Archives for January 2015

489 Arabella – Well done

January 31, 2015 by Andrew Christie 11 Comments

The tap at Newtown Social Club that used to bring forth the darkly fragrant Dogbolter, now spews out my current favourite seasonal froth: Mountain Goat Summer Ale. Truly we live in the best of all possible worlds.

I know this because I have stopped off on my way to Arabella for a beer. I am running late because I lingered too long at the office. So time is short, but my need is great.

Fortified by a Summer Ale that barely touched the sides, I am even later by the time I leave the pub. And, unfortunately, Arabella turns out to be further away, and on the other side of the road, from where my imagination has misplaced it, so I end up crossing King Street twice, and walking faster than is becoming in a man of my advancing decrepitude. All this untethering of the odd and even street numbers down this end of King Street is very confusing.

When I arrive at Arabella, there is no sign of the other members of the party, which is a bit of a relief. Even more of a relief is the waitress’ immediate acknowledgement of Strop’s booking of a table for nine. Without having to refer to any paperwork, she directs me to a large and empty table in the middle of the restaurant. I have only had time to choose a seat (middle of the table facing the street), and contemplate a cocktail (leaning towards a mojito), when the unmistakeable silhouette of Jill appears on the threshold. “There you are Andy,” she exclaims, “We’re all down at the wine bar.” And before I can process this statement, let alone think of a response, she’s gone again. Hmm… just a scouting party then, I think, wondering if there’ll be time for that mojito.

No, apparently not. In less time than it would take to crush a bunch of limes, Jill is back, this time with Monica and Karen. The vanguard. The main horde is still finishing its drinks apparently. (Please excuse the turn of phrase; reading John Birmingham’s Emergence, a jolly underworld romp involving plenty of arcane militaristic jibbering, has unduly influenced me.)

The Horde consists of the last remaining international over-stayers from the Tom&Chloe, nuptials. For the past two weeks they have been killing time, driving all over the state, participating in our national day rituals, and observing our sporting prowess, just waiting for their appointment with King Street. Obviously this was the real reason they are visiting Australia, well that and the lowly Australian dollar. Soon they will go home for a good rest, but before then there is some eating to be done. Roy and Jill (parents of the groom) are the hosting Susan, Monica and Joe, (the aunts and uncle of the groom), and Karen and Brian (the cousins of the groom). Roy is also the coach-driver-elect to the Horde.

Strop is running even later than usual, so when the waitress asks “Who is in charge?” Joe points at me. The waitress looks as doubtful as Susan at this turn of events, but hands me a menu and says something about banquets. A banquet? “Yes please.” Strop doesn’t usually allow banquets, but as she is still negotiating traffic on Alice Street…

With the food issues sorted I move on to the much more important, in fact now verging on quite urgent, issue of the drinks menu. “Pinot Grigio?” I say consulting the table at large, “All those in favour?” Roy nodded, I think. “Right, we’ll have a brace of those please.” Sorted. Women make this whole being in charge thing look much harder than it really is.

As if summoned by this heretical thought, Strop arrives, steaming up the footpath with a determined look on her face. When we realise that she has no idea where she is going, and is about to walk straight past Arabella, we all start shouting at once. Give her credit, Strop doesn’t miss a beat, without breaking stride she executes a stylish left-wheel through the door, and plants a big smile on her dial. Now we are complete.

I had thought that the food situation was sorted. But while I was busy defending the honour of my book from Joe’s critical literary analysis, Strop, Susan and Jill, re-opened the case for Banquet.Sorted, and began re-examining the evidence. Having admitted that Banquet.Sorted was the correct solution, they weren’t convinced that it was quite intricate enough. So on the basis that no one at the table was actually vegetarian, they opted for a mixture of vegetarian and meat-lovers banquets. The waitress took this womanly need for over-complication in her stride. She had to, being a woman and all.

Dips and tabouli were the first to arrive. Babaganoush. In the immortal words of the legendary Molly, do yourself the proverbial. Smokey, silky and yummy.

The potato and mushroom one – quickly checks the online menu, can’t find any mention of the dips – was nice too. The white one was good too, might have been called labneh. The tabouli was excellent, as was the Fattoush.

