breakfast

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.

529 Martini Cafe – Serious about bacon

April 19, 2015 by andysomething 4 Comments

We’ve been walking past this place for a few weeks – but only at night when it is closed. And to tell the truth it doesn’t look like much when it is closed – it doesn’t look like all that much when it is open either. Even so, at 11am on a hotter than average April day (we’re getting used to hearing that phrase now aren’t we) all the tables on the street and inside are occupied. Luckily we are directed to out-the-back where there is plenty of space in a shady, leafy courtyard. Which is fine because we are here for a good talk and it is quieter away from the Saturday morning traffic on King Street.

We are joined this morning by the lovely Emma who has been allowed out on her own by Will and Charlie in a kind of ‘fair-dos’ arrangement following their recent unaccompanied appearance in these pixels. We are going to have a serious catch up chat although, apparently Emma has mis-interpreted Strop’s use of the word serious in this instance and is expecting some terrible news. But there is to be none of that, there has been far too much of it lately. The closest we get to that territory is a bit of consultation on strategies for marshalling teenage angst, and for responding to sympathetic inquiries, when delivered in quantity. It turns out that the answer to the first issue is eternal vigilance, and cake for the second. Sorted. Now for the food.

First up, drinks. A soy latte for Em, juices for Strop and I. Mine is a plain old OJ, which is freshly squeezed and comes with a bit of froth on top. Strop get’s creative and orders an apple, carrot and ginger, which arrives settled out into layers, a bit like a Celia Gullet painting. Em’s coffee comes in a double walled glass glass. Which the waiter helpfully, but a bit unnecessarily, points out keeps the coffee warm and your fingers cool.

The menu is quite extensive and we are so busy doing our not-particularly-serious-chat business that we don’t have time to get very far into it. I am the last to arrive at a decision, mainly because Emma and Strop have stolen my first two choices: Corn fritters, and Souths Eggs. I have to venture further down the page to Mexican Breakfast. Having decided on corn fritters early, it’s about the second item in the list of breakfasts, Emma has a little panic attack about bacon. Not so much the lack of it, but whether there will be enough. Her enquiries on the subject of bacon adequacy with the waitress, doesn’t fill her with confidence so she orders extra bacon. Making good use of this precedent I also order a bacon extra, because the Mexican doesn’t come with any. Strop and I order coffees as well now that our thirst has been quenched.

The staff at Martini are very helpful, although they all seem to have just wandered down from the nearest backpacker hostel. The girl who brings out our breakfast plates is so pleased to have found the correct table that she exclaims in an Irish accent, “That’s good. I’ve only been here two hours.” Strop immediately falls in love and starts thinking up excuses to ask the waitress what her name is, as she is convinced it will be something pretty and Celtic, with spelling that bears no resemblance to pronunciation.

My breakfast is excellent. There are beans that are sweet and fiery with tabasco, a tortilla wrapped around avocado, some cheese, two poached eggs, and the all important bacon. I think the other two breakfasts were pretty good too, judging by the fact that there was none left over. Even Emma’s bacon mountain disappeared, much to my disappointment. I thought I was in with a shot at some leftovers. I thought the coffee was good too, but Strop was less impressed. She’s a hard woman to please on that front though.

I really enjoyed breakfast at Martini. There is something of old Newtown about it. A bit grungy and chaotic, with no sign of hipsterish pretence. It is what it is, which is pretty good. Afterwards Em and Strop headed up the hill to All Buttons Great and Small for a bit of button based therapy. I left them to it and moseyed off to check out rumours of a new joint called Luyu & Yum Yum, which is apparently raising the dumpling bar on King Street.

284 – Astino’s – We live in hope

March 26, 2014 by andysomething 2 Comments

Strop was worried. “There’s never anyone in there anymore. It used to be popular, but now its nearly always empty.” She was right, for a long time now Astino’s has looked pretty empty whenever we’ve ambled past. It’s a cafe with a big room and large windows onto King Street, so it takes quite a few punters to make it look busy. When we first moved to the area it seemed to be popular, but not anymore.
So we arrived for breakfast without particularly high expectations. Our first surprise was that there were no tables outside. In my memory Astino’s always has tables outside, full of people sipping coffee and trying to converse over the noise of the traffic. Not today. But there is a blackboard outside. Specials. Smashed avacado on bruschetta. Poached eggs with stuffed hashbrowns(?), bacon and eggs on brioche. What’s going on? We were expecting bog ordinary brekkies again.
All of the customers are occupying the tables lining the windows onto the street, leaving the rest of the big room empty. Strop and I join this trend and squeeze onto a corner table at the front. It’s a beautiful sunny autumn morning, and King Street is its usual noisy, entertaining self. In light of the fact that Astino’s has menu items approaching the interesting on its shortish breakfast menu, I have decided to break the cafe suite rule and ignore whatever version of the big breakfast Astino’s do. Also, this is my second breakfast for the morning.

