Archives for December 2013

236 – Pho 236 – That’ll do for this year

December 29, 2013 by andysomething Leave a Comment

There is a no nonsense attitude about this place. It is there in the name, with the street address included. There is nothing fancy in the fit-out either, and no decorations. Just a long narrow rectangular tube with glass at the street end and a counter at the back. Tiled floors and plain painted walls, containing a row of tables on either side of a central aisle that leads straight from the door to the business end. There is nothing fancy about the food either: Vietnamese/Chinese that is not great but good enough for the price. Service is fast, and you can drink Coke or Sunkist or Water, or you can bring your own. We brought our own. A nice little Pinot Grigio courtesy of the Coopers Arms across the street, which seemed a bit far to go as there is a Vintage Cellars next door, but unfortunately it is closed due to it being Boxing Day and there being trading rules.

It is early but Pho 236 is fairly busy — as it always seems to be. It has been around for as long as we have been paying attention and nothing seems to change. It is popular with the traditional Newtown set of students and people after a quick feed before a movie or going on to a pub or whatever it is that young people do after 9pm when all decent gentle folk are in bed or watching Midsomer Murders.

We are earlier than usual tonight as we have the granddaughter, Pancetta in tow, and we are leaving bright and early the next morning to go on a Summer Holiday (sing along now with Uncle Cliff: We’re all going on a…., No more worries for a week or two, etc.). Stropette and the Heathen are along for the ride and we’ve extended the family to include, Cousin Alison and Brother Steve. After dragging a couple of tables together, counting heads and matching them to chairs, we are delivered of a pile of particularly raggedy-looking laminated pictogram menus.

Due to the rule of nominative determinism Strop and I resolve to have the Special Beef pho. Strop likes to go for the “Special” because it traditionally comes with sausage and bits of tendon (or gristle as she refers to them). Steve orders the chicken pho, Alison goes for sizzling king prawns, Stropette orders spring rolls and vermicelli for herself, and tofu and vegies for the Pancetta. The Heathen has something with prawns and tofu, chow mein I think — I wasn’t paying very close attention. To start we have fresh spring rolls, because they’re usually delicious, and a bit of a tradition with us.

The Pancetta, being blonde and gorgeous, proceeds to seduce the staff behind the counter by smiling and talking nonsense at them, only occasionally interrupted by the ear-drum piercing squeal of a metal chair leg being dragged across a ceramic floor tile, and being amplified by every hard surface in the restaurant. Yes, it is a bit noisy. But the food comes quickly, preceded by a handful of cutlery and chopsticks, placed in a delicate pile in the middle of the table.

Fresh spring rolls: nothing special, nothing terrible. About the same quality as you can buy in any food hall in the city.

The Special Beef pho is not bad, although Strop is disappointed by the total lack of gristle, but there is plenty of sausage to compensate. I really enjoyed the stock when I got the balance of basil, chilli, and lime garnishes just right. Strop was disappointed but then she is comparing it to Pho Pasteur which has very good stock. I think the verdict on the rest of the dishes was along the lines of “Okay, but I’ve had better.”

I hadn’t planned on being the entertainment for the evening, but that was the way it turned out when I got a chilli seed caught at the back of my throat. My usual reaction to a chilli overdose is a light-hearted bout of hiccups, which is particularly entertaining for Strop. This was different. This was coughing. And choking. Perhaps not life threatening, but certainly snot-and-tear-inducing. The worst part was that it seemed to have scarred the back of my throat so that even when I had regained my composure, and assured Strop that I didn’t need “a good thump between the shoulder blades,” every subsequent mouthful of soup brought on more coughing. How they laughed — once they had decided I wasn’t going to actually die.

The menu board doesn't look as if it has changed this century — The menu board doesn’t look as if it has changed this century

The damage, apart from my pride, was $75 for seven people. Not bad.

So now we have reached the intersection of Church Street, from now on we will be turning right at King Street and making the run down towards the railway station, where we will have to decide whether to stick with the mediocre task at hand, or allow ourselves to be seduced by the bright lights and higher culinary standards of Enmore Road. Only time will tell. See you next year.

234 – Thai Passion – I’m not feeling the love

December 21, 2013 by andysomething 2 Comments

It is sad to say but Thai Passion is just another King Street Thai. It covers the basics but in the end it is indistinguishable from from any number of other mediocre Thai joints on the strip. Harsh? Perhaps, but I don’t think we are alone in this opinion judging by the number of empty seats last Friday night.

We tried. We entered into the transaction with love in our hearts and a try-harder positive attitude – we were all Clear Eyes, Full Hearts, Can’t Lose as we ran back onto the field. We had a bottle of yummy Mrs Wrigley rosé to drink, and indeed I had downed a Blog Dolter before arriving. We even ordered the entree called Sexy Girl, purely on the basis of its name and my own brand of simple-minded and wildly-misplaced optimism.

