Archives for April 2014

324a – Kerasma Souvlaki Merchant – An unexpected treat

April 18, 2014 by Andrew Christie 1 Comment

I think I was hoovering up my tenth, or maybe twelfth, loukoumades, when I noticed that Strop and the Stropolina had stopped eating, stopped talking, and were sitting back just watching me devour the crispy-sweet, cinnamony morsels.

“Aren’t you eating?” I asked, reaching in, to spoon up another one.

“No. We’re full, but you go right ahead.”

Now I know that tone, but I kept eating anyway. Those things were too delicious to be wasted, and I refuse to be defeated by what is basically a donut. I even soldiered on through a coughing fit induced by inhaling a cloud of powdered cinnamon. I kept eating till I could barely move.

Kerasma was a bit of a surprise package. What does Souvlaki Merchant mean anyway? Are we talking retail or wholesale souvlaki? I admit I didn’t have very high expectations as we rolled out of the Bank Hotel, after a few meeting-up beers, but the charcoally-meaty smells wafting out of Kerasma had my stomach on its knees, crying out for food.

Apparently kerasma is Greek for a tasty treat to give guests (if it was up to me I’d choose the loukoumades for my treat every time). I hadn’t expected Kerasma to be Greek, although I’ll admit ‘Souvlaki Merchant’ was a clue that I should have cottoned on to sooner, but I’m a visual person and there is not a skerrick of blue and white about the place, let alone a picture of the Parthenon or Nana Mouskouri. Kerasma is all dark and red, with music that could just as easily be Middle Eastern as Greek to my untrained, bogan ears. It is actually a fairly small place but the dark interior, and the mirrors on the wall make it look bigger. The kitchen takes up a large area with a big charcoal grill up the front. It looks and sounds like a high end middle-eastern restaurant, but it’s Greek and it does takeaways too. Which is something I am going to keep in mind next time I feel a bit peckish in Newtown, because I like what these guys are doing.

My brother Steve was supposed to join us but he had been waylaid by an aged-parent-wrangling crisis that involved too many pharmacists and not enough doctors, so the three of us decided to start without him. The menu is small. Literally. It is another anomaly, a small folded piece of paper that looks more like an advertising pamphlet than a menu. In fact it is not so much a menu as a build-your-own, step-by-step guide to souvlaki ordering, which is again, at odds with the aspirational decor. On closer examination though, the need for this level of guidance becomes clear. The list of ingredients available to fill your souvlaki is large and exotic. Ocean trout? Liver? Tongue? Snail? And what is a sheftalies? Anyone?… Beuller?… Luckily the very helpful waiter is able to explain. It is of course a sausage. Yumm… sausage.

You can have your souvlaki in a pocket, a wrap, or they’ll even deconstruct it onto a plate for you. Then there’s the pickles… and the dips… It was definitely time to start over-ordering.

Dips, we want some of those, and olives, what about tahini, yes that too, and some of the sweet potato one. Don’t forget the beetroot one. Strop went for one of the sausage souvlaki options, while the Stropolina and I stayed traditional with lamb. We chose a Greek wine, a syrah, which is what shiraz used to be, according to our waiter. It was good. Soft and intense, but not as spicy as shiraz. Soon there was food everywhere. There was talk, there was laughter. There was hysterical laughter from the table next to us, which was full of fairly inebriated twentysomething women and one bemused-looking young man.

The food was pretty good, but when it felt as if the earth was moving I realised that this had more to do with the restaurant being perched on a bridge above the railway lines, than the transcendent nature of our dining experience. There is even a window just outside the loo that looks straight down onto platform 1 of Newtown Station. Hellooo. I tried waving but no one noticed.

By this time we had made the mistake of reading the dessert menu. There are only three sweets, we thought, so that’s easy, we’ll have all the desserts. They were plentiful and they were good. The loukoumades come with a warning that there is a 20 minute wait, but trust me, they’re worth it. Relax, have a coffee.

I was very sticky when it came time to pay the bill.

On the way home Strop notice this charming tableau in the Discount Store window. Happy Easter.

324 Bank Hotel – Anything with pulled pork

April 12, 2014 by Andrew Christie 6 Comments

I wasn’t sure if I was in the mood for going out, as I had been feeling crook on and off during the day. But I needed cheering up, and beer and chips are the best way to do that. So we set off up the hill to the Bank Hotel.

