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Andrew Christie

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baba ganoush

490 Pashas – The near-miss euphoria

February 7, 2015 by Andrew Christie 1 Comment

490 pashas

It turns out that Pashas has been around for a long time. Matt (of Jim and Matt fame) can vaguely remember going there when he lived in Newtown as a student. That was in the olden days when Newtown was really Newtown – what I think of as its dog shit and broken glass period. But I digress, Pasha’s is an institution and to have lasted so long in Newtown’s constantly changing restaurant landscape, it definitely must be doing something right. Certainly the use of tiles in the façade speaks of permanence and a disdain for fashion – as well as making it a bit of a landmark. Which is just as well because I am running late again – Newtown Social Club and Summer Ale late – and I don’t want to end up on the wrong side of the road.

Strop and Jim are ensconced at a window table when I arrive, tucking into baba ganouj, and bread and washed down with Efes beer. I have no choice but to join in. Matt is running even later than me, but I think he had a better excuse – something work related. Having broken the banquet barrier last week at Arabellas we decide to give it another go. It also makes ordering much easier and leaves more time for nattering.

For some reason I end up doing the ordering again. “Four of your best banquets please squire,” I quip to the waiter, “and another round of Efes, while you’re about it.”

“And a bottle of pinot grigio,” Strop adds.

Dipology
Dipology

Matt arrives just after the beer but before the dips, which turns out to be a fairly narrow window. The dips are served on a big platter, and they are generous and varied. There is more baba, hummus of course, chilli and walnut, cucumber and yoghurt, spinach, and carrot. Along with the dips, are eggplants, grilled zucchini and a salad with pomegranate. As usual the bread runs out quickly, but it is rapidly replenished. With our food cravings being quelled, we get back to the chatter. This includes, in no particular order: anthem singing antics at Jim’s school, Matt’s chaos over colonial barrack design, Strop’s acting-up anguish, and my gateway feature fiasco. For some reason we then drifted into an erudite discussion of the best place to buy soy-burgers in the 1990s, and also something about ‘Dixie spoons’. At least that’s what my notes say. No, I have no idea either – thankyou Mr, or Ms auto-spell.

As the waitress tries to clear enough room on the table for the next round of the banquet, Jim quickly wipes up the last of the dips with the last of the bread. The next round is The Meat. In this case, chicken kebabs, lamb kebabs and spicy rissoles. Very nice.

Pasha’s has a good atmosphere with plenty of décor-ey bits and pieces including low hanging coloured glass lanterns (below head height as it turns out), and travel posters. It is a double-wide, occupying two shop fronts, separated by brick arches. There are low tables for those with ambitious knees, and some high tables for the rest of us. Tonight it is buzzing with plenty of punters and lots of Friday night conversations.

When the sound of happy dining is suddenly shattered by blaring music, I assume that it is a mistake and that the volume will soon be adjusted. But my optimism is misplaced. The music heralds the arrival of that scourge of middle aged white men, The Belly Dancer. An apparition in blue arrives between the tables, with a smile set in red concrete, and belly rolls that won’t stop rolling. A discernible tremor of terror spreads from table to table, as each man realises what this means. Yes, audience participation. Our table is backed into a corner with no means of escape, but luckily it is also the furthest from the threat. Perhaps the music, or the will to embarrass, will run out before she gets to us. But no, conversation is suspended as she gradually gets closer, leaving behind her a trail of bewildered and embarrassed men, and a couple of women who really got into it. When she gets to our table she quickly works out that Strop is the only one there who might have the courage to take up the challenge, the terms of which are being laid out in great detail, by the mesmeric undulations of the her navel. Not tonight though, Strop isn’t in the mood.

As she lifts her gaze to the rest of the table, I take a sudden interest in making sure that I am getting down complete and accurate notes. I don’t know what Jim and Matt do, but it works. The dancer turns away, vibrating imperiously, and obviously disgusted that none of us is man enough for her.

Matt and Jim definitely not looking at the dancing
Matt and Jim definitely not looking at the dancing

When the music ends, normal transmission of conversation gradually resumes as a rush of near-miss euphoria takes over the room.

Dessert is baklava and Turkish delight, accompanied by apple tea, Turkish tea, or Turkish coffee.

So what’s the verdict? We have been having a bit of a middle-eastern sojourn lately. I think that Pasha’s has easily the best atmosphere of all the Turkish and Lebanese restaurants we have been to on the quest – a very pleasant buzz. On the food front it is a near run thing, but Arabellas clarity and complexity of flavour, probably wins.

Next week we’re going African! I have no idea what to expect.

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Filed Under: Quest Tagged With: baba ganoush, belly dancing, Turkish

489 Arabella – Well done

January 31, 2015 by Andrew Christie 11 Comments

kingstprogress

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…

489-2

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.