There was nothing really wrong with it. It was just a prawn in some spring roll pastry. Deep fried. With sweet chilli dipping sauce. It was crunchy, but it wasn’t sexy. Not in the least.

Thai Passion claims to be Thai so for mains, Number 37 is being resurrected, and this time it turns out to be Cashew Nut sauce with your choice of wokked animal. We chose the duck because probably the only thing we have learned this year is that we often like what Thai restaurants do with ducks. The ducks probably don’t, but if you follow that argument, the logic leads straight to Green Gourmet and, frankly, once was enough. Strop also takes a fancy to the special on the blackboard: seafood and mango salad.

While we are waiting Strop discusses what I should do tomorrow as I am officially in holiday mode but she still has time to serve. There is ham and cherries to be purchased at the markets, a dog to be deodorised, gutters to be cleaned, and a massive seasonal fail to be corrected. Last week in a rush of optimism, grandfatherly pride and stupidity, I strung crass-massy lights across the front of our house, spending a lot of time and aggravating Strop no-end, trying to wrangle the recalcitrant rope of lights into a form that might be mistaken for writing. In the end we managed to get a bemused Asian couple, who just happened to be passing at the wrong moment, to admit that it did indeed spell out the seasonally appropriate and cheerful, but artfully ambiguous, “Merry…” just as intended. I was full of pride when I turned it on and the little lights began to glow. Well most of them did. Some of the little buggers were decidedly unglowy, but the ones next to the unglowy ones were glowing even more brightly, as if to compensate for the lack of effort being put in by their brethren. They glowed brighter. And brighter. And they got hotter and hotter. There was smoke. Never a good sign. The plastic tube began to melt. It was kind of fascinating watching the plastic liquify, then bubble, and blacken. More lights decided that it was much cooler to be in the unglowy group, which seemed to make the over-achieving glowers angry. They got hotter and brighter and made more smoke. Then there was that smell you never want to smell around self-installed electrical devices, the smell of plastic that is just about to burst into flames. So I turned it all off. I decided it didn’t really matter that the lights didn’t work. A clear plastic tube on the front of the house that said “Merry…” was perfectly alright. A little avante garde even, an ironic monument to seasonal excess.

Strop didn’t agree. “Everyone says you should do it again, but this time don’t bugger it up,” she said.

“Everyone?”

“Oh yes. Everyone. They’re unanimous.”

I stalled, saying I would think about it, while I tried to think of a convincing argument that would save me from spending more money and risking further failure.

I was saved by the duck. It looked very nice on a big platter with lots of vegies and cashews and sauce. Unfortunately the sauce was very salty and sweet, so it didn’t leave room for any of the other flavours to come through. The duck was good but was overpowered by the sauce. The seafood and mango salad came next. It was another big platter with lettuce, spring onions, apple, and mango on the bottom, and deep fried and battered seafood scattered on top. The seafood was ok and the mango was nice enough but… it was as if the they had been properly introduced in the kitchen, and they weren’t talking to each other.

The meal was relatively cheap though, so there is that I suppose.

Afterwards we crossed the road to Yogurberry, which we thought had died, but we were informed by an enthusiastic young American man, that it had just been closed for renovations. They had installed swings and an overheated man in a pink rabbit suit. Strop was very enthusiastic because they were having a special re-opening half-price deal, so we had extruded, sweetened yoghurt for dessert. Complete with strange little balls of flavour. I hope Strop has got that out of her system now.

232 – Moo Gourmet Burgers – Part the Next of the Burger Wars

December 14, 2013 by andysomething 3 Comments

There’s that word again. Gourmet. It always makes me think of The Galloping Gourmet – Graham Kerr. You’re all probably too young, but he was one of the first television chefs. Before the Galloping Gourmet, cooking shows were all hosted by earnest middle aged women in nicely starched, hygienic tunics, whose senses of humour had to be safely tucked out of harms way, before they could start explaining the intricacies of crumbed cutlets. After Kerr, there was Bernard King, all red face, mutton-chops and double-entendres.

Times have changed. Now everything is Gourmet.

Moo is part of a small Sydney based five-link chain. But even so there is something a bit NZ about the place, and one of the links in the chain is at Bondi, the Kiwi beach-head so… I’ll leave you to join the dots. After a bit of internet research, I have learned that Moo has very strong Oz and Kiwi milk bar heritage. So there you go. I was partly right, but mostly wrong.

