Quest

Sultan’s Table – When in doubt proceed straight to the oasis

April 2, 2016 by andysomething 1 Comment

As I suspected, Olé, the Portuguese chicken place on the corner was next. However we are getting old and cranky and it didn’t take much to persuade us that this was more of a takeaway joint than we were in the mood for. They sell burgers and chicken, and we have already decided that when we get to the end of Enmore Road, Oporto is not on the Encore menu, It was hard to argue any real difference between Olé and Oporto.

“So, what’s next?”

“The New India Times?” Strop ventured.

“Okay, let’s check it out.”

“Finest Indian Restaurant?” I said, more of a comment than a question. “Next?”

“Sultan’s Table?”

“Oh, yeah.”

We crossed the road, weaving our way through a friday-night gridlock of Mazdas and Hyundais, approaching the fabled Sultan’s Table as if it was some kind of oasis. There were plenty of people hanging around outside, either waiting for takeaways, or for a table inside. Luckily there were a couple of outside tables still free which suited us.

Sultan’s Table is a bit of an Enmore Road institution. It always looks busy and inviting, located on a corner, with the big dining room open to the street and every available surface fringed with lights. When we tell people we are now wending our way along Enmore Road, the places they refer to are Hartsyard, “that cheese place with the funny name,” and Sultan’s Table.

We settled ourselves in, and proceeded to over-order. Again. I’m beginning to think it might just be us.

When the Mixed Dips, Mixed Grill, and Imam Bayildi, were on the way, we thought about drinks. Sultan’s Table is byo and of course, we hadn’t. Luckily there is a serve yourself fridge full of soft drinks. We helped ourselves to some culturally inappropriate Passiona, in place of the the ginger beer we really wanted, but which they didn’t have.

Other punters seemed to be ignoring the drinks fridge and venturing further afield. While we were there, a steady stream of runners headed out to the nearest bottle shop, only to return minutes later with armfuls of six-packs and bottle-shaped brown-paper bags.

Another pedestrian of note was an ernest looking young punk, hustling along with a mic stand under his arm. Enmore Road does have its charms.

The dips were terrific. Eight of them, arranged very attractively. Plenty of hot and crunchy-outside/soft-inside turkish bread to wipe around in them. Yummerific.

Imam Bayildi turned out to be a whole eggplant stuffed with goodness, and the Mixed Grill had the tastiest and tenderest lamb I have had in a long time. The chicken and the adana were pretty good too, and there were plenty of salads and flat bread. Yum and double-yum. We managed to sort out all the protein and most of the dips, but there was an embarrassing amount of sumac-coated onion and red cabbage left on the platter when we paid up.

5/5 Debs – just the right amount of salt. (In other words we didn’t notice.)

3/5 Susans – there is an accessible toilet but you might have to move a car to get to it.

4/5 Wendys – pretty good value for more than we could comfortably handle.

I had been looking across the road at Cow and Moon all night and had noted that the queue had not yet stretched out the door and around the corner. Usually when we are ready for a bit of icy sweetness to finish off the evening, the queue is far too long, so we keep walking, heading for Hakiki, or even Gelato Blue. So even though we shouldn’t, we did.

My coffee and blood orange were excellent. Strop’s fortunes were more mixed. Her caramel popcorn was terrific – although in slurping up a taste, I managed to inhale a piece of popcorn which led to a bit of a coughing fit – but her nectarine was a bit too subtle for a friday night wander home, through the crowds of Enmore Road and King Street.

I think our next venture has something to do with meatballs that don’t come from Ikea. See you then.

Faheem Fast Food – Not entirely a flubboodha-free zone

March 27, 2016 by andysomething 2 Comments

Everybody was all like “Ooh, ooh, I want to come to Faheem’s,” which suited us because more people means more dishes to try. But then of course it was all, “I can’t do Friday…” and “… they’ve changed the roster…” and “…they changed it back again…” then there was, “…this bug is going around the school…” and of course “…jetlagged.” So it was a bit of an easter miracle that four of us were able to synchronise our schedules and home in on Enmore Road on Saturday night.

The final make up of the party was Strop and me, with the Stropolina and her new beau, the Lifesaver, so at least there were enough of us to seriously over order without looking too greedy.

