Archives for October 2013

199 – Fringe Cafe – 9am isn’t early unless it’s Newtown

October 27, 2013 by Andrew Christie 6 Comments

Fringe is our first cafe and it throws up a couple of issues for us to resolve, because we are now entering the cafe-dense midlands of King Street. The first problem is that Fringe does not open at night – so do we go for lunch or breakfast? Secondly, what basis are we going to use for comparison with all the other cafes? I resolve that we shouldn’t think of them as problems, but as opportunities to make up more Rules. Making up Rules is fun, so here we go with the Cafe Suite of Rules:

Cafes are a breakfast outing.

At Cafes the order must include the Big/Full breakfast option.

There will be coffee.

There you have it, two points of comparison and a whole new time-slot to explore.

So on Sunday morning we take our grumbling tummies up the hill, anticipating the bacon and caffeine to come. We have Steve (of Tamana’s and Radio National fame, back in town for more parent-extraction duties and recreational questing), and the Stropolina (Thai Yindee), in tow this morning. We had assumed that 9am would be a reasonable hour, time for a few other punters to have started breakfasting, but not so late that we wouldn’t be to find a table. Around our place, the cafes open at 7am for the early rising dog-walkers and boot-campers, but when we got to Fringe they were still putting out the tables and chairs. “We’ll be ready in a moment,” they said as we stood dumbfounded on the sunny but mostly empty footpath. As we did a slow amble up to Missenden Road and back we mused that this was King Street after all, and different rules and time frames apply here. When we got back to Fringe there was already one table occupied so we didn’t feel too stupid or lonely or suburban.

Sunday Mornin' Comin' Down — Sunday Mornin’ Comin’ Down

I quickly checked the menu looking for the Big breakfast, and there it was, just above the Massive breakfast. Now what, I thought, is Massive the new Big? Will I have to change the rule before it has even been tried? No, I decided to give Big a chance – Massive has too many coronary connotations. We may be close to RPA but who wants to spend Sunday morning trying out their triage. Strop opts for an omelette and the rest of us have the big, with Steve asking for extra spinach. We all order juices.

Fringe is located on a street corner and has big windows that allow in plenty of light. This is good because the place has nothing else that could be mistaken for decor. There are a couple of big and decidedly dusty blackboards along one wall and a shambolic mixture of furniture, but nothing resembling style, not even grunge.

The juices arrive first and they are all huge and excellent. Then the plates arrive and they are huge too. I am glad that I didn’t go for the Massive – it would have defeated me, even if it didn’t kill me. Steve’s spinach fails to arrive at first, causing a moment of consternation, but it appears soon afterwards. Strop’s omelette is almost too big for her, but every time she says she can’t finish it, a bit more disappears, and in the end there is nothing left to bag up. The food is good quality, if fairly standard, cafe fare.

Our coffee order throws the Canadian waitress into disarray, and I am worried that we won’t get out of Newtown alive when Steve orders a quarter-strength flat white, but the Stropolina rescues our street cred by creatively ordering a long black over ice. “It’s an iced coffee without all the milky shit,” she explains helpfully.

Steve offers up the comment that the Kris Kristofferson song Sunday Morninin’ Comin’ Down would be a good soundtrack for our visit to the cafe, but you can’t take a reference to a song about a hangover seriously from a man who is drinking a quarter-strength flat white.

One thing about cafes: you don’t have to feel self conscious about making notes in a cafe in Newtown. Every second bastard is a poet or is working on a screenplay. And all the others have blogs.

Don't make any sudden moves, there's a poet just behind you — Don’t make any sudden moves, there’s a poet just behind you

196 Level 1 – Paju BBQ – Up the stairs to the land of butane

October 27, 2013 by Andrew Christie 6 Comments

It’s Friday night again and tonight we get to go upstairs. There is something a bit mysterious about anywhere upstairs. There is no window to peer in at, to get a sense of the place. You have to commit, climb the stairs and take your chances. You may be shocked by what you find and have to make a hasty retreat (“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise it was that kind of establishment”). On the other hand you may find yourself with a few other happy punters, surrounded by the smell and the sizzle of marinated meats cooking over bright blue butane flames. But first you have to commit and climb the very steep and long flight of stairs.

Strop and I committed. We are always committed (well except for that one time at Guzman y Gomez) otherwise we’d be at home watch Walking Dead or Game of Thrones (well I would be – Strop would be watching something more edumakayshional).