I think it is the self-conscious quirk thing that made me think NZ. The walls are covered with kids drawings and there is a piano, and one of those old lounges, that you know if you sit in, you will never be able to get out again. Moo offers the punters a wide choice of dining options. You can sit at a normal table, a high table, a coffee table, or an enormous group table. But you can only order burgers. And beers. Or milkshakes. Some wine. And a few cocktails. And a dessert. But mainly burgers.

It is quite full when I arrive so I grab the only free table while I wait for Strop and Mark to arrive. It is one of the high tables, and the chairs are those stupid high stools that you have to climb down off to move, which means you are never quite close enough to the table.

The place seems to be full of teenage girls and large family groups indulging in pre-Christmas get togethers. It is the time of year when young men suddenly sprout antlers on their heads, and women who are old enough to know better, wear red and green flashing earrings. Oh well, it’ll all be over soon and we can get back to bushfires and sunburn.

The staff all seem to be teenaged girls too. Maybe I’m just feeling old. Mark and Strop arrive just when I have decided that I won’t be able to survive my own company any longer without a beer.

The menus are printed on big squares of transparent plastic. I imagine that this makes them very easy to clean, but it also makes them very hard to read. I find that I have to hold mine up to the light so that I can read the burger fine print. There is a lot of it.

Strop and Mark contemplate the duck burger

We are all tempted by the Duck and Bacon Burger but Strop is the only one brave enough to carry the fantasy through to the plate. She adds beetroot to it as well. I opt for the signature Black and White Burger (cheese and egg), apparently named after the first milk bar in Sydney, and Mark eventually turns his back on the duck and goes for the Avocado and Bacon. The burgers don’t automatically come with a side of chips – that seems to be a pub thing – so Strop and I get a basket of chips to share. Given the size of our breakfast, this is probably a mistake.

It was about this time that the parents at the big family table decided that letting their bored kids loose on the piano would be a good way to distract them. It certainly drove me to distraction. Coincidentally Strop was telling Mark all about her hearing aids, as the children banged away on the keyboard, and all the adults spoke up to be heard over the noise. We were only saved by the arrival of their burgers. The children were enticed away from the piano with the promise of chips, and the adults had to stop talking because their mouths were suddenly full.

Then our burgers arrived, and I stopped worrying about what everyone else was doing as egg yolk ran down my wrist, and melted cheese formed a suspension bridge between my mouth and what was left of the Black and White.

We enjoyed the burgers and the chips, but I’ll leave the scorecard summary to my colleague.

“Not as good as Burger Fuel,” said Mark, smothering a little belch with his napkin.

227 – Citrus – We won’t need lunch now

December 14, 2013 by andysomething 3 Comments

We are stumbling towards the end of the year and in order to hit another arbitrary and pointless target, (getting to Church Street before Christmas) we are attempting two eateries in one day. Sometime when we have a spare moment and enough of an energy surplus we are going to have to do some introspection and try to figure out why we need to set ourselves these arbitrary goals. It’s not as if our respective jobs don’t provide plenty of goals and deadlines. So really, what the hell are we trying to do to ourselves? And don’t say fill the void left in our empty lives, because I’ve already thought of that and rejected it on the grounds that our lives are far too full. Maybe just full of the wrong things. That’s possible, I suppose. Still this isn’t the time or the place. I have to finish the blog, then string the christmas lights, pay my tax, and find out how to work the new bluetooth phone thingy, before heading off to drink birthday whiskies with Matt and Jim. No time to think about how empty my life is just yet. That’s what the holidays are for.

Sorry.

All that stands between us and Church St

7:30 am on Friday morning is time for breakfast at Citrus – because it is basically a cafe and that was the rule, and we have to go to work afterwards. On King Street the only people around according to Strop are commuters and meth-heads. “And half-arsed restaurant reviewers,” I point out. She gives me the look.

We are the first customers of the day, and decide to sit out on the street because it is a nice morning and the meth-heads will probably be more entertaining than than an empty cafe. Once we have overcome the challenge of trying to move the table far enough from the bench to fit our legs through the gap, without having the not-actually-attached-to-anything table leg fall off, we sit side-by-side facing out on the world, full of optimism and ready for breakfast. That was when the four bendy-buses of the apocalypse darkened the sky, their engines roaring, and their loose fan belts screaming in pain. We began to reconsider the entertainment value of meth heads, but decided to stay put on the grounds that it was all part of the King St tapestry.

“Citrus is conveniently located right next to a bus stop,” said Strop. “Write that down.”

The big breakfast option sounds huge, especially for a school day, and is quite expensive too, so we decide to share one together with a serve of French toast. The juices sound good. Strop chooses the Stress Buster (ginger and stuff) while I go for the Cold Buster (lots of citrus appropriately + honey).