I think more wine arrived around here.

Fried cauliflower (Strop’s favourite) – excellent, gozleme – spicy and cinnamony. There were falafel, samosas?? (I know, but they would have been samosas if we were in an Indian restaurant) and spring-rolly things, that were cheesey. I think Strop called them lady fingers, but I don’t know if she was referring to the food or just to how it was being served.

It was around this time that the gentle rivalry that had been bubbling along between the two ends of the table (No, don’t pass them the hummus, they’ve got one of their own. Is that their fattoush or ours?), broke out into open hostility. Some of us noticed that They had samosas, while We had spring-rolly things. Luckily negotiations began and hostages were exchanged. In the end the only ones to suffer were the samosas and the spring-rolly things. They all got cut in half.

Then it was meat time – it might have been two-more-bottles-of-wine time too. This was what Brian had been waiting all night for, and it was easy to understand why. Grilled lamb, chicken and sausage things – all with a bit of char and dripping juices. Yumm.

It was soon after this that I decided I was full. Well, that I would be, once I had downed a couple of coffees and a Turkish delight, and some baklava. Then I was full.

So, in summary, we had a bloody good night out. I’m pretty sure that you will too.

Karen also pointed out that my reviews (her term not mine) do not mention accessibility, but that Arabella is wheelchair accessible, including the loos. She is right of course, I should know better, and from now on I am going to include the issue of accessibility. Well done, Arabella.

480 Yenikoy – It’s Turkish for Newtown

January 24, 2015 by Andrew Christie 3 Comments

It’s Friday night, there’s a long weekend in the offing, and I need another beer. Those two Peronis before I left the office were never going to be enough.

I’m running early but as I said, I need another beer, and I’m sure Strop said Yenikoy had a bar. So I’m heading straight there, not bothering to stop at one of the pubs or bars on the way, because frankly, they’ve been a bit disappointing lately.

When I get to Yenikoy, 20 minutes early, the place is smattered with early diners. It is quite a big place, wrapping around the ground floor corner of a three storey, 1980s/postmodern brick residential atrocity. The restaurant makes good use of its location next to the school, with lots of outdoor spaces. Some friends have expressed interested in checking out Yenikoy with us, so we have a large table booked. Or we thought we did. Neither of the two notepads the restaurant uses, seems to have any record of us. Hmmm.

“How many was it for?” The maître d asked.

“Eight? I think,” I said, quickly trying to remember who was supposed to be coming, knowing that I should have paid more attention – but really, Strop’s supposed to handle all the social stuff.

“Doesn’t matter, we can fit you in.”

“Okay. Great. Just let me call my wife. And…”

“Yes?”

“I’d like a beer.”

“Sure, sure.”

So I sat outside and called Strop and sipped a nice cold Efes. That’s better, but there’s no answer from Strop. Oh well. The beer is very good. I wonder what’s happening on Twitter? Eventually Strop got back to me, confirming the numbers, sort of. The booking was for eight, but now we’re expecting nine.

“Sweet,” says the maître d, and a spare table for eight is rapidly transformed into a table for nine, and I settle down happily to wait, drink beer, and tweet. Wittily, of course, beer tweets are always witty. A carafe of iced water loaded with a sprig of mint arrives unbidden, and I’m having a pretty good time.

I have just succeeded in enticing @JohnBirmingham into following me – by saying I was reading his book and calling him a bastard – when everyone arrives. Well, Marie and Chantal, her sister from Canada, arrive first, followed soon after by Mark and a red faced Strop. She had just made a forced march from the Marly where she had been downing Dogbolters with a mate, and not paying attention to the time. She felt the need to do some sorting out about the reservation, despite the fact that I had negotiated a perfectly good table – we were back to eight by this time, Mark’s housemate couldn’t make it. As far as Strop was concerned there was a point that needed to be made. “I rang them on Monday…” she said as she disappeared in the direction of the maître d.

“She’s got her cranky on,” said Mark.