We met up at the bottle shop first and stocked up on Pinot Gris before making our way to the bottom of the stairs. I had arrived early and had applied Dogbolter liberally to my inflamed sensibilities in order to wash away the trauma inflicted when I discovered that my aged parents were secret stationary hoarders and fetishists. I had spent the day sorting through cabinets and drawers full of well-filled notebooks, half-used writing pads, unopened packets of christmas cards, greeting cards, visiting cards, and postcards. Not to mention all the drawings produced by their grandchildren down through the ages. It was a lot to come to terms with, knowing that they had been doing this for years and had never once advised me to buy shares in John Sands. So I was ready for a night out with normal people after spending the day filling garbage bags with paper products.

Our co-questers for the night are Anna (making a much anticipated return to King Street after an impressive debut at Thai-Riffic) and Don (on a brief and welcome return to Oz to recharge his accent.) I suspect that I am the only person who still thinks of him as Don or Donny. It’s all Donald or The Professor now that we’re all grown up, but Donny is how I’ve thought of him since we were group-house whipper-snappers back in, what young people reverently refer to as, The Day.

There was no sign of Don or Anna when we got to the bottom of the stairs, so Strop and I began climbing. After establishing that they hadn’t beaten us to it, we chose a table and plonked our paper bag of wine down. Strop was keen to get a beer under her belt by way of catching up to my Dogboltedness, so she proceeded to confuse the waiter by asking if they had any dark beers. This was a fresh concept for him apparently and he shook his head and indicated the cheapest beer on the menu. “This one is good.”

“Okay,” said Strop, “I was going to order the most expensive Korean beer you had, but on your say so I’ll have that cheap one.”

I said “Me too,” because I am gullible and impressed by people who act confident.

The waiter was lying, the beer was not good. It was called Cass and described itself as Fresh, but it was piss. That was the lowlight of the evening.

Strop proceeded to confuse the wait staff further by enquiring about corkage for our bottle of Pinot Gris, and then changing her mind and opting for one of Paju’s own wines because it would work out cheaper. In the middle of all this Don and Anna arrived in a flurry of kissing and hugging. As we nattered away with catchup chat, the young staff gathered at the countered and eyed our old-person table warily. Eventually they sent a senior emissary to find out just exactly what-the-fuck we wanted to put in our wine glasses. Unfortunately their emissary looked exactly like Brains, of Thunderbirds Are Go fame, so I had a hard time keeping a straight face. But he knew how to handle ridiculous old round-eyed people and we soon had palatable alcohol to drink and were starting to think about food.

Unfortunately I didn’t take any notes about what we ordered – mistakenly thinking that Paju was the kind of joint that would be all over the internet, and I could check the menu later. I mean, they’re Korean – Samsung is Korean – it stands to reason that their menu would be online. Wrong. But everything was yummy, so no biggy.

Because Paju uses BBQ in its name the unwritten Rule of Nominative Nosh applies so we had to have BBQ in the mix. We had a brief discussion about BBQ and gender roles, during which I may have put my foot in it, commenting on a table full of women doing the BBQ thing. It was just like being back in the 1970s only funnier. We ordered a first round of pre-cooked things that came with a huge range of condiments, and a second round of raw things ready to be cooked, including inter-coastal beef, which Strop surmised must really mean bits of meat from between the ribs, and nothing at all to do with shipping canals or Florida. I was a bit disappointed by the mundanity of this typographical explanation.

"No, it's definitely an omelette." — “No, it’s definitely an omelette.”

After we had ordered the food we were immediately moved to a larger table and provided with two gas powered barbeques. Wow I thought, we must really have over-ordered, but apparently not, we had just managed to confuse them again and soon one of the barbeques disappeared.

Food arrived – we ate it. More food arrived – we cooked it then ate it. All this while talking a lot about nostalgia and death and knitting and tea cosies. At least that’s what my indecipherable notes seem to say.

Funny how with good friends you just seem to pick up where you left off.

196 – Tamana’s North Indian Diner – Let there be food.

October 19, 2013 by Andrew Christie 7 Comments

On Wednesday we successfully slotted two old, independent-minded, and beloved wrinklies into the Aged Care Machine – for what we presume will be the terms of their natural lives. This is what happens in our world when you outlive your ability to be independent.