Faheem Fast Food is a bit of an urban legend around our area. Its fluoro lighting, tiled walls, and no-nonsense tables have been greeting taxi drivers, families and hipsters since… well, for a very long time. They serve up splendid Pakistani and Indian dishes in a very timely manner, so much so that it has restored my faith in nominative determinism.

Our first stop though, was a little bar called Midnight Special, because Faheem might be fast but he is not licensed. Strop and I stopped here last Tuesday before going on to see the wonderful Tedeschi Trucks Band at the Enmore Theatre. As well as good beers and an excellent blues soundtrack, they were offering bao buns with a variety of protein based fillings. I thought that the pulled pork with lots of Asian flavours was particularly yummy, but Strop compared the actual bao bun as being a bit like a thong. Which led to a brief moment of confusion until she clarified that she was referring to footwear. On Saturday night the place was a lot more crowded and the soundtrack a lot less interesting (70s/80s hits and misses — all filler, no thriller). We had our one drink and toddled on up the road to Faheem’s with the soundtrack now changed to the Stropolina going “I want to go to that one… and that one too, ooh look at that, it too.” Good that she is so loyal to the family enterprise. I’m not sure what the Lifesaver made of it all, especially when we tried to explain to him the concept of rating accessibility according to the Susan Scale. He was able to point out the best late night kebab spots on Enmore Road though, so he is already proving his worth.

We were seated at the back of Faheem’s, just outside the kitchen, and conveniently close to the help-yourself-to-drinks fridge. My only stipulation on the ordering front was that we had to have something from the tandoor. Strop and the Stropolina handled the rest of it.

In no time at all a splendid spread was laid out in front of us. A whole bright-orange-with-black-charcoaly-bits tandoori chicken, was quickly followed by, dahl, chick peas, a goat korma masala, aloo gosht, and of course, garlic naan.

It. Was. All. Excellent – although the Stropolina did think that there was too much “flubboodha” in the goat. This is her term for any animal-based food that is not meat. She has a very low tolerance for discrete bits of fat, gristle or any kind of connective tissue. We have learned to make allowances as she has so many other redeeming features.

Faheem provides a no-frills service. Help yourself to soft drinks, lassi, or chilled water from the fridge. The glasses are just as likely to be hot, coming straight from the dishwasher, but at least the water is cold. It is relaxed, cheerful, and extremely tasty. You need to go. Now.

In terms of ratings:

Accessibility: 5/5 Susans – and there is a carpark out the back.

Value? Up there I’d say, 4/5 Wendys.

Salt? Didn’t notice, so I guess that is 5/5 Debs.

Midnight Special though, deserves a special accessibility mention. The toilets are up three stairs, which means 0/5 Susans for them.

Next up might be a Portuguese Chicken joint, I’ll have to check and get back to you.

Hobart: MONA and Aloft

March 20, 2016 by andysomething Leave a Comment

Back at the end of February, Strop and I took ourselves off to Hobart for a long weekend as part of our wedding anniversary celebration. The main motivation for going to Hobart was that we were getting sick of being asked if we had been to the Museum of Old and New Art (MONA) yet, and having to shake our heads sadly while we were told “Oh, you must go, it’s” [choose from the following list: “amazing”; “wonderful”; “different”; or “well, I’ll let you make up your own mind, but you must go”].

So eventually we did, and with the anniversary as an excuse we splurged on the fancy boat tickets to MONA and a nice dinner afterwards at a newish restaurant overlooking the harbour.

We started our Big Day in Hobart with a trip to the edge of the bush for a breakfast date with old friends of Strop’s, Bob, Fran, Isla and Charlie. We spent a wonderful couple of hours eating excellent pancakes in their newly extended home, enjoying the view of Mt Wellington through an enormous window, and talking about kids, gardens, books and kayaks. Fran dropped us back into town just in time to be handed a glass of champagne on the ferry to MONA.

The thing about MONA is the weird way the building has no real external image. It’s kind of like there is no there, there. The building is mostly below ground, built into a headland overlooking the Derwent River. It only emerges in a few seeming unrelated structures to let in light or to provide access. As such it is a hard place to get a sense of from the outside, which explains why all the visual images used to promote MONA are of the internal spaces or of the collection.