489-1

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.

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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.

489-5

<a href=”http://www.urbanspoon.com/r/70/750092/restaurant/Sydney/Arabella-Restaurant-Bar-Newtown”><img alt=”Arabella Restaurant &amp; Bar on Urbanspoon” src=”http://www.urbanspoon.com/b/link/750092/minilink.gif” style=”border:none;width:130px;height:36px” /></a>

Filed Under: Quest Tagged With: baba ganoush, Birmingham, emergence, Fattoush, horde, Lebanese

433 Ferah Turkish Café – Setting a high bar for the trek into Turkish territory

December 6, 2014 by Andrew Christie 1 Comment

433 ferrah

We have just entered a small Turkish enclave on the way to St Peters. Ferah Turkish Café, being our first encounter in this sub-quest, has the opportunity to set the standard by which the rest will be judged. And it does.

Tonight we are four, being joined by Mark, recently returned from Myanmar, Thailand and Cambodia, and the Stropolina, recently returned from Randwick.

We have been looking for a new place to gather for drinks before we descend on the quest target for the day. For a while we were going to the Newtown Social Club as it is pub-esque and close to this slippery-slope part of the quest, but we find it a bit loud and a bit dark on these nice warm summer evenings. So tonight we are meeting at 2042, which is light and airy, being open to the street, and while it doesn’t have a hipster-compatible range of artisanal beers, it has enough for lubrication purposes.

Strop, the Stropolina, and I arrive a bit early and indulge in some family catch up time. Strop recounts her traumatic afternoon, trying to rescue a dog that had been hit by a car and was staggering around on the Hume Highway in peak hour traffic. And no one was stopping. Seriously, what is wrong with people? How fucking important is getting home on time? Or to the pub? Or wherever? Anyway Strop ventured out into the traffic, daring them to run her over too, and managed to get the dog to the side of the road – but he didn’t make it. He had probably taken off in a panic during the thunderstorms that were brewing that afternoon. Anyway, Strop is due a humanity award. Another one.

Mark is running a bit late as he is being bent back into shape after a discomfiting bout of jet lag. “From a four hour time difference?” Strop and I mutter and nod knowingly to each other, “Get over it, mate. Try eleven hours, that’s jet lag.” Mark tries to explain that they reckon that short time-zone changes from west to east are the worst, but we’re not having any of that malarkey.

Before things turn ugly, we up-stumps and head for Ferah Turkish Café. This is the second time we’ve been to Ferah recently. The first time was with John and Pauline, for a post north African holiday de-brief and scarf comparison session. I didn’t write about that visit as I didn’t consider myself on duty as a bloggerist at the time. But this time I am definitely on duty, and I have the notebook out, recording the menu choices even as they are being made. Unfortunately, after Mark has gone through the order with the waiter I, having written it all down carefully in illegible scrawl in my notebook, feel the urge to repeat the order. Just to clarify. The poor waiter is Turkish after all, and Mark isn’t. Unfortunately my intervention leads to us ordering twice as much as we thought we were. My only excuse is that I was just trying to help – it was not at all a ploy to get out of ever having to do the ordering, ever again. Soon after this debacle had been sorted out, Mark started talking in Turkish to the waiters. Show off.

We all ordered ayran (salted yoghurt drink, and no, I’d never heard of it before either) to drink which surprised our waiter even more than when I had completely doubled the order.

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The food started arriving quickly: hummus, baba ganoush (really nice baba), cacik, vine leaves and felafel. We are all soon dipping away with our bits of bread, and trying to talk with our mouths full. The only slight disappointment was the felafel, which seemed a bit pale and a bit dry. The rest, especially the baba ganoush, was excellent.

Ferah has an accompanying Turkish artefact shop next door with lots of rugs, tiles and lamps for you to buy. If only the food didn’t keep coming so fast, you might have time to go and check it out. A lot of the tiles and glass lamps have made their way into the café along with a water feature, which has taken up residence in the corner.

Our mains are mixed grills to share – an Aussie classic re-interpreted by the Turks. Or maybe it was the other way around. Whatever. They come with skewered bits of chicken, beef and a meat patty that might have been lamb, as well as delicious rice, a salad with red cabbage, and more bread, carefully located beneath the meats to soak up all the juicy goodness.

There was very little talking for while as we demolished this lot. The general consensus was that the beef and the rice were the winners with an honourable mention to the patties which were nice and spicy. It was all good though.

Ferah has set the bar high at the start of our trek into King Street’s Turkish territory. And it’s cheap too.

The Stropolina's reaction to my ordering efforts
The Stropolina’s reaction to my ordering efforts

Ferah Turkish Cafe on Urbanspoon

Filed Under: Quest Tagged With: baba ganoush, traffic, Turkish

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