The big breakfast is vast. Strop decides that it will be more efficiently shared if she makes an incision in the edge of one of the (very) thick-cut slices of toast and inserts her share of the egg, bacon, haloumi, sausage, spinach and mushrooms into its cavernous interior. By the time she has finished she has invented the big breakfast toasty-sanger. It is definitely a thing. And she seems to be enjoying it. I thought my conventional on-a-plate big brekkie was good too, my only whinge was that the haloumi was too salty. The juices were very good as well.

Strop loads the Big Brekkie Toasty Sanger

Then it was time for the French toast which was drizzled with maple syrup and topped with peaches and what seemed to be fried banana bits. Strop asked the waiter for some plain yoghurt to go with it, to cut the sweetness she explained. No problemo. We ordered coffees too.

The coffee was good, and soon there was no French toast left.

As we struggled to get out of the grasp of the self-disassembling table Strop said, “We won’t need lunch now.”

“No,” I agreed earnestly. But deep down inside I knew I would have some anyway.

226 – Splash – They’re Pacific oysters, from The Pacific.

December 7, 2013 by andysomething 2 Comments

Daryl Hannah.

Okay, that’s that out of the way.

Strop has taken to calling this part of King Street the doldrums. She feels that we are currently becalmed in an ethnically indeterminate sea of mediocrity. She may be right. Splash is certainly in keeping with the nautical aspects of this theory. We shall see about the rest.

It is just the two of us again. Strop did try to drum up a bit of company, but either the festive season or the doldrums themselves meant that everyone was suddenly very busy. Or it could be just us, I suppose.

Splash. Seafood, get it? I think this could be the only place on King Street that specialises in seafood, and it’s been around for a few years now so presumably there’s a market need that they’re filling. (Apropos of nothing much, we also noticed the first Froyo casualty. Had to happen – now that’s a market that is absolutely saturated.)

Strop gets her wish and we are allocated a table for two right in the window. So far in the window in fact, that we are almost outside. This is great, we have the moving picture show of King St on Friday evening to keep us entertained, with only slight drawbacks of deafening noise from buses and Ducatis, and the occasional tendril of cigarette smoke.

Right. Now we’re going to need some alcohol. Strop has noticed a special two-for-one deal on cocktails, but unfortunately the deal only applies to concoctions with hideous names that you wouldn’t drink unless you already had ten cocktails under your belt. We decide to forgo the offer and order a couple of full-price mojitos to go with our entrees of oysters and salt and pepper squid. The waiter regrets to inform us that unfortunately the “squid is off” – I think he means that they’ve run out – so we choose salt and pepper prawns instead.

The oysters and the prawns arrive first, and we are just starting to get a bit angsty about the alcohol shortage when the mojitos arrive (stay calm, it’s all going to be alright). The drinks are good. The prawns are very good. The Pacific oysters are rich and creamy, but a bit muddy tasting. Interweb research has since informed me that there is a seasonal variation in the quality of oysters which might be the issue. Strop queries the tattooed waitress about the origin of the oysters. “They’re Pacific oysters, so they’re from The Pacific,” she informs us. Right. The next time the waitress circles past, Strop engages her in conversation and in a very friendly tone points out that Pacific oysters are grown in different places, not just The Pacific. The waitress, now understands the nature of our query and pootles off to do some fact checking, only to return almost immediately and put our minds at rest by informing us that, “They’re Australian. They’re Pacific oysters, but they’re from Australia.” Pheww – thank god for that. I was worried that they might have been from Coffin Bay or Bruny Island or some other outlandish place.

For mains I have chosen barramundi with coriander, and sides of chips and salad, while Strop has gone for a seafood risotto. Seeing as the mojitos seem to have vanished we also order a bottle of Pinot Grigio.

The restaurant is not full but it is relatively busy. At the table next to us the waitress is telling her customers about her tatts. Apparently she is planning to get a couple more old-timey film stars to adorn her body. “Humphrey Bogart. And Gregory Peck, from Roman Holiday. Maybe Fred Astaire too. In profile.” I’m more surprised that she knows their names than that she wants their images inked onto her arms.

The barramundi and risotto arrive and are perfectly pleasant. The chips are good. The salad is mundane.

The couple at the next table have been more adventurous than us and have ordered a seafood platter, but when it arrives they have to call the waitress back to get finger bowls and something to put the shells in.

To me this sums up the doldrums. There is no sense that these restaurants are interested in giving their customers anything other than a bog standard dining experience. How hard is it to train your staff so they know something about the produce they are selling? It is not as if Splash is a cheap place. I understand that seafood is expensive, that’s fair enough, but when you are paying $100 for a seafood platter for two you should expect the people serving it to take a bit of pride in what they are doing. You shouldn’t have to ask for a finger bowl. It wouldn’t take that much effort to make these places a lot better. But maybe no one cares.

Next up we sail back across the street and into cafe land at Citrus.