It might be the landscape architect in me but I quite like this approach to designing such a significant building. Making it more of a place than a thing, but it does take a while to get used to. Inside, the galleries are arranged vertically, dug into the raw sandstone of the headland. The accepted approach seems to be to dive in, heading down as far as you can go and then work your way back to the surface, by which time you will be gasping for some refreshments and of course, needing to buy some postcards.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA — The Rules according to Gilbert & George

The big exhibition at MONA was a George and Gilbert retrospective. Before this exhibition my only knowledge of these two was of their pudgy, be-suited personas, when occasionally appearing on television. Their art though, is amazing. Terrific graphic styles and motifs. I loved it. They kind of reminded me of a pommy, and slightly more politically focussed version of our very own Mambo artists.

We spent most of the day at the museum exploring all the galleries and having lunch on a grassy terrace overlooking the river. It was a Saturday and the gallery was quite busy but it didn’t detract from our appreciation of the place. One of my other favourite works was a long tunnel with a sound sculpture that responds to movement. I was lucky enough to go through the tunnel on my own and get the full effect of the sounds building and bouncing around as I moved along. When there are more people in it, the clarity of the effect gets a bit lost.

After our big day out we had a little lie down in our hotel before dinner at Aloft. It is a fairly new restaurant and we were only able to get a booking for 8:30 which is a bit late for us, especially after a big day out arting about. Still, anniversary and all that, have to put in.

We were pretty hungry when we arrived back to the same new pier the ferry to MONA had left from earlier in the day. The restaurant is in a lovely space, upstairs at the end of the pier, with big windows looking out onto the harbour.

Our waitress was young and charming, providing lots of useful information on the options. We decided on the banquet as it meant that we had fewer choices to make. Strop was keen to try an orange wine and the sommelier was very helpful, suggesting wines to go with the various dishes.

The food is very high concept, concentrating on the quality of the mainly local ingredients rather than on stunt presentations. We started out with a water egg custard thing and crunchy pigs ears.

As we ate, the room started to thin out, the earlier sittings heading off home or to shows.

Most of the food was great, but I did find some of it too salty. Particularly the lamb, it was probably a 1 out of 5 on Deb’s salt scale.

Apart from the salt issues, things were going swimmingly until 10 pm, when things suddenly started going pear-shaped. Our waitress must have finished her shift because she suddenly appeared with a jacket over her work clothes and sat at a nearby table to have a glass of wine with the couple dining there. Unusual, but kind of charming. Then groups of people started arriving and sitting up at the bar, chatting to the kitchen and floor staff. This all coincided with us being forgotten – as if we had just dropped off the radar. Whoever was supposed to take over from our waitress mustn’t have been able to see us because our water glasses were left empty, to the point that Strop had to actually wave her glass in the air to get a refill. By this time the other tables were thinning out, and it seemed like the staff just wanted to get away and chat with their friends. It was very odd.

Luckily, the dessert was excellent. Strawberries and blueberries in a fennel sauce with goat curd sorbet. Yummo. Then we were presented with the wrong bill. The waiter came back with the right one, and he did apologise but… There was a sense that the staff just wanted to hang out with their mates rather than look after their customers. None of it was horrible, it was just a bit of a surprise, and a contrast to the service earlier in the evening. It was definitely at odds with the image they present, as a high-end restaurant. Maybe it’s just a small town thing, a function of everybody knowing everybody else.

Our departure, after paying the correct bill, went un-noticed by the staff.

On a more positive note, the access is excellent – 5 out of 5 Susans. The Wendy value scale is a bit more problematic. 3 Wendys, maybe.

So, have you been to MONA yet?

Shaahi Tandoori – Doesn’t always come with a floorshow

March 12, 2016 by andysomething 1 Comment

I blame Strop. I blame her for my complete lack of professionalism in regard to this blogging business. I should have a schedule, and I would have, if only Strop would stop having birthdays. And if she hadn’t married me, we wouldn’t have had to go to Hobart to celebrate however many years it’s been now. And if I hadn’t been cooped up in a big, aerialised, aluminium tube with a bunch of sick people I wouldn’t have caught man flu…

Actually I blame David Walsh for creating MONA. If he hadn’t done that, then we wouldn’t have felt like the only people left in Sydney who hadn’t been to see the wall of vaginas and none of this would have happened.