We start with a couple of coffees – which aren’t brilliant, it has to be said. Not awful but… this is Newtown, there is a lot of very good coffee around (although as we are finding, the best stuff is not actually on King Street). Our food arrives quickly which is good, and appropriate given that the place is not exactly heaving.
Strop’s smashed avacado is a very tasty mix with lots of coriander and red onion. My bacon and egg on brioche is exactly that, with a generous (possibly too generous) dollop of very nice tomato relish. Yum. By the time we have finished our food it becomes obvious that our juices are not going to come without some prompting.
The waitress is hand-over-mouth apologetic. “I forgot. I’m so sorry. Do you still want them?” Well, yes we do, that’s why we ordered them. They come quickly, with more apologies, and they are good. We are refreshed. We decide to forego a second coffee and leave on a orange-and-pineapple-juice-induced high note.
While I go outside to try to take a photograph without looking too uncool, Strop pays, which is only fair.
Strop has a habit that freaks me out: engaging people in conversation. She’ll talk to anyone and it worries the hell out of me. Luckily, I’m safely out on the street this time. While it is a risky habit she’s got, it does mean that she finds stuff out. This time she’s found out that Astino’s has just changed hands! And soon they will close for a week for a makeover!! We clap our hands with glee. Maybe new Astino’s will be wonderful.

281 – Cafe C – Do you want commas with your eggs?

March 16, 2014 by andysomething 3 Comments

We’re closing in on Newtown Station now which I’m arbitrarily declaring to be the nominative half-way point for the Quest. Unfortunately the powers that be are making things harder for us – the redevelopment of the station has spawned a bunch of new eateries for us to make our way through before we get there. Oh well – better get on with it then.

This week it is Cafe C, which is an un-themed, run-of-the-mill cafe. It seems to be very popular and it has a great location, right at the end of Erskineville Road, and on the corner of Mary Street. This is a breakfast outing as the Cafe Suite of rules has been invoked. Our guest this morning is Anna, who has come all the way from Five Dock, and passed a lot of very acceptable breakfast venues along the way, so I hope Cafe C makes it worth her while.

It is a lovely saturday morning so we sit near the front where we have a good view of the passing parade. Being near a pedestrian crossing gives you plenty of time to give the crowd a serious once over, and wonder at some of their life choices, not to mention their fashion sense. The downside of being near a busy intersection is the noise. And being Newtown there is always some emergency going on nearby, with ambulance sirens and flashing lights punctuating the roar of semi-trailers and the squeal of bus fan belts. Despite the noise we have a lovely chat, while keeping an eye on the street in case we catch a glimpse of the legendary Goat Man of Newtown. What with the tattoo and body art expo having just been in town, I thought Anna may have been referring to body adornments: someone with horn embellishments or perhaps big floppy ears. But no, apparently she has seen (with her own eyes), a man leading a pair of goats along King Street. I want to believe, but nowadays I’m old enough to need proof. So please let me know if any of you lot have seen the fabled Goat Man of Newtown.

The Cafe Suite rules call for one of us to order the ‘big’ or ‘full’ breakfast option – often named after the cafe. However in honour of the imminence of St Patricks day I decide to put a slight bend in the rule and veer away from the Cafe C Brekkie in favour of the Irish Breakfast. This comes with beans, sausage and black pudding, as well as the usual eggs, bacon and toast, so I think that it still qualifies as a big breakfast. Strop selects the fritters with a side of bacon while Anna plays it safe with poached eggs and toast.

I have to say that I thought the breakfast menu was a bit boring. Lots of variations on the usual suspects, but nothing particularly adventurous or new. Or even interesting. But then we are still officially in the King Street doldrums, so what else should I expect. All the interesting and innovative stuff seems to happens just off King Street. It must be something to do with the rental agreements.

