — Deathstar meets death’s head

The menu on the illuminated board above the counter makes gratuitous use of the word gourmet to distinguish between the various categories. 100%-pure-NZ-grass-fed-beef and fresh-natural-BF-aioli feature heavily, and silly names have been fully deployed to label the burgers in a further attempt at quirkiness.

I am about to lock in the Bastard Burger on the basis of the name alone, until a perusal of the fine print reveals that it features mango. I’m sorry, tinned mango? I don’t think so. Instead I go for the Peanut Piston (defining ingredient: satay sauce) and Strop chooses the Ford Freakout (avocado). In the interests of thoroughness we upgrade to the meal-deal which adds a can of soft drink, a packet of chips and a little tub of aioli. Mayonnaise and garlic, is that the same as aioli? It goes well with chips anyway. Service is prompt and we are soon presented with a tray loaded with paper bags and cardboard containers. And the burgers aren’t bad. And the chips are good (especially with a gleaming gob of aioli resting on the end). On a previous visit I had tried the Ring Burner (chilli), which I also enjoyed. I don’t think they are quite as good as the burgers we had at the Marly but they are pretty good.

By the time we leave the place is full. A crowd that looks and sound as if it is predominantly Kiwi. Out for a taste of their native quirky humour and grass-fed cuisine, no doubt. Meanwhile, we are on our way home for a serving of Broadchurch and a sizeable glass of Highland Park.

171 Kammadhenu – apparently it is pronounced kammadhenu

August 4, 2013 by andysomething 4 Comments

We are going to Kammadhenu tonight (two proper restaurants in a row, things are looking up), and we are catching up with John and Pauline, who were last observed at Than Binh. A flurry of emails has led to an arrangement to meet John at the Marly, for a Dogblotter or two before the main event. There is a lot to talk about. John and I both went to Epping Boys High School in the dim dark past, although not in the same year, he is definitely older than me. The talk eventually turned to school japes, and I was recalling the time some wag had arranged for a truckload of soil to be delivered to the front lawn of a teacher who had displeased him in some manner. I thought that this had been done by someone in my year, to one of my teachers, but then I also thought that it may just have been a playground myth, trotted out by some boastful and spotty twerp each year. John went a bit quiet while I was describing these supposed events, taking a sudden and keen interest in his schooner of Dougbelter. As my story petered out, he looked up with that shy grin thing he does, and said, “It wasn’t topsoil, it was blue-metal gravel. That was me.” Strop and I nearly fell off our stools – we were in the presence of a legend – well a playground legend anyway. We’ve known John for forty odd years and this has never come up before. We were busily pumping him for all the details when Pauline and Kirsten arrived. We got as far as – it was the librarian’s front lawn – in reprisal for an unfair caning (aren’t they all) – and involved a girl with family connections to a gravel and sand business. A love interest too! I’m pretty sure there is movie deal in this.

With the party now at full strength we threw back the last of our Dogbaskets and decamped to the restaurant. Kirsten is a quest newbie (or is that noob these days? I will have to check with Keir and Tessa, my consultants for all things teenager). She is Pauline’s grand niece thrice removed or something. She is also a Kiwi but she can’t help that. John and Pauline inform us that they have been undertaking a quest of their own, and it is longer than King Street! They are doing the Coastal Walk from Barrenjoey to Kurnell in weekend installments, complete with appropriately timed whale glimpses and coffee-shop stops. I am immediately envious, as this sounds like far more fun than King Street. And it has actual wildlife, not just drunken revellers in animal themed onesies. Kirsten is joining them on the walk, bright and early the next morning to act as chaperone for all the oldies, which is why she is available to join us tonight.

Kammadhenu is basically a curry joint with dhosas on the side. Their newish looking menus proclaim this loudly in yellow and purple. 1300 CURRYS is the headline, so I imagine they do takeaways too. The menu colours match the colour of the walls and go surprisingly well with strip of GI-cordial-green LED lights running around the walls. The culinary roots of Kammadhenu are in India, Sri Lanka and Malaysia, which presumably explains the colour scheme.

There is no wine list but there is a drinks fridge up the back, from which we are invited to help ourselves. There are quite a few beers on offer, but not many wines so I quickly dispatch myself back up the road to fetch a Pinot Grigio/Gris. “Get the one Rebecca bought at New Taste,” says Strop. Umm ok. “Any idea what it was called?” My question is met with her dont-be-stupid look, so I go freelance and come back with a NZ wine that elicits a lot of comments along the lines of, “My…, that’s fruity isn’t it… and quite sweet.”

Having contributed on the wine-infliction front I leave the food selection to the others. We go for a range of dhosas, some curries and some snow peas. I wasn’t paying very close attention to the details of the order as I was intrigued that the waiter was entering our choices onto an iPad. How very C21.

