beer

Wayward Brewing and a first look at Camperdown Commons

July 7, 2016 by Andrew Christie Leave a Comment

The Wayward brewery is a relatively new arrival in our neck of the woods. It is hidden away, down a side street in a light industrial part of Camperdown, so it could have been here for a while. It is one of those places that you have to know about to know about. Strop and I ventured across Pyrmont Bridge Road to check it out on a cold winters night. It wasn’t our first visit to Wayward, that had been the week before, when we braved the tail end of an East Coast low to have a drink at our new local with Paul, Ashley, Ned and Mark. It was very jolly inside, with live music, a convivial crowd and quite a lot of beers were drunk. Especially by Strop.

Wayward is open four nights a week as a bar, but I assume that the brewery part is going full-time. The arrival experience a takes you down a broad ramp into a cavernous space with a bar on one side, a brewery round the corner, and a couple of smaller rooms at the back, that look a bit like Hitler’s Bunker if he had been around in the 1970s, or maybe somewhere in Falujah.

Reassuringly, the bar staff are all heavily tattooed and bearded, so at least we know we’re still in the inner west. They have a few wines for sale, but the main deal at Wayward is definitely beer. There is a row of numbered beer taps along the wall behind the bar, and above them a beer menu. There are a lot on offer, and the descriptions are pretty fruity. But in a good way – lots of pineapple, raspberry and passionfruit mentions.

The night Strop and I went on our own, the place was packed, mainly with thirty-something men. It turned out that the brewery was running tours, and most of the punters had turned up to be shown around and to try the range no doubt. Strop and I found a free table at the back, in one of the concrete bunkers. These things are so secure that no phone signals can get through, which might explain why there were some spare tables in there. The bunkers are furnished somewhat eccentrically, and feature a wide range of furniture. The chairs were very comfortable in a way that only the 1970s managed, although at the cost of aesthetics.

My first choice beer, the Camperdown (nominative determinism rule), wasn’t available, so Strop bought me an Otis, presumably named after the lifts. She chose the appropriately named Charmer for herself, which was strong and chocolatey. My Otis on the other hand had distinct passionfruit tones, which was pleasantly weird.

In the laneway outside Wayward there was a tent set up, and a sign promising Italian food. We went the whole hog and ordered ragu in focaccia, arancini, and polenta chips. It was all good but the ragu was a standout, especially on a cold and rainy night. Very warming. El yummo.

You can also get pizza ordered in from one from of the local pizza joints. Unfortunately, it isn’t one of the local pizza joints that we favour with our custom, but I will be more than happy if the guy in the tent keeps serving up the ragu.

Another new arrival in our area is Camperdown Commons. This is what has become of the old Camperdown Bowling Club. Nowadays it is a restaurant slash urban farm. I think I would have rather kept the bowlo but it had an unfortunate habit of going broke, and, frankly, serving crap food. The two facts may be related.

The new venture has high ideals, grows its own kale, has a chook yard, even serves Wayward ales, but we are yet to see if it walks the walk. There is a fair amount of style over substance going on. It is cleverly styled with lighting so subtle that Strop had to pull out the torch on her phone to read the menu. The furniture is very nice, slightly rustic, and wooden, and there are big tubs of firewood lying around as well. I kept looking but I couldn’t find a fireplace anywhere. Maybe they’re going to do wood-fired pizza.

During the schmoozing-of-the-neighbours stage of development, there was a lot of talk about this being a local joint for local people. A quick glance at the price list suggests that it is the sort of local you are probably going to save for the odd special occasion. Strop and I dropped in for a quick meal on its first weekend. The bar food was okay, but nothing to write home about.

Camperdown Commons (surely a name devised by a committee) promotes its locally-sourced everything, and ethical proteins etc, but there are nowhere near enough tattoos for my liking. Given it’s size, it is going to have to drag a lot of punters through the door. We shall see. I hope it is a success, especially after all the work they have done on the site. But unless they review the prices I will keep heading across Pyrmont Bridge Road for my Wayward beers and the ragu from the tent.

The Forest Lodge Hotel – and the princess-castle screen time overrun

October 4, 2015 by Andrew Christie 3 Comments

The Flodge, as it is called around our neck o’the hood, is a reliable favourite when a pub meal is required. Which is surprisingly often. I only wish it was a bit closer to home.