Eventually we got Strop settled down with a glass of water, just before Ashleigh, Paul and Ned arrived. Introductions were repeated, connecting lines drawn. Marie we’ve known since long past group-house days, Paul, Ashleigh, Ned and Mark are dog-park friends, who as Strop points out, have graduated to being real friends. Chantal is new to all of us except Marie, and luckily she turns out to be very nice, and very tolerant of the fact that most of us aren’t speaking French.

Some time later Strop noticed that we didn’t have menus. She deployed her eyebrows and one of the staff scurried off to fetch them. There was a lot of riffling of pages and I decided that I would leave the food ordering to everyone else and concentrate on the wine list, as my beer seemed to have disappeared.

After some rapid negotiations a consensus was reached. “We’ll have all the entrees, plus a cheese and spinach gozleme for Ned,” Strop told the waiter, after waving him over to her end of the table. Obviously he hadn’t realised who was in charge here. Going for all the entrees meant that we would get plenty of variety, the vege-aquarians would be catered for, and we could always order more if we needed it. The only possible drawback was that each dish might not extend to cover the eight of us. Fear Of Missing Out reared its ugly head – but once we were able to convey the concept of FOMO to the waiter he was able to reassure us. On the wine front we split down the middle between SauvBlanc and Grigio camps, so we got both.

Then the food started arriving – and at this point I have to make a confession. Unfortunately I didn’t make any notes on the actual dishes, thinking, quite reasonably, that the menu was bound to be on their website, and that would be enough to jog my memory. It was a good theory and it meant I could spend more time talking about dogs new and old, children, the fact that Canadian French is the real proper French that the French don’t speak any more, and whatever other topics we talked about. I really must take better notes. Anyway when I checked the Yenikoy website, there was the Menu, right there at the top on the menu, but when I clicked it: Error 404. So I’m afraid we’re all going to have to rely on my memory.

First up there were dips, as you would expect, but these were generous serves in bowls arrayed on a board, and the bread was good too. The fried haloumi was excellent. There was a cold collation board with melon and a cured meet, fetta, stringy cheese that everyone thought was shredded cabbage at first. There were pastry things that might have been called ‘lady fingers’ – very crisp and tasty, eggplant stuffed with cheese, and another dish a bit like a ratatouille. And of course Ned’s gozleme, which I don’t think he saw a lot of. There were probably a few others in there as well, but it was all pretty good, tasty and crisp when it was supposed to be. The only disappointing dish was the little pizza things that included meat so unfortunately there were plenty of them for the carnivores among us. We had to ask for more bread a couple of times, and Mark was disappointed that although his display of Turkish language skills delighted the waiter, it didn’t bring the bread any sooner.

When it came time for dessert it was clear that Ned had his eyes firmly fixed on the display of Turkish Delight and bakalvas at the front of the restaurant. The rest of us decided to follow his example. We trooped up to the display and picked out the variety of sweet, nutty pastry that most called out to us. There were a couple of dessert type innovations too: choclava and whiteclava. Some amongst us thought these were abominations, without actually trying them. The braver and more progressive of us thought they were interesting but that the traditional baklava won hands down. And the coffee was excellent too.

Out on the street, we had to get the customary group photo. This is traditionally done by accosting a passer-by and embarrassing them into taking the shot. Mostly it doesn’t take much convincing – young people are always happy to help the older generation make fools of themselves. As we formed ourselves up across the footpath, an arm extended itself from the restaurant, and one of the waiters took a photo of us being photographed. I’m hoping we’ll appear on their website, but maybe we’ll just be an Error 404.

477 Chill Café – The bacon jam revelation

January 18, 2015 by Andrew Christie 5 Comments

It’s nearly 11am and I am most definitely ready for some breakfast. The previously unnamed café now has a name. New awnings that arrived this week apparently, proclaim it to be Chill. And who are we to argue with that claim? Strop and I have been up early and dashed off for a swim at Wylie Baths in Coogee before dashing back to Newtown for a breakfast date with Jim and Matt. Pretty hectic for a Sunday. For the last few summers we’ve been trying to fit in a Sunday morning swim, but this is our first time swimming at Wylie Baths. We are usually found on the sands, looking into the distance at the far off cliff-straddling verandas and wondering what it’s like over there. Up until now that vague curiosity has never overcome our innate inertia so we have remained interested but ignorant. Well not anymore. Thanks to young newlyweds Tom and Chloe, who held their most excellent wedding on the Wylie veranda with the ocean and the rocks and the sky as a backdrop. It was a very, very nice wedding, and a welcome relief to arrive at such a beautiful venue at the end of a long day.