The food does not really distract from the conversation. It is all very edible but none of it is particularly memorable. Not by me anyway. Dhosas are always fun but the size of the plates proves a bit of a challenge to the whole food sharing ethic. Still there wasn’t any left over by the time we spilled out of the restaurant, and started shuffling along King Street in search of a gelato for dessert.

Your correspondent suffering the effects of the pre-dinner Dogblotto

On the way we walked past a new shop that seems to specialise in the supply of onesies to the Newtown stylemeisters. It was at this point that I learned that Kirsten is a bit of a onesie aficionado (“but I wouldn’t wear it in public,”). Apparently they are unparalleled as after work, house-lounging wear. Seeing as my current choice of house-lounging clobber consists of nastily stained tracky-daks and a twenty year old shag-pile polar-fleece, I am seriously considering a change to a pink and white zebra-striped onesie. It could only be an improvement, although I do worry about the whole toilet thing.

Next up is Burger Fuel. Strop and I will probably keep this one all to ourselves. Unless anyone is really keen?

165 Sherpa Kitchen – Not at all like the inside of a snow tent

August 3, 2013 by andysomething 2 Comments

Strop has been banging on about going to Sherpa Kitchen ever since our Feej excursion. She has a friend with a 25% discount voucher and the whole thing is turning into a bit of a jolly ex-zoo works outing. But there is a last minute cock-up on the catering front. Strop gets a phone call from Bev, the owner of the voucher, just before we are due to go into the Dendy to see a pre-dinner flick (The Way Way Back – enjoyable little coming-of-age film with Sam Rockwell and our very own Toni Collette. 3.5 stars). Apparently Bev, and John (of Atom Thai fame) are moving house today and the el-cheapo moving van hasn’t shown up yet (this is at 4:30). So our party is reduced by 30% and our bill is back to 100%.

Sherpa Kitchen has been around for a while (at least since the last pass by the Google Streetview cam-car) but we have never eaten there before. Nepali food sounds exotic but not necessarily enticing, and the name Sherpa Kitchen, conjures up images of 1950s climbers huddled around spirit stoves, cooking the Himalayan equivalent of a guinea pig. Turns out it is not like the inside of a snow tent at all, it is in fact warmly welcoming on a cold winters night and smells deliciously of curry. There is a huge photo-mural of sun kissed mountains (presumably the Himalayas) across one wall, and it is really a little bit posh. Strop and I have brought along some beers but we are informed it is not that kind of place – they have standards, and a wine list. We meekly shove our six-pack back into Strop’s handbag, order a couple of Tigers, and check out the menu while we wait for Camilla and Tim. Strop is disappointed to find that fermented yak butter doesn’t feature.

The restaurant is popular, not full at this stage, but there are a number of large tables getting stuck into the modern Nepali cuisine. The next table to ours is packed with a distinctly Nepali looking extended family which has to be a good indicator of things to come. Worryingly though, another table is full of large men who are prone to breaking into song at the least provocation. At least they have good voices – must be the choir’s big night out.

Camilla and Tim arrive in a flurry of coats and scarves. Kisses are exchanged, hands shaken, drinks poured, food ordered and nattering commenced – all in fairly short order. Camilla and Tim are young refugees from that sinking economic entity known as the old country, and are out here making wonderful new lives for themselves in God’s Own. They are a welcome addtion. Camilla is one of those effortlessly warm and charming people who make the rest of humanity seem like a bunch of grouches by comparison. Tim is a doctor who spends all his time ministering to sick Aussies and his spare time studying for his upcoming specialisation exams. This is a rare night off for him so the pressure is on us to be entertaining and diverting. We, of course, begin by asking him all about his work and his exams.

Modern Nepali cuisine turns out to be a bit like a cross between Indian and Chinese food – a quick look at a map should have made that clear from the start. There are steamed dumplings called Momo, fried battered chicken things (I didn’t say nuggets), and goat and beef curries. The best dish is called Choyala Chicken with chilli, ginger, garlic and coriander in a kind of salady mix. Yums.

The conversation is wide ranging and diverting. We cover the risks of driving holidays in Citroen 2CVs, the dearth of decent pizza anywhere in Sydney, the Chardonnay/Chablis indistinction and halitosis noseness, and that moment when you discover that your parents aren’t at all normal.

Sherpa Kitchen turns out to be pleasant enough but nothing to write home to the old country about. I am beginning to think that with a few notable exceptions, this is the best you can hope for from a King Street eatery. Still, we live in hope of finding another rare gem like Thai La-Ong.

Next is Kammadhenu – another nominally challenged restaurant.