Our latest outing to the Flodge was on the last night of our new grandson’s inaugural tour of Sydney. It was a very family affair with the Stropolina, the Stropette, the Heathen, and Pancetta, together with the great uncles (gruncles) Jim and Matt, and of course the guest of honour, the Mosster. For logistical reasons some of us walked to the pub and some of us drove. Strop, the Stropolina and I set off at a brisk clip along Parramatta Road, pushing the Mosster in his carriage, only to be overtaken and tooted at repeatedly by the hoons with the Victorian rego plates. Bloody Mexicans. On the upside, by the time we get there, a table has been occupied and beers have been purchased. The Flodge offers a bewildering range of Beers With Spectacularly Silly Names (BWSSN), which usually gives me a headache, but luckily the Heathen has it sorted. It may be called Feral Hop Dog but this BWSSN is acceptably sessionable so I won’t have to think about what to drink next. I’ll just have another of those feral thingies. Or maybe a jug full.

The Flodge is not a huge pub but it is busy. This is partly because it is close to Sydney University, but it is more than just the location. It has a comfortable homey feel. This doesn’t mean that it is one of those pubs furnished like a group house from the seventies with crusty mismatched sofas and dead televisions stacked in the corner. It is something to do with the scale of the spaces and the atmosphere. It is friendly, equally welcoming to families and student clubs, many of whom seem to hold their parties or meetings in the back room. It has a good and very reliable kitchen which serves up high quality pub grub, along with enough specials to keep things interesting. Even if they do always seem to sell out just before I get to the counter to order.

Our large table takes a long time getting its collective act together to decide on what we’re eating. This is mainly because of conversation. There is a lot of it going on, and quite a bit of competition for the attentions of the children too. The Stropolina has cornered the baby market, and is keeping the Mosster to herself, while gruncle Jim is exercising his child-whispering skills, getting the Pancetta to do him lots of drawings and writing.

Eventually someone breaks from the pack and stops procrastinating over the menu. In response, the rest of us firm up our decisions, change our minds, then switch back again at the last minute. Eventually everyone’s choices are locked in. The curly sausage and mash are a hot ticket item, while the nursing mother opts for a red-blooded steak. The Heathen surprises everyone with a last minute change to a chicken pocket, and Strop goes the fish curry. Pancetta settles for fish and chips from the kids menu. There, that wasn’t so hard was it.

While we are waiting for the food, more Hop Dog is obtained and the musical members of the family start singing Kookaburra Sits In an Old Gum Tree in rounds. The Pancetta takes a break from looking at photos of herself as a baby on someone’s phone, long enough to look bemused at this musical interruption to the pub sound system’s hipster-nostalgia soundtrack, made up of hits from Creedence, The Animals, Canned Heat, and Steppenwolf. The singing causes a frisson of panic in the enlarged brains of the students, causing them to look over their shoulder’s nervously, before leaning their heads closer together and resuming their earnest discussions of what the hell Ryan Adams is doing messing with Taylor Swift’s oeuvre.

I had the sausage. It was long and curly and tasted great. The Stropette is a bit of a connoisseur of the condiments, and even she was impressed by the range on offer at the Flodge. A particular standout was the bbq sauce. It may come in a plastic squeezy bottle but Sweet Baby Ray’s Sweet ’n Spicy is the business. You can taste the good-ol’-boy smokiness in every squeeze. The Pancetta’s meal was notable because even though it came from the kid’s menu it looked like regular food. No nuggets, fish fingers, or other processed junk here. It was battered fish, proper chips AND a salad. Children are little people – they deserve people food. As a reward for hoeing into her fish and chips, Pancetta was allowed to order ice cream for dessert. On hearing this news she gave a very cute little fist pump. Yes! The rest of us couldn’t make up our minds – twice in one night was asking a bit much – so we ordered one of everything to share. We might not be able to make a decision but FOMO rules okay?

Pancetta greeted the arrival of her ice cream with a very smug smile, but then gruncle Matt wrapped her up in one of his conversational spells, complete with illustrations in the form of holiday photos of French castles on his phone. Pancetta of course wanted to know where the princesses were, which led to a long and involved discussion on the fate of princesses in post-revolutionary France, and a lot more photos of castles and chateau. While Led Zeppelin kicked in with a Stairway to Heaven soundtrack, the rest of us were in awe, watching the ice cream slowly melt as the Two Great Conversationalists went at it. The Stropette was a bit less charmed than the rest of us, speculating that it was just a very sophisticated ruse by her daughter to increase her daily quota of screen time. Pancetta didn’t come out of her revery until the rest of us were getting up to leave. Suddenly the spell was broken and she remembered the ice cream. No!!! Not yet, I haven’t finished.