Strop and the Stropolina, together with Wendy and her sister Sue, had spent the morning doing the flowers (who knew that orchids would need so much wire to keep them all pert and paying attention?). In the afternoon there was a zig-zagging drive up and down the eastern suburbs, delivering them to everyone in need of floral adornment. By the time we got to the baths and had deployed little and big floral arrangements to most of the horizontal surfaces we were ready for a drink. Unfortunately we had to wait for the ceremony. Typical. So that’s why we went straight back the next morning, we knew how beautiful the baths were, but what were their swimming attributes like? Pretty good as it turns out, apart from the risk of urchin spines in the foot. The coffee is pretty good too. So by the time we got to Chill Café we were pretty hungry. Strop and I arrived first, and had a long and mostly amicable discussion about who should be the one to order the big breakfast. In the end I decided that if I didn’t have it I would spend the rest of the day full of regret and possibly resentment, (yes, I am that person) thinking that I had missed out on something. The menu has plenty of intriguing options. Pancakes with Bacon Jam? Yes, that is correct bacon jam, I can hear Homer Simpson now. Eggs Benedict with poached duck eggs? I’ve had duck eggs before but I don’t think I’ve ever had them poached. I looked at my watch, “Come on Matt and Jim, I want to order.” There has been a café here for a number of years but it came under new ownership last year, according to a very informative French-accented waiter who gave up the information only when Strop put the heat on him. It took a moment to establish that when she asked “How long have you been here?”, she wasn’t checking if he had over-stayed his visa, but was referring to the business. When Jim and Matt arrived we went straight into ordering mode. Matt and I went for the big breakfast (it was nearly lunchtime after all), Strop went for the bacon jam (we had to know) and the accompanying pancakes and eggs. She also went for a fruity melon salad, using the flimsy excuse that she was having breakfast and lunch. Jim went for simple poached eggs on toast, due to a funny tummy that was raising questions no one really wanted to know the answer to. Our orange juices came in trendy new I’m-over-it-already-sub-ironic-hipster-jam-jars-with-handles. I suppose the catering supply companies have to move their current stock of faux-retro drinkware, but I certainly hope they aren’t buying any more. The juice didn’t seem to be freshly squeezed but it did come with lots of ice and was definitely chilled.

Strop and Jim considering the merits of a bacon and egg gozleme

There ensued a long and winding conversation that included a discussion on the popularity of egg and bacon rolls, and in particular those at Orange Grove markets. I’m happy to call these the best e&b rolls in Sydney, and possibly the universe, especially with a sprinkling of Tabasco and a squirt of bbq sauce. Apparently the queues are getting so long now that the gozleme and Japanese pancake stalls have included bacon and egg options in their menus to try and cash in on those not prepared to wait half an hour. When our breakfasts arrived Strop had to negotiate with a neighbouring party to lease an under-used part of their table to put her pancakes on, while she ate her fruit salad. Matt’s and my big breakfasts lived up to their names. The plates were enormous, nearly as wide as the table. Luckily, that meant there was plenty of room to array and arrange our food so that we could try out all the possible combinations. Egg + toast = the obvious starting point – lovely yellow yokes soaking into light vienna toast, cut to a reasonable thickness (no need for a steak knife to cut your toast here). Bacon + tomato + mushroom = excellent. Hashbrown + egg + bacon = yes! Egg + bacon + tomato = mmm… Wait a minute, what about these sausages, hiding behind the bacon? Well yes, they go very nicely with everything too.

You really can't tell how much we have just eaten can you? — You really can’t tell how much we have just eaten can you?

In a worryingly short time my plate was empty. Strop’s bacon jam turned out to be just that, jam that was oniony, maple-syrupy and bacony. It came in a little pot and there was plenty for us all to have a try. She was a bit disappointed in the pancakes, which were thicker than she likes (very much a crepe girl, our Strop). All in all Chill is an excellent breakfast option and the coffee is pretty good too. Next week we cross the road and back-track a bit (due to the odd and even street numbers getting out of sync in this part of King Street) to Yenikoy to continue our Turkish interlude.