So on behalf of David Walsh and Strop, I apologise for the yawning chasm that is the last month on this blog. It won’t happen again. Ever. I promise. Cross my heart, all of that. Never, ever. Ever.

Before we were so rudely interrupted, I seem to remember a trip to a surprisingly enjoyable Indian restaurant. In terms of sub-continental cuisine on Enmore Road, Faheem’s Fast Food casts a very long shadow that hides all other curry joints. I had never noticed Shaahi Tandoori before this visit, but I’m pretty sure we’ll go back. Particularly for the Goat Curry and the Salted Lassi. Yummo.

We sat at the front table with an excellent view of the buses roaring past, and the passing parade of pedestrian punters on their way to the Enmore Theatre. Tonight the crowd appeared to be predominantly of a certain age and greyness. Well, the men were, I suspect a bit of colouration was at work in many of the women’s hair. One of the entertaining things about a night out on Enmore Road is the changing nature of the street crowd depending on who is playing at the Enmore Theatre.

A very sweet and attentive young woman took our order which included Paneer, Chicken 65, Aloo Mattar and Garlic Nan, as well as the goat and the lassi. One of the problems we have found with dining on our own is that we want to try a lot more dishes than we can actually eat. We usually make a pretty good effort though, a clean plate is a good plate, but we pay for it on the walk home.

The Paneer was a bit heavy for my taste but the Chicken 65 was terrific. Basically fried chicken but with all the flavours. I’ll go back for that one too. The Goat Curry was dark, succulent and spicy. Lucky we had the Salted Lassi. I’ve never had it before and it was terrifically refreshing, as well as easing the effects of the chilli.

While we were working our way through too much food, Strop caught a glimpse of a pair of nephews walking up the other side of the street. As she leapt to her feet and rushed out the door I took the opportunity to nab another piece of fried chicken. Strop waved and hallooed across the road, and Keir and Charlie waved back. I kept eating.

Five minutes later Keir and Charlie showed up at Shaahi Tandoori. Apparently their family were just down the road at Cow and The Moon having a refreshing gelato. Young Charlie’s tolerance for watching his aunt and uncle eat food that he wouldn’t touch with a light sabre, was understandably low, so they didn’t stay very long.

Strop and I were back to enjoying the food, trying to decide if we could discreetly undo our belts a couple of notches, when Keir returned. This time he and Charlie had Emma and Will in tow. While Em came and joined us at the table, Keir and Will, proceeded to put on a floorshow outside on the footpath. Enmore Road has everything you need for a night out. You can see part of the show here.

When Charlie couldn’t stand it anymore, Em took her tribe and headed for home, while Strop and I wandered back down Enmore Road.

At the Enmore Theatre the reason for the greying crowd became apparent. Icehouse were playing.

Faheem’s Fast Food is next up on Enmore Road, I’m looking forward to the comparison.

And now for the ratings: Accessibility – 5 Susans; Value – 4.5 Wendys.

Scrambled – We’re big fans

February 7, 2016 by andysomething 4 Comments

For our first breakfast on Enmore Road we’ve arranged quite a party, or rather it arranged us. Strop and Jill had been looking for an opportunity to catch up while Jill’s sister Monica was in town, but the only opportunity available was Saturday morning for breakfast at Scrambled. We all live such busy lives these days that we hardly get to see each other. Anyway, it turned out that John and Pauline were also in town and keen to catch up too, so they invited themselves.

Strop and I were just setting out, a bit late and wondering which was the quickest way to walk to Enmore Road, when Roy, Jill and Monica pulled up in front of us, offering a lift in return for advice on parking. So we got there 15 minutes early, rather than 15 minutes late, and Strop had plenty of time to negotiate seating arrangements for our party of seven. After a bit of encouragement from Strop, the waiter gave up the information that there was a secret room out the back that we could use. The back room looked as if it didn’t get used much except to get to the car park, but there was a big table and plenty of room for us to spread out. The main advantage was that it was quiet, and with all of us getting a bit harder of hearing these days, that is a rare relief at a Newtown cafe. The front of Scrambled is quite noisy because of the traffic, exacerbated by the nearby bus stop.

