beetroot

Our visit to Russo & Russo has been a long time coming. Our first few attempts were thwarted – every time we tried to go something went wrong. Russo²(or should that be Russo x 2? – a question for the mathematicians among you) was the place that started everyone saying we should detour down Enmore Road instead of finishing off King Street, because “there are so many cool places opening up there now.” They were right up to a point, but you know, rules are Rules. And also, in between the handful of shiny new things on Enmore Road at that time, there was still an awful lot of dross.

We had tried to get to Russo² in the middle of the Quest, to celebrate a Strop birthday but decided we needed a larger venue for the celebration. As soon as we got to St Peters, Russo² leapt to the top of our wish list. We even made a booking, but then I got the flu and we had to cancel. A month or so later we tried again, and this time the arrangements stuck.

So here we are, accompanied by that well-seasoned regular Quester, Mark, and relative newcomer Debra, previously spotted at the Botany View Hotel.

Russo²is a serious foody type of place. Proper. And for the occasion we are having dinner at a proper dinnertime: 8pm. Which is worryingly close to my bedtime, but then I’ve always been a risk taker.

Before dinner we met up at that well known pre-Enmore-show-drinks venue, the Duke of Something, which happens to be next-doorish to Russo^2. Debra was there first (keen) and had bumped into a work colleague and her husband who were pre-show drinking before getting their fill of RockWiz. I had noted the crowd outside the Enmore, on my way from the station. The footpath was full of grey-haired men of a certain vintage who looked as if they had once been well acquainted with stadium-scale rock shows, but were now more interested in superannuation than supergroups. My peeps really. Once we had a quorum, and Deb’s friends had trotted off to test their rock-n-roll knowledge, we adjourned to the restaurant.

The first thing we noticed was the noise. Popular restaurant + lots of hard surfaces x confined space = LOUD. Strop blamed the marble tabletops, but I tend to blame all the people enjoying themselves. Whatever the reason, we needed to have line of sight of each other’s lips before we could have a conversation.

The menus came in a series of glossy (and quite heavy) old 1970s coffee-table books. Luckily we only had to read the first few pages unless we really wanted to know about Old World Visions on a New Continent. The food sounded much more interesting. We ordered a round of cocktails and got on with negotiating the rocky terrain that lay between the menu and our collective food intolerances and prejudices. This took a bit of time but we seemed to have reached a solution in which Mark basically got to choose, as he has an issue with seafood, and the rest of us got to veto. This entente cordial seemed to be working a treat until the waitress arrived and Strop performed a neat little coup d’état, outflanking us all by the simple expedient of ignoring everything that had been agreed to that point. She left the choices up to the chef on the proviso that he respected the boundaries of our various cuisine-based concerns. By this stage the rest of us were all so hungry, that the only response to Strop’s beaming request for approval was a few muttered What-evers.

The cocktails were excellent. I have no idea what they were but they were refreshingly cold and lemony. The first dish to arrive was what looked like a plate of chocolate profiteroles but which turned out to be filled with yummy duck liver pate. Very Hester Blumenthal I thought to myself as I licked every last skerrick off my plate. El Yummo. Next up was a ricotta dish with herbs and something crunchy – there may have been a few beans in there too. Doesn’t sound like much, but you should try it, your mouth will thank you. So far, so good. By this time Strop’s coup d’état had been forgotten as we looked forward to the next dish. That is the great pleasure of this type of dining. Living on the edge, not knowing what you will be asked to eat next. In this case it was asparagus with garlic milk. And grapes. This was not just any asparagus; according to Mark this was the best asparagus I’ve ever eaten. I have to agree with him.

So far the food was excellent: imbued with Italian sensibilities, it was clever and surprising without being pretentious. Above all, it was delicious. Things got a bit more complicated with the next dish. Risotto. Beetroot risotto. Salt-baked beetroot risotto in point of actual fact. And it turns out that Debra has a previously un-mentioned intolerance to salt. Had we been ordering from the menu … well, the salt-baked bit would probably have been noticed and avoided. As it was, Deb couldn’t come at it, and I have to admit that the deep-red risotto was quite salty. Not enough to stop the rest of us from polishing off her portion, but for someone who doesn’t like salt it would be a challenge. I suppose those are the risks of leaving the food choices up to the chef. The staff were very good about it, and provided another round of asparagus for Debra.

The next dish was pork neck with celeriac and radicchio, less stunt-oriented than some of the previous dishes, but wholesome and excellent nonetheless.

This was followed by another surprise. A clever version of cheese on toast: crostini with cheddar and quince. And lastly a dessert that was described as a Sardinian brulée, with freeze dried blood orange. As far as I was concerned it was all YUMMY. I have no higher praise to give. It is the best meal this project has been presented with so far.

When the bill arrived it came in another book, this time a text on Italian Verbs. It is a pity that Debra didn’t enjoy the food as much as the rest of us. Next time we might have to go to the trouble of reading the menu and choosing for ourselves. Probably safer that way.

Well, here we are out of sequence again and I blame Soda Pony. We’ve had a lovely morning walk through Newtown, working up a hunger and sweat of anticipation to try a new cafe. We don’t know what to expect. Soda Pony – what does that even mean. We are full of curiosity, but unfortunately this is what it means:

And by this time we are hungry. And in need of coffee. What’s up next? Good Wok. They’re closed. Of course, it’s Sunday morning. Next? Alberto’s Pizza. What about that place across the road? South End Cafe? Molly Coddle must be the next cafe. Where’s that? Back up the hill. Damn.

So that was how we found ourselves at number 612 – Molly Coddle Cafe. Good name. Makes me think of eggs, which is very appropriate as by now I am a bit hungry.

The cafe is doing a steady trade in take away coffees from the big espresso machine in the doorway right out front. Inside there are a few locals but plenty of room for us to join them. We choose a tiled table tucked away near an enormous and slightly dusty pizza oven. Unfortunately it is not on so we have to keep our coats on.

It is my turn to have the big breakfast, but Strop throws caution to the wind, in typical Strop fashion, ordering the corn and beetroot fritters on the basis that it comes with cauliflower relish. She is a sucker for anything cauliflower. And orange juice for both of us, please. Coffee can wait till later.

While we are waiting, we occupy ourselves listening to the cheesy music, humming along to Let It Go, trying to keep the hand movements restrained enough not to be noticed by the staff who might think we are trying to get their attention. Strop is busy trying to work out if an email from Paypal is legit or some kind of phishing thing. Is phishing still a thing? You don’t hear so much about it these days. Once upon a time it was phishing this and phishing that, everywhere you turned.

The OJ is excellent despite being jammed full of ice, which always seems superfluous. It is frothy, sharp and sweet – new season navels, Strop says knowingly.

My big breakfast lives up to its name, leaving little room on the plate for manoeuvring. The eggs are excellent, there is plenty of bacon, the chorizo is a welcome newcomer, and the tomatoes are tasty. The only player letting down the side are the baked beans which seem to be the same ones I grew up with.

Strops fritters are large and pink and smooth. – they look like a pile of underdone steaks. There is no sign of the cauliflower relish. Strop queries this and is supplied with a little pot of tomato relish. She polished off the salad component but most of her fritters are still sitting on the plate when we order our coffees. The waiter clearing our plates asks How was everything? oblivious to the pile of pink fritters staring up at him accusingly.

The coffee was pretty good though.

beetroot

Russo & Russo – loudly living up to its reputation

612 – Molly Coddle – When fritters go feral