467 Ichioku Teppanyaki – No egg on my face but plenty on my shirt

January 10, 2015 by Andrew Christie Leave a Comment

Happy New Year!

It’s a steamy Friday night and we are back in the questing saddle, trotting gently down the hill towards St Peters. There was a shower earlier in the evening that failed to do anything about the temperature or the humidity, but it’s good to kick off the weekend with a beer and a meal with friends. Tonight it’s Ichioku Teppanyaki, which I am looking forward to with a kind of hopeful trepidation, the way you do when you know things are going to be messy and embarrassing – but hopefully fun as well. We have teppanyaked before, but it was a long time ago when the Stropette and the Stropolina were youngsters, and I seem to remember it may have involved a birthday celebration and a bunch of young girls who mostly weren’t ours. In my blurred memory it is a piece of theatre with plenty of flying food, squealing children, and bemused parents, in which the actual eating plays only a very minor role.

We have company tonight in the form of great friends Anna and Wendy, and our mature and sophisticated party is a far cry from the squealing children. A point that is brought home to us by the chef/performer who asks if we want to “play or eat.” To Anna and Wendy’s horror, Strop and I immediately say “Play!” No one can say we didn’t ask for it.

Ichioku is a fairly unprepossessing place. There is a big room with a two central barbecues, and seats around the edge. It has bright fluorescent lighting which made it easy to see that Strop was the only one there when I arrived a few minutes late, having polished off a therapeutic schooner up the road at the Social Club. It is a bit hot and stuffy inside with the barbecue so close, but once the action starts we don’t really notice. The menu includes a variety of banquets and set menus as well as a short a la carte section. We opt for one of the banquets, mainly because it means we don’t have to make any decisions, and anyway food isn’t really the main game here. The banquet comes with entrees and dessert, which we are going to need. Strop had been hoping to have cocktails for dessert, up the road at Earl’s Juke Joint, but this promising plan proves to be both brilliant and completely impractical because Anna and Wendy are both driving.

467-4 — Someone else getting the flame treatment

The four of us get on with compulsory Christmas catch-up chatter while the food starts to arrive. First up are an unremarkable salad and a very nice bowl of miso soup, which proves to be surprisingly refreshing given the heat. Next up are little spring rolls and crisped-up gyoza which disappear rapidly as the conversation moves on to the staple subject of people of our age: who has been diagnosed with what. Our displays of medical terminology are happily interrupted by the arrival of the main event in the form of a man who had been a waiter earlier when we arrived, but was now a black-clad barbecue ninja, armed with a glistening pair of razor sharp paint-scrapers, and a dishcloth. There is a lot of clanging of the paint-scrapers, and the odd, slightly terrifying ball of flames, as he prepares the cooking surface. Chicken breasts and prawns are cooked quickly and skilfully, the cleaning and preparation of the prawns in particular, is a master-class in paint-scraper prowess. Happily, this protein-rich part of the meal is delivered to our plates in a conventional manner. Next up is the beef, which is a tasty but relatively uneventful precursor to the (… drum-roll) eggs. This is where our host puts the P in play and the Fs in flying-food. There is a demonstration of egg balancing, an opportunity to catch raw eggs in bowls – or on your shirt if you prefer. Then there is the ever-popular omelette-machine-gun event, complete with reverse fire to surprise the unwary audience. At some stage during this all-action section there was a bit of fried rice cooking too. The uneventful dessert (ice-cream with raspberry topping) was a welcome relief.

Ichioku doesn’t seem to be thriving. There weren’t many punters for a Friday night, just two other groups beside ours. I suspect that the market for flying food circus is either limited or cyclical. I don’t think people are lining up to get egg all over themselves more than once. If you do feel like a bit of play with food, it is worth noting that Ichioku is BYO and the nearest bottle shop is a fair hike in either direction, so it’s best to stock up on the way to the restaurant.

Next up is an apparently un-named café.