This place is enormous, with rooms that seem to go on forever. There are lots of bars and balconies, and a sunken beer garden. Everywhere was full of bright shiny young people, a very different crowd from Zanzibar and Kelly’s. There was an air of affluence and purpose about this lot. Strop and I did a quick tour through the ground floor, trying to decide where we best fit in, settling on the front bar. Strop was quite keen on a window seat, but they were already taken, so she chose the only seats in the bar where you couldn’t see the rugby on the TV screens. Strop reckons that it was because they were the only seats with backs to them but I think it was because she wanted my undivided attention.

The bar was crowded, noisy and dark; full of young women at this early stage. Later the crowd changed, dominated by large fit-looking men with neatly trimmed beards and shaved heads. Strop demonstrated once again how well she is plugged into the social networks of the inner-west by bumping into two people she knows, in a bar she has never been to before. She does this kind of thing everywhere we go.

Once we had a couple of initial beers under our belts, we started thinking about food. Strop wanted to leave all the ordering to me but she did give me some guidelines. “Anything with pulled pork,” she said, “I’ll have one of those.” This led us into a few musings on the lack of dirty jokes featuring pulled pork. Maybe we’re all too sophisticated now, I’m sure things would have been different if pulled pork had been a thing in the 1970s.

The helpful barmaid informed me that the Things In Buns section of the menu was as close as they got to burgers. The list included a pulled pork bun, and I decided that this would satisfy the requirements of both the Burger War rule, and her Stropness’s dietary requirements. To go with this, I selected a couple of things from the Share Plate menu because there was a two-for-one deal going, and I like a bargain. I couldn’t go past the duck sausage rolls, and the sticky lamb ribs sounded pretty good too.

When I got back to the table, I innocently, but perhaps a little over-enthusiastically, commented that I had just been served by the best barmaid in the world. Strop’s reaction was to ask what was so good about her and did I want to shag her. Long years of experience has taught me that there is only one productive course of action in this situation. Immediate and conclusive denial. Do not try to reason, do not waver, just hold the line, and deny, deny, deny.

When the food arrived I realised that there wasn’t much in the way of vegetables, but Strop helpfully pointed out that chips used to be vegetables. There was a little scoop of a very tasty coleslaw that came with the lamb ribs. It had mint in it which was a welcome and unusual combination. The lamb ribs were nice and sticky and chewy, I could have done with more of those. The duck sausage rolls were enjoyable, but you couldn’t really taste the duck. We cut the pulled pork bun down the middle and strangely my half turned out to be very enjoyable, with a little bit of horseradish, which was a good thing. But Strop’s half was a bit disappointing, apparently. Oh well.

As the night wore on, the big fit men started to move on, leaving behind a bunch of much more mundane and less fit looking men and women. For a while Strop and I were the oldest people in the bar, until a bloke turned up on his own, settling down at a table near us with a walking stick, a glass, a jug of beer, and a packet of crisps. He was here to watch the Rabbitos versus the Panthers, and he knew exactly what he needed for a successful night out.

Instead of dessert, Strop and I headed upstairs to check out the cocktail bar. This was another dark area, strangely decked out with pinball machines, pool tables and black flock, skull-patterned wallpaper. We took our time perusing the cocktail list which seemed to unsettle the barman. He was trying to be helpful, assuming we were a bunch of old gits who had stumbled into his bar by mistake. He was half right. He asked us what kind of spirits we normally liked to drink, while we tried to read the cocktail list. In the end Strop chose a late night daiquiri and I went for a loose interpretation of a whiskey sour. While the barman went about his showy and shakey business, Strop and I amused ourselves by making witty comments about the ingredients. I don’t think the barman was as amused as we were. The cocktails were good though.

On leaving the pub, we passed a gelato shop and decided that an ice cream was required after all. So we walked home through the rain, while Strop complained that her vegan After Dinner Mint ice cream was a great disappointment because it just wasn’t creamy enough. There are some things that can only be learnt through experience.

That is the magic of quest. Strop and I get to spend time with each other and find out just how complicated we really are.

323 – Zanzibar – Anthropology with beer

April 5, 2014 by Andrew Christie Leave a Comment

Zanzibar is, depending on your frame of reference, either an incredibly exotic sounding island, or an incredibly naff name for a bar.

Strop wasn’t keen. This is a tendency she’s been showing quite a lot lately. A lack of keen-ness for anything that looks a bit hows-your-father. I’m going to have to have a full and frank discussion with her about the importance of our mission. She had tried to argue that we didn’t have to go to Zanzibar because they didn’t do food. But Mr Google proved her wrong. They have a quite respectable pub menu. So we have to go.