It was a very humid morning, so the waiter turned on the wall-mounted fan, which immediately started blowing the pages of the menus around. Without consulting the management, we decided that it wasn’t really that hot, and we would rather not have the distraction of pages flapping back and forth, so we turned it off. While we were enjoying a bit of calm air, we ordered a round of coffees, and got on with the important business of catching up. The waitress that brought our coffees immediately noted the lack of a gale in the back room, and turned the fan back on. We were all too busy chasing flying napkins and menu pages to ask her why. Presumably it was company policy.

Not long after, when we had managed to weigh everything down, John called wondering where we were. There were a few minutes of confusion before we realised that he and Pauline were sitting out the front, guarding “a very nice table” in the hope that we would turn up shortly. I don’t think we ever worked out exactly how long they had been sitting there, but in the end our private room, trumped their “very nice table”.

Now that we were all co-located we got serious about what was on offer on the menu. John and Pauline were the only ones who had been to Scrambled before. They used to live nearby and be regular visitors. It also turned out that since moving to Braidwood, John and Pauline had become neighbours of the previous owners of Scrambled. This bit of knowledge was enthusiastically received by the waiter who proceeded to query John about details which, judging by his expression, quickly outdistanced John’s knowledge on the subject. But even so, small world and all that.

Scrambled’s breakfast menu is very spacious, each category given it’s own page on the clipboard. It was Strop’s turn to have the big breakfast, so I was free to try out the scrambled eggs, which seemed appropriate given the name of the establishment. Strop went for the Aussie Big Breakfast with scrambled eggs, of course, while I went for the Spanish Scrambled eggs. John and Pauline both chose the Green Scrambled eggs, but with different sides. Roy had a breakfast quesadilla, Jill the English Country Scrambled, and Monica went for eggs Benedict.

After the waiter had taken our orders, Pauline decided she was sick of having her hair blown back and forth, and wanted to see if the fan could be stopped from oscillating. It turned out that it could, but only by blasting the gale at either John or me. We decided it was more democratic to share the breeze, and for Pauline to perch her glasses on top of her hair to stop it blowing about. In the meantime our juices had arrived. The orange was very good, Strop had something green that she said was delicious, and Jill had a purple berry smoothie, which oddly came in a purple tinted glass. Apparently, it tasted alright though.

While Pauline was away from the table, checking out the facilities, the fan waitress returned and decided that it was still too stuffy and turned the fan up a notch. As soon as Pauline was back, she was up on her chair, turning the fan down again and asking us why we hadn’t stopped the waitress. We shrugged collectively. “She’s too fast for us.”

In order to reduce the tension, someone asked about John and Pauline’s integration into Braidwood society. They proceeded to regale us with their adventures, including the great quilting committee conundrum, and the recent coup d’état at the museum. It seems when you move to a small country town, sooner or later you have to choose sides. I guess the trick is to be on the winning side.

I had pretty much finished my breakfast before I remembered that I was supposed to be writing a review. When I asked what everyone had thought of their food the responses were all enthusiastic. My Spanish scrambled eggs were excellent, packed with cheese and chorizo and peppers. The only negative aspect was that they had cooled down a bit before they got to the table, probably due to a small kitchen trying to get all our breakfasts out at the same time. Monica’s eggs Benedict seemed to be another victim, their arrival delayed by an unfortunate accident, when her first set of poached eggs were transferred to the kitchen floor rather than to the plate.

While I was remembering my responsibilities, I remembered that we have had a request to comment on accessibility issues. On this front, I can report that the main cafe space has a short ramp up from the street, but if you want to get to the back room there are steps everywhere – up down and sideways. And don’t even ask about the toilets. Strop rated it one Susan out of a possible five, on the accessibility front.

Another friend wants us to lift our game on the subject of value for money. So given the quality of the food, I would give Scrambled four out of five Wendys.

The staff were excellent, and were very accommodating about splitting the bill. On the way out the waiter asked me if everything had been okay, which it had, and also to give his regards to the old owners in Braidwood. Us grey haired blokes, we all look the same.

212 Minoya – I blame the tree

January 30, 2016 by andysomething 4 Comments

minoya1 — The Friday-night thousand-yard stare. The woman needs a beer.