It had been a rush, because when two slots open up in adjoining rooms in a well-run and easily-accessible establishment it is best not to fuck about. Those kinds of planets don’t always align so neatly. And even though it has been a stressful time, I am grateful to live in a country who’s citizens can expect to be looked after if they manage to live long enough to need it. We are lucky to have an Aged Care Machine, even if it is a bit clunky and ponderous, and to have a government that subsidises quality aged care for those who can’t afford it. I am also grateful to the lowly paid immigrants who look after the well being of our elderly, and really do seem to care. I don’t agree with Bronwyn Bishop on many topics but I do appreciate what she and her public servants did to change Aged Care in this country.

Okay, enough self-indulgent posturing – let’s get back to business.

The parental move was at short notice and was jammed hard up against a planned outing to King Street. We thought briefly about postponing the outing but decided that we were probably going to need a beer and a curry by the time the day was over. This was a correct prediction.

It was meant to be a quiet dinner, a chance to farewell Monica before she flew off, back to pommieland – just in time for winter, but when we got to the Coopers Hotel the party had expanded somewhat. There was Strop and I of course, my brother Steve (in town for the wrinkly relocation), Roy and Jill (last seen at Thanh Binh), Jill’s sister Monica (soon to depart our golden shores), John (previously seen at Kammadhenu and Thanh Binh, and fast becoming a groupie – or possibly a stalker), the Newlywed and the Newlywed-ette. After a quick beer, during which John informed me that he was planning on getting extremely drunk in order to give me something to write about, we set out on a brief safari towards Tamana’s. As our safari straggled along the footpath, I wondered if perhaps we should have booked but there was plenty of room at Tamana’s North Indian Diner.

Tamana’s has always seemed a bit of a strange restaurant to me. There is no attempt to fashion an intimate dining experience here, no candles or mood lighting. There aren’t even any waiters. What there is, is a big dining hall with a food counter loaded with curries along one side. This is where you order and pay for your food. Tamana’s lies at the cafeteria end of the dining experience spectrum – exactly as the name suggests.

We made our way to the back of the room and dragged a couple tables together. Someone said “Let there be food.” Someone else said “Let there be beer first,” so the Newlywed offered up his credit card as hostage against us doing a runner. “Won’t do them any good,” he said returning to the table loaded with beers, “It’s already maxed out.”

Strop, Jill and Monica took on the food ordering role, and because the food is already cooked, the table was immediately covered with curries, rice, and naan. The Newlywed-ette informed us that she had never really been a fan of Indian food. Not because it was too spicy (she’s Korean and used to chilli), it was more that she hadn’t had the opportunity to try many different types. Well tonight’s the night said the Newlywed who was keen to convert her, as he is a big fan of the curry.

Religious iconography meets romance novel cover

Plates and conversation topics were soon circulating around the table with lots of enthusiasm but very little coordination. And even less note taking on my part. Steve took up John’s idea of helping me out with writing topics. He quizzed the proprietor about the significance of the artworks and began interpreting the religious symbology, even finding out the names of the Hindu deities that were hanging around on the walls. Sometimes I think Steve listens to too much Radio National. Frequent readers of the blog will understand that facts have a very short half-life once I get hold of them. I just nodded and kept eating. The conversation veered like an out of control Segway from Hindu iconography to Fred Nile, and then on to The Greens post-election shenanigans. At this point Steve looked up and pointed out the large number of security cameras and everyone paused to check their handbag. We didn’t want another Good Friday de-funding event.

About this time several people noted that the food was good, and how about another round of beers?

Monica observing John failing to get drunk

The vibrancy of the increasingly tasty food scene in Parramatta bubbled to the conversational surface (Strop can’t help herself) but quickly morphed into a discussion of the consternation expressed by the Church Street Mall derros and druggies when regular citizens turned up and started enjoying themselves en-masse at the recent Parramatta Masala festivities. Another round of curries was required at this point and the Newlywed-ette, having declared herself a curry convert was sent off to the counter alone. It was a test that she passed with flying colours when she returned with the hottest dish of the evening. While sweat seeped from pores and noses ran, the Newlywed-ette tried to explain the presence of a huge-bright-green-furry-irish-joke-hat in her handbag. It was apparently a prop for an up-coming Eurovision-themed works outing at the Horden Pavlova. The Newlywed then began coaching his beloved in the art of the Irish joke.

As we began to disentangle ourselves from our chairs and migrate towards the street, John declared that he had failed completely in the simple task of getting drunk. And that it was the fault of the beer.

It was that kind of evening.