Nor have we.

Forest Lodge Hotel. Put it on your list.

576 Union Hotel – More connections than Telstra

June 6, 2015 by Andrew Christie Leave a Comment

Tuesday nights. There is something about them and the renewal of old connections. Last time it was Uncle Carl, this time it’s Lisa from Carwoola, and Greg from Kioloa (this is starting to sound like ABC talkback radio). In the dark distant past when the Stropette was still a poppet, and the Stropolina still far in the future, Strop and I rented an historic (run down) cottage on a farm outside Canberra. There were other cottages and other young couples and a few children, as well as chooks and lambs and tiger snakes. That was the year the drought broke, and Hawkey came to power. I remember watching the election results on the television in the living room of one of our new neighbours. When it became clear that labour had won someone shouted out, “Fantastic, I’m applying for an arts grant on Monday.” Aah, those were the days. Lisa and Andrew, her partner at the time, lived in the cottage near the shearing shed, we had the cottage in the front paddock, Jane and Jim were almost next door and Bill and Janette were in the next paddock. The owners of the property lived in the Big House and didn’t mix with the tenants much. We all drifted away eventually, moving into town or down the coast, lost touch, as you do. Heard sporadic news, as you do. And then some nerd became extremely rich by inventing Facebook. And people started finding each other again.

We haven’t seen Lisa since about 1984. She’s been living down the south coast, while we’ve moved to the smoke. Her current bloke, Greg, grew up at Kioloa, which is by way of being one of our favourite little coastal villages. He works for National Parks. Strop and I used to do consulting work for National Parks. Do you know so and so? Really? How is she/he? What are they up to? I worked with them on Biamanga. Or was it Gulaga? Did you know that thingy had moved to Byron? All that. So many connections. Specific ones as well as the general stage of life ones, involving things children do, grandchildren arrivals, and parental departures. We are now the generation that bonds over the shared experience of spreading our parents ashes upon the waters. “They’ve got these recycled cardboard containers now. You put the ashes in them and float them away. Eventually they sink and the cardboard dissolves.” I want one shaped like a viking long boat.

There was a lot to talk about, but we needed food. And drinks. The Union is one of those trendy pubs (I’m looking at you too, Forest Lodge) that has an awful lot of beer taps for beers you’ve never heard of. All with silly names that aren’t really that funny. Strop likes this sort of thing because she is Open To New Experiences, I don’t because I Can’t Stand The Tension, and all I really want is a nice sessional beer. They have a lot of whiskys too, all with names I’ve heard of, and all of which deserve my attention, but that will have wait for another time.

When the front bar was taken over by the Trivia hooligans, juiced up on the excitement of showing off how smart they are, like a bunch of five-year olds who’ve had too much food colouring, we toddled out the back to The Eatery. Unfortunately the heating system didn’t accompany us, so we had to wear our jackets as we squinted our aged eyes to read the big blackboard menu.

The Burger Wars were then reconvened. It has been a while – the last pub on the Quest was the Newtown Social Club, and I can’t remember a thing about that experience. Lisa and Greg decided that they would go the burger as well. However, when Lisa chose the the chickpea fritter burger I had my doubts about whether she was really entering into the spirit of the Burger Wars. I suppose her claim that the last time she had eaten a burger was in 1973, should have been a clue. Greg and I went the meat route. Beef burger with bacon for me, Chinese style BBQ pork for him. Strop turned her back on the Wars altogether and had the salmon. A very disappointing effort.

My burger came with more bacon than the bun could cope with, and the bits that were sticking out beyond their bready blanket were quite cold by the time my gnashers trimmed them off (just a quick tidying-up skirmish before the main confrontation). Generally, the burger was excellent but there were some structural issues with the bun. Greg found his pork burger “Very tasty.” And Lisa really liked the eggplant (I think there is a hipster gag there somewhere but I just can’t get hold of it). She really liked the chips too, “They’re up there with the ones those two Italian blokes make down on the flat there at Narooma.” I don’t think there can be any higher chip praise.

Did I mention that Strop ordered the salmon?