I can understand her reluctance. Someone has taken a perfectly acceptable pub and buggered it up with rendered walls and tropical imagery so there is no trace of pub-ness left. There is reported to be a very attractive rooftop terrace – but unfortunately the night we went it was closed due to precipitation. So we sat downstairs and provided free and confidential personality appraisals on all the other punters. Sort of anthropology with beer.

We sat at a rustic picnic table thing and looked longingly at the prime seats in the window which were already occupied. The thing that surprised me about Zanzibar, was that the place wasn’t crowded. When I got off the train from the city, I emerged onto King Street in a wave of young people looking for a party. All short skirts, tight pants and mascara. And yet Zanzibar is not exactly pumping. Maybe people were put off because the rooftop terrace was closed. Whatever the reason the most of the young revellers were not at Zanzibar. At least not yet. As the night wore on the number of muscly doormen seemed to increase, so they were obviously expecting someone to turn up for a bit of bouncing.

Another thing that surprised me was that I wasn’t necessarily the oldest person in the place. There was quite a bit of grey hair around early in the evening, although the proportion decreased as witching hour approached. Zanzibar does seem to be a bit of a meeting place early on. When I arrived there were a lot of men sitting on their own, playing with their phones, waiting for their dates to turn up. It took me a moment to realise that I fitted into this crowd perfectly, until Strop turned up.

The menu is not huge but it is quite interesting. As Zanzibar was at one time a pub I decide to try out their beef burger, ($12, on a brioche bun – I am curious about just what that implies). Strop is always a sucker for tapas so we decided to share a selection of tapas-ey things – fish cakes, fried cauliflower and Vietnamese style mince skewers. I was surprised that we seemed to be the only ones there to eat. Everyone else was either drinking and talking, or drinking and playing with their phone.

While we were waiting for our food I pointed out to Strop, that we seemed to be in a hipster-free zone. We could see hipsters outside walking up and down, but there were no beards, and very few tatts inside. Maybe Zanzibar is the last bastion of the non-hipster in Newtown. I mean, the decor does give off a weird and diffuse 1970s vibe, but with a complete lack of irony. Perhaps that’s the point, it’s the sort of place you wouldn’t be surprised to see The Captain and Tennille performing at.

Our musings on the fate of the non-hipster were interrupted by a young woman with an earpiece, long legs and a kiwi accent, who asked how long we’d been waiting for our food. She was concerned it was taking too long. She would have a word with the kitchen for us. I hadn’t noticed that the food was taking a particularly long time, but then we were busy being entertained by our own clever observations. And as we were the only ones eating, the kitchen probably wasn’t being run off its feet.

Whatever she said to the kitchen was effective though, and our food was soon presented to us. The young kiwi manager came back a few more times and asked us if everything was ok. Even when I was at the bar ordering more drinks, she leaned over the shoulder of the young bar-person and asked me if everything was to my liking. I was beginning to get a bit suspicious.

The burger was a pleasantly modest affair. It had some cheese, a bit of salad, some very nice relish, and the bun was soft and tasty. As the price suggested it was smaller than most of the over-stuffed burgers served in pubs nowadays. It was the size a burger should be, the size they used to be. It could be held in one hand and importantly it stayed together. Unfortunately it was a bit dry. Oh well, nothing’s perfect I suppose.

Strop described the fish-cakes as being comfort-food, but I thought they were a bit bland. The cauliflower was tasty and very deep-fried, and the Vietnamese mince stick things were tasty and yummy.

As the evening wore on the number of young people increased and the older people gradually thinned out. As we were leaving the manager came up to us once more to ask how everything had been. Fine, fine, we said to her, but we looked at each other and nodded. Yes, our cover had definitely been blown. She was onto us. We’d been identified as bloggers.

I’m not sure what gave us away. Maybe my notebook scribbling, maybe Strop trying to take flash photos of tables full of young women, or maybe it was the article in this month’s copy of the South Sydney Herald, complete with photo of yours truly. Whatever it was, our anonymity is gone. From now on we are going to have to wear disguises.

294 Thai Pothong – Attempting to break the record for the most film analogies in the opening paragraphs

April 2, 2014 by Andrew Christie 6 Comments

I don’t want to alarm anyone but I think we may have slipped into an alternate universe. The first clue was that the bouncers working the portal to this new reality, were scrap metal versions of Arnie’s Predator and Sigourney’s Alien mate. The second clue was all the smiling staff who knew exactly what they were doing, then there was the vast field of table- clothed tables, and the balloons. And then there was the food…
It’s King Street Strop, but not as we’ve known it.