On the Friday night of a strange, disjointed week, the weather was having its usual effect on Sydney’s transport. A couple of thunderstorms in the middle of the day meant that the trains would be stuffed until the following day, so Strop and I were going to be a bit late rather than the half an hour early that I had anticipated. No quiet beer beforehand this week.

The target for tonight, the first actual, on-Enmore-Road eatery of the Encore, was a Japanese restaurant. We had thought it was called Oganoya, but it seems to have mysteriously changed his name to Minoya, according the the sign outside. Luckily, it was still Japanese, so the bottle of Reisling I had bought at the bottle shop, wouldn’t go to waste.

Strop and I arrived within minutes of each other but there was no sign yet of Marie. Strop had warned her that we were running late, so she had no doubt adjusted her own travel plans. The room at Minoya is large and sparsely decorated. The main feature is a large and luridly autumnal, plastic Japanese Maple tree in the middle of the room. Like some sort of bento-based fairy tale, the room is frozen between summer and winter. We were directed to a table tucked behind the tree which I suspect may have contributed to some of the erratic service that followed.

Both Strop and I had been subjected to “interesting” work weeks, but now it was the weekend. We opted to save the wine for the moment and have a quick beer before Marie arrived. Strop decided she wanted an Asahi, so I took the other option and went Sapporo. Suffice it to say, I won the beer wars.

Marie arrived soon after we had determined which was the superior beer, and by inference the superior judge of a good ale. It turned out that Marie had been sitting in a bar on Enmore Road, having a pre-dinner drink of her own, and had seen both Strop and I hustling up the road, thinking we were late. Which we were, but as it turned out we needn’t have rushed. Marie had no sooner plonked herself down at the table, than her phone started ringing. She is a popular woman, obviously in demand, even by Strop’s standards.

When the phone calls had been dealt with, the conversation somehow flipped over to Marie’s arrival in Oz 37 years ago (she is originally a French-Canadian), and how she was disappointed when she arrived that no one spoke French. It does make you wonder about who teaches geography in Canadian schools though. As a 24-year-old world traveller, she ended up in Singapore with no money and no visa, so she did what all good travellers do. She married the first Australian she met. It seems to have worked out well for her though, she and her first husband are still good friends. Of course while Strop and I were taking all this in, we had been neglecting the menu. The waiter kept coming back, asking if we were ready to order yet. It was only when we decided to pay attention that we realised that they had only given us one menu. I thought maybe there was a global shortage of menus, but all the other tables seem to have plenty, so I think the maple tree is to blame. When we pointed this out to the waiter, he was very apologetic, but we still had to wait until he had seated a new table and taken their drink orders before we got any more menus.

When we finally made some decisions, we ordered prawn gyoza, grilled eggplant and chicken karaage, to start and for mains, a sashimi platter and sizzling pork. While we waited for the food I grilled Marie about her Air BnB experiences. This was by way of research, my new book has a character who hosts an Air BnB, funnily enough, in a quite similar situation to Marie. This discussion soon veered away from the amount of time that tourists spend in showers, and skipped lightly over vanity-publisher rip-offs, our first Japanese restaurant experience (the Fuji Tempura Bar, of revered memory), travel reminiscences, children’s relationships, tertiary education, and the important question of which is more important in a friendship, loyalty or honesty.

Luckily the food turned out to be better than the service. The gyoza were plump and tasty, the eggplant meltingly delicious, and the chicken sweet and crunchy. The sashimi platter was generous and all the fish very fresh. It even came with a side salad that featured a wedge of orange. Always a welcome bonus. The sizzling pork came with lots of veggies and a sweet soy sauce. It was excellent too.

By this time, the first bottle of wine had disappeared. We asked the waiter for a bottle of sauv blanc from the menu. He was very apologetic again, explaining that his staff had only put one bottle of each white in the fridge that afternoon, so basically we could have a warm sauv blanc, or a cold Chardonnay. We went with the Chardy, even though this goes against Strop’s religion, she had drunk enough by this time to be agnostic on the issue.

The disappearance of the second bottle of wine coincided neatly with the disappearance of the last of the food. We took this as a sign and made our way out onto the street, where we battled our way through hordes of scantily clad and sweaty youngsters outside the Enmore Theatre, and paused for a quick dance to a 70s revival band, playing up a storm outside the Hub. A great way to finish our first Enmore Road outing.