Afterwards we left Lisa and Greg with icecream cones clasped in their icy hands as they headed for the station, while we toddled down the hill towards home. Strop decided that she had met Greg before, in one of the many, many meetings with stakeholders, that working for a Government agency involves.

501 African Feeling – with an Ash Street Cellar prologue

February 14, 2015 by Andrew Christie Leave a Comment

This was a strange day – Friday the 13^th and all that, Valentines Day eve, and also the eve of our wedding anniversary. Yes, that’s right, we got married on Valentines Day, although in those far off days, less fuss was made about it and I don’t even think that long stemmed roses had been invented yet. If we had thought it through a bit more carefully we might have changed the day of the wedding but you know, people were coming long distances etc. I was so out of touch back then that I didn’t even know it was Valentines Day. The problem with having your wedding anniversary on Valentines Day is that you can never get into the restaurant you really want, and if you do, then the place is full of young couples looking dreamily into each others eyes, and roving bands of flower and tat merchants are looking to make a buck by guilting you into forking out for an overpriced rose or any number of heart-shaped bits of shite.

Sorry. Getting a bit agitated here. So anyway, long ago Strop and I decided we would just do our celebrating either the day before or the day after our anniversary, when restaurants were in a more normal mode of operation.

Now, why was I telling you all of this?

So Friday, I was just expecting the normal thing, hit King Street after work, have a meal, make up something vaguely amusing to say about it and then get back to worrying about second book syndrome. But no, Strop is in town this Friday, “learning about stormwater”.

“Let’s have lunch,” she says, “Oh and by the way, I need a new phone.”

We went to Ash Street Cellars, which was busy but had a few vacant tables. I had heard good things about this place but had never been before (one of the draw backs of always eating on King St) so I was looking forward to trying it out, but was a bit worried that it might be an unfair comparison with African Feeling later on. Not to mention the threat to my waistline presented by two meals out in quick succession. Plus the odd beer – and they were quite odd, but more of that later.

We ordered empanadas, sardines, and an iceberg lettuce salad, plus a glass of wine. Quite abstemious by our standards really, but I had an afternoon of ignoring emails to get through before we took on African Feeling. The wine was great – cold and dry and pink. The food was good too, but we had to ask where the salad was (forgotten by the kitchen apparently) then we had to ask again after watching our waiter walk past the plate of pale green lettuce wedges sitting all alone at the pass. In the end they comped the salad, but still… Friday the 13^th? Maybe.

So, on to King St. We met up again at the Union Hotel, where Strop was waiting for me with three phones and a beer lined up on the table in front of her.

“They’re only serving beers from two makers, but there is lots of different types, and you can taste as many as you want,” she said, a bit excited. “There’s one called Lamborghini. You should have that one.”

The Union has gone completely hipster on the beer front. There are sixteen varieties that you have never heard of, all with stupid names that you will never remember because the beer is so strong that by the time you’ve tasted enough to work out which ones you like, you’re completely off your face. Sure they taste nice, but this amount of choice is what’s ruining the nation. And whoever said we should like our beer? Tasteless beer was good enough for our fathers and our father’s fathers, it should be good enough for us too. What this country needs is a strong leader to whip it into shape – someone like Peta Credlin.

So anyway, we were quite cheerful by the time we toddled up the street, having waited out a tropical downpour that filled the gutters and got Strop thinking wistfully about stormwater.

African Feeling is in a big newish building right next door to Arabella. We decided to sit outside as the rain had stopped but it was still quite muggy. As we perused the menu we had plenty of time to give detailed attention to the fashion crimes passing by on the narrow footpath. There was lots of busy hipster action – tight Warwick-Cappa shorts, ponytail and beard – and plenty of mullet dresses on offer. These popular atrocities are just wrong. They turn the description of the hair style – business up the front, party out the back – on its head, promising instead a party up front, and business out the back.

Obviously, by this stage we needed more beers. Strop had to peer in through the window to get the waiter’s attention as we were masked from his view by a wall – that was what he said anyway. A couple of Tuskers hit the table soon afterwards. There was no mention of a glass, so we drank out of the bottle in what I assume is a culturally appropriate way. It is certainly appropriate for King St.

Knowing nothing at all about African food, we probably should have asked the waiter for advice. He was a very cheerful young bloke with fading blue hair. As Strop put it, “He looks like he knows what he’s doing… well he looks jolly anyway.”