We’ve finally made it out of the doldrums. During the last few months, I have occasionally felt like Humphrey Bogart dragging the African Queen through King Street’s fetid swamp of mediocrity. There were even wild water buffalo crashing through the undergrowth this week! Entering Thai Pothong on Saturday night, it’s as if, having given up in despair, we’ve woken up to find ourselves miraculously afloat on a sunny lake. Being a born pessimist though, I’m still going to keep my eye out for a German gunboat on the horizon.
Thai Pothong is bigger than Ben Hur. Quadruple fronted, the tables set up for large parties stretch away into the distance out the back, and yet it always seems to be packed. And they have a gift shop too. It’s all a bit overwhelming for us simple folk.
Tonight is a bit of a celebration. We felt that Thai Pothong deserved the large table treatment, so we have invited a bunch of Painting the Bridge stalwarts (perhaps I will call them The Rivets) to join us in marking a bit over a year of questing, and also what is probably close enough to a half-way point in our journey. We’ve roped in some of the family, the Stropolina of course, and the Stropette and Pancetta up from Melbourne. Jay and Lorinda, have bought young Ned back to try out a new hat, there is Wendy, and Mark, our Thai food consultant. At the other end of our long table are Rebecca and Duncan, and John and Pauline. It is actually Pauline’s birthday, so she has been our excuse to have balloons, although she is a bit perplexed to find her balloons tied to a very prominent Number 69. “I’m not that old.” Of course you’re not dear, we reassure her. She is even more perplexed when two of her balloons are appropriated by Pancetta and Ned. The two junior members of the party are sitting opposite each other, balloons tied to wrists, and surrounded by wranglers. The ever smiling staff have arranged a high chair and special Hello Kitty plates for them.

Well now that everyone is here, what are we going to eat? This is a high class joint, so there are no numbers on the menu. While I am trying to remember how to count up to 37, Strop tries to consult our crew, seeking some kind of menu consensus, checking whether anyone has snuck in any new allergies or undercover vegan tendencies. Unfortunately everyone is too busy talking and having a jolly time to give any serious thought to the menu so we decide, what the hell, we’ll get a banquet. Plus number 37, which turns out to be Prawn Choo Chee. There is wine too.
I had been a bit worried that our cobbled together party, large parts of which have never laid eyes on each other before tonight, may have been a bit stilted. A bit awkward. But you can’t shut the buggers up. Our lot are busy contributing to all the noise coming from out the back in large-table land. We’ve got a 21st going off on one side of us, and another large birthday on the other side. This one doesn’t have any convenient placards announcing the age of the young woman who is the centre of attention, but the number is obviously significant enough to score her a very sparkly pair of earrings in a snappy little velvet box. Well done you.
Then the food starts coming. And it doesn’t stop for quite a while. And it is yummy.
There are little tart things that come in spoons, spring rolls, curry puffs and satays, to get our juices going, then we’re into the green curry, #37, a BBQ pork thing, a chicken and cashew whatsit, and some veggies that I somehow managed to avoid. It is all very tasty, but I think #37 may have been the winner. It is wonderfully coconut-ey and spicy, and brings on an immediate case of chilli-powered hiccups in me. Flavours. The food is full of them. All 14 of us are eating and talking. And drinking and talking. And some of us are still eating but others are being sensible. I’m still eating of course, which is why I don’t have any notes for this part of the evening.
At some point Ned and Pancetta swap sides, so they can see what the other side of the table looks like. Later they join forces to spend a bit of screen-time together.

Ned and Pancetta try to ignore Strop and Lorinda

Then there is a birthday dessert, with sparklers, and ice-cream, and fruit. We may have even sung happy birtthday, I can’t remember. At some point Mark and I got into a discussion about how Thai Pothong compared to our other favourite Thai restaurants. Thai Pothong is remarkable for the scale of the operation and the quality of the food, which is probably on a par with Thai La Ong and Atom Thai. We agreed that Thai La Ong was still our sentimental favourite, because going there is like going to Thailand, but Thai Pothong is the best place for a Big Night Out.
Our complimentary chocky mints came with a bunch of vouchers for the gift shop, so I think I will return some time, in the sober light of day and make a little purchase. Perhaps a wooden elephant, or a miniature Alien made out of sparkplugs, a mascot for the second half of the quest.