When the food arrives, the waiter is embarrassed to explain that when Anna said she wanted two eggs, and toast, he wrote 2 eggs and toast, and the kitchen cooked four eggs, and shared them between 2 plates. Commas, eh? They’re tricky little bastards aren’t they. Anyway he was too scared to take the extra plate back to the kitchen so he just left it there, on the end of our table, in case we got a bit peckish. We didn’t, although if there had been bacon involved it would have been a different matter. The breakfasts were alright. Nothing special but okay. As was the coffee. Strop thought her fritters were somewhat lacking in flavour. There was nothing that seemed to be home-made in my Irish Breakfast. The black pudding was nice enough, and the eggs were well cooked. It was a good breakfast but nothing to write home about. Or blog about I suppose. The orange juice was nice and orangey…

On the way home we bumped into the centenary celebrations for Newtown Fire Station. What are all these fire engines doing parked on the road, we thought at first. Then, ooh look, a brass band, we exclaimed. Who doesn’t love a brass band? That’s right: no one.

“100 Years and Still Pumping” the banner said. Ha!

227 – Citrus – We won’t need lunch now

December 14, 2013 by andysomething 3 Comments

We are stumbling towards the end of the year and in order to hit another arbitrary and pointless target, (getting to Church Street before Christmas) we are attempting two eateries in one day. Sometime when we have a spare moment and enough of an energy surplus we are going to have to do some introspection and try to figure out why we need to set ourselves these arbitrary goals. It’s not as if our respective jobs don’t provide plenty of goals and deadlines. So really, what the hell are we trying to do to ourselves? And don’t say fill the void left in our empty lives, because I’ve already thought of that and rejected it on the grounds that our lives are far too full. Maybe just full of the wrong things. That’s possible, I suppose. Still this isn’t the time or the place. I have to finish the blog, then string the christmas lights, pay my tax, and find out how to work the new bluetooth phone thingy, before heading off to drink birthday whiskies with Matt and Jim. No time to think about how empty my life is just yet. That’s what the holidays are for.

Sorry.

All that stands between us and Church St

7:30 am on Friday morning is time for breakfast at Citrus – because it is basically a cafe and that was the rule, and we have to go to work afterwards. On King Street the only people around according to Strop are commuters and meth-heads. “And half-arsed restaurant reviewers,” I point out. She gives me the look.

We are the first customers of the day, and decide to sit out on the street because it is a nice morning and the meth-heads will probably be more entertaining than than an empty cafe. Once we have overcome the challenge of trying to move the table far enough from the bench to fit our legs through the gap, without having the not-actually-attached-to-anything table leg fall off, we sit side-by-side facing out on the world, full of optimism and ready for breakfast. That was when the four bendy-buses of the apocalypse darkened the sky, their engines roaring, and their loose fan belts screaming in pain. We began to reconsider the entertainment value of meth heads, but decided to stay put on the grounds that it was all part of the King St tapestry.

“Citrus is conveniently located right next to a bus stop,” said Strop. “Write that down.”

The big breakfast option sounds huge, especially for a school day, and is quite expensive too, so we decide to share one together with a serve of French toast. The juices sound good. Strop chooses the Stress Buster (ginger and stuff) while I go for the Cold Buster (lots of citrus appropriately + honey).

The big breakfast is vast. Strop decides that it will be more efficiently shared if she makes an incision in the edge of one of the (very) thick-cut slices of toast and inserts her share of the egg, bacon, haloumi, sausage, spinach and mushrooms into its cavernous interior. By the time she has finished she has invented the big breakfast toasty-sanger. It is definitely a thing. And she seems to be enjoying it. I thought my conventional on-a-plate big brekkie was good too, my only whinge was that the haloumi was too salty. The juices were very good as well.

Strop loads the Big Brekkie Toasty Sanger

Then it was time for the French toast which was drizzled with maple syrup and topped with peaches and what seemed to be fried banana bits. Strop asked the waiter for some plain yoghurt to go with it, to cut the sweetness she explained. No problemo. We ordered coffees too.

The coffee was good, and soon there was no French toast left.

As we struggled to get out of the grasp of the self-disassembling table Strop said, “We won’t need lunch now.”

“No,” I agreed earnestly. But deep down inside I knew I would have some anyway.