For entrée we ordered a dumpling dish simply on the basis of its silly name (again). The kpoff kpoff turned out not to be ‘light fluffy and golden’ as described in the menu but rather dark brown and stodgy. Still they were rather pleasant and, with their spicy dipping sauce, they went down very well with our new, elephant endowed beers. The kitchen forgot our other entrée dish, plantain, which we had chosen on the basis that it seemed very African. Friday the 13^th again? I am not a superstitious man, but it would be silly to ignore such an obvious pattern.

The waiter apologised and said the plantain would come out with the mains if that was okay. We said it was.

The mains were a fish and coconut curry, a goat stew and some chapattis.

The fish curry was very nice, with large fillets of fish and some vegetables in a very tasty and quite thick sauce. The goat stew was dark and strongly flavoured, and extremely spicy. It seemed to have been cooked for a long time as the goat was extremely tender but it was so hot that we immediately called for some yoghurt and mint to soothe our taste buds. At this point, I remembered that the waiter had asked how spicy we wanted the goat and fish dishes. Strop, never one to stick to standard units of measurement, jumped in with “a bit hotter than medium”. So what does that mean? Hot?

Well the goat was hot, and the fish was medium, so I guess on average they were a bit hotter than medium. The plantain didn’t have much flavour but it was nice with the curries. The chapattis were excellent.

On the way home there was another tropical downpour. The long walk home is even further when the gutters are overflowing. Next up is Europe Bar and Grill. I have been waiting for this since forever – anyone want to join us?

224 – M.O.A.N. – So many gags present themselves…

November 30, 2013 by Andrew Christie 3 Comments

What to say about M.O.A.N.? Well for a start – what the hell were they thinking? Moan? Really?

This place used be called Cicciolina (the name is still on the awning), seemingly named after the Italian porn star/politician. It famously used to have a sculpture of a giant clitoris on the wall, which was presumably a very particular part of the theme. The sculpture disappeared after a while – presumably looking a giant clit in the eye was putting the punters off their Spaghetti alla puttanesca. I tried to find an image of it for you on the webz, but when I entered cicciolina + clitoris into Google Image Search the results were so distracting that I had to have a little lie down.

So, MOAN. Well why the hell not? It is Newtown after all.

Strop assures me that M.O.A.N. stands for Menus Of All Nations or possibly Mix Of All Nations. Either way it is a completely stupid idea, and demonstrably untrue. The place is pretty much Italian, with a big dollop of oz-pub burger cuisine on the side. All the infrastructure (except for the sculpture) from Cicciolina days seem to have survived including the wood-fired pizza oven, and this drives the menu. The beer list does have a touch of the international about it. You’ve got Australian, Belgian, German, Japanese, Australian, Mexican, and another Australian. So, all nations.

Strop and I have fortified ourselves with a regulation Dogbolter before entering the fray, so we are full of confidence as we swan in and choose a table at the front so we can look out the window at the passing parade rather than having to talk to each other. The M.O.A.N. is not crowded, but there is a large and very excitable birthday group up the back next to the kitchen and the toilet. I imagine that they are warmer than we are, being closer to the pizza oven. Its a cold evening and I only have a nylon raincoat over my tee shirt but Strop says I can’t zip it up because I will look too much like a trainspotter.

I order a Belgian beer and Strop orders a Merlot Of All Nations to go with our entrees of pulled-pork pancakes, and char-grilled vegetable salad. For mains we choose a pizza with sausage and mushroom. Strop pushes the idea of the Thai beef salad for a while on the grounds of All-Nationism, but I veto it on the grounds of stupidity. You don’t go to an Italian joint for Thai food – especially in Newtown.

The pancakes turn out to be small and skinny. They are almost lost on their big fluffy bed of salad leaves. But at least the pork filling is tasty. Tangy, sweet and salty. Really quite salty. The char-grilled veges are similarly lost in a sea of salad leaves as though someone has emptied a bag of mixed leaves from the supermarket, and put too much balsamic on it. The zucchini and eggplant are nice enough but the sweet potato is a bit undercooked. Oh well.

The pizza takes a while. In the meantime we argue about the political correctness of early birthday present giving in the context of grandchildren whose birthdays are only 3 days south of Xmas. We also discuss this year’s Christmas Tree strategy, next years holiday strategy, and try to figure out a retirement strategy that doesn’t involve pet food. All this strategising leaves us with empty glasses. Another round is called for. Unfortunately the glass of wine Strop gets is different from the one she had been drinking, but she doesn’t realise this until she has poured the dregs from the first into the new glass. All class.

Meanwhile in the kitchen they have been putting the wood-fired oven too good use. The pizza crust is excellent, but it is let down by the disks of Colesworths Best English Beef Sausage that are sprinkled generously on top. I mean, I was expecting Italian sausage. Is that an unreasonable expectation?

So don’t M.O.A.N. Just don’t. We went there so you won’t have to.

Cheeky Czech – Number 124 – Full of Middle European Meaty Goodness

May 4, 2013 by Andrew Christie Leave a Comment

Friday night, time to hit King Street again. I have developed a bit of a habit of arriving early and going to a pub for a fortifying ale before embarking on the night’s eating. It is the only time I get around to watching Super Rugby and it reminds me how much I used to enjoy going to the Brumbies matches in Canberra. I don’t care about the competition at all but I do enjoy the rugby, mind you, the rugby played in the park across the road by the Shammies is more entertaining. In a ten minute sojourn around the park you are likely to see three or four tries scored. They’re not very big on defence.

Tonight we are crossing the road and leaving Asia briefly to visit Europe, and I am looking forward to it. Nothing against Asian food, but we’ve just had six in a row and I fancy a change of pace. We are joined tonight by some local chums. Mark has just returned from a holiday visit to Prague, Budapest and Berlin, so he is along to check for Authenticity – see how I resisted temptation there. Lorinda, Jay and Ned (he’s the one with the hat) are just along for the food and the fascinating company.

Cheeky Czech. The cute name – it brings to mind Mardi Gras revellers – and the yellow colour scheme suggests a franchise in the offing but I can find no evidence to back up this theory. Google Streetview tells me that the site was previously occupied by a wrap bar – whatever that is – called Giraffe, which solves the mystery of the large African themed light fitting. Cheeky Czech is open for breakfast, lunch and dinner although there doesn’t seem to be anything very Czech about the breakfast menu. The blackboards on the street and the walls proclaim lots of special deals which all seem to offer meat and beer in various combinations. I’m liking the place more and more.

We order Czech beers to start and continue with them through the night. Mark accuses me of drinking a Belgian beer but I point out that the menu begs to differ. While we are chatting and admiring young Ned’s skill at putting the little paper tubes of sugar back in their container, our nostrils are being seduced by the luscious smells coming from the kitchen. For entrees we have meatballs, potato cakes and mushrooms. There is some confusion over the meatballs. While I am busy typing what turn out to be incomprehensible notes into my phone, I get the impression that Jay has been talked out of ordering the meatballs because we have all ordered them but no, it turns out that they only have one serve left which I ordered while everyone else was umming and ahhing. The price of indecision. The meatballs are the winners, nice and crispy, but the potato cakes and mushrooms are not so appealing.

For mains we go the full meaty spectrum: pork belly, schnitzel and beef roulade from the menu, and braised beef and roast duck from the specials board. The pork belly is very tasty and comes with very good red cabbage and some rather stodgy potato dumplings. I am probably being unfair to the dumplings: stodge is the whole point of a dumpling. A bit like accusing a duck of quacking. Speaking of which, the roast duck is huge and very good according to Mark. The schnitzel is, well, a schnitzel so no surprises there. The two beef dishes are a bit disappointing – both a little over done, tough even – although I wonder if that is just the nature of this type of European food. The roulade is wrapped around an egg and Strop describes it as being like a giant scotch egg which is an alarming idea.

The service is friendly, efficient, and comes with culturally appropriate accents. There is only one dessert and it is the apple strudel at the bottom of the specials board. It apparently comes with ice cream and toppings. We are a bit worried these might be chocolate sauce, or hundreds and thousands, or even M and M’s. When they arrive the surprise is not in the topping, which is supposed to be honey, but in the accompanying ice-cream. They seem to have run out of vanilla so we get a chocolate and a strawberry as well. The fruity and spicy filling is very nice but the pastry could be a bit lighter. But again stodge – it’s what they do in that part of Europe isn’t it?

By the time we leave, we are all groaning about how full we are. A litre of beer will do that.

I had a good time at the Cheeky Czech, even though the food is a bit hit and miss, and the quirks, like the deconstructed Neopolitan ice-cream I found quite endearing. Next up is Basil – a pizza joint that uses the word gourmet a little too freely for my liking.