cafe

Scrambled – We’re big fans

February 7, 2016 by Andrew Christie 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.

Three Queens – Back before the beginning

November 8, 2015 by Andrew Christie 3 Comments

We first noticed Three Queens when we did a bit of a retrospective of the changing King Street scene. What used to be a closed up and unlamented pizza joint was reborn as a bright and airy café on the corner of King and Forbes Streets. Right next door to Izote Mexican, one of our old favourites. So when a breakfast outing was called for, Three Queens sprung to the top of our reQuest list.

The name of the café is apparently a reference to the three owners, two of whom started a café in Surry Hills called St Jude’s, that I have never heard of. So there you go: research done.

There is no actual big brekkie option at Three Queens, which immediately freed us from the usual café Rule. Strop decided to continue with her current fritter-esque fetish and chose the Potato and Lemon Thyme Hash Cakes. I decided on the Queen Plate, as this seemed likely to be the Three Queens’ signature dish and, therefore, equivalent to a big brekky. Also it came with poached egg and leg ham, which is a good basis for any breakfast. The juice choice was limited to orange, which is what I wanted anyway but I’m pretty sure Strop would have chosen something with ginger and dew siphoned from the hairy legs of Himalayan spiders, or some such exotic and trendy ingredient. She tends to keep up with such things, while I am busy watching TV shows about zombies. I think that is the secret to the success of our relationship; she gives me space to study techniques for killing the undead, and I don’t send her up. Anyway, the juice was sweet and cold, and deliciously refreshing.

The café is spacious and light, and refreshingly un-grungy, even with its polished concrete floor. There are big windows, and shelves with plants and carefully selected ‘random’ bric-a-brac. The windows are great to watch the passing parade on the footpath outside. At one point Strop exclaimed, “It’s really funny when people look like their dogs. Especially when they’re pugs.” People watching is our kind of spectator sport.

While not full, Three Queens did a steady trade in takeaway coffee, and seemed to be selling quite a lot of bacon and egg rolls, to hi-vis wearing tradies. There must be a construction site nearby. We had plenty of time to ponder such things as our food seemed to be taking quite a while to come, and a couple of other tables that had arrived after us had already been served. Normally we wouldn’t have noticed such things but, as I said, we had time on our hands. Happily though, the senior staff member on duty, who may have been one of the aforementioned Queens, noticed our wait, and apologised offering free coffees. Which was a really nice and considerate touch. Apparently they had a few new staff members, and a bit of on-the-job training was happening in the kitchen. The floor staff were very good, and very polite. Every thank you from us was greeted with a crisp you’re welcome in reply.

When our food did arrive it was worth the wait. Strop’s potato cakes were very good, and so was my Queen Plate. The poached egg was perfectly cooked, the ham tasty, and it came with an excellent eggplant pickle. The only let down was the labneh, which I have always thought was overrated.

We were having such a good time that we decided to have dessert with our complimentary coffee. Banana bread with ginger butter, it was as good as it sounds. The coffee was good and strong too, I’d have been happy to pay for it.

After breakfast we wandered back along King Street, checking out the ever-changing urban fabric of Newtown.

609 The End of King Cafe – and a quick King St audit

July 25, 2015 by Andrew Christie 6 Comments

It was a Saturday morning, cold but sunny with no wind thankfully. We set off on a spontaneous adventure brought to you by a cancelled tree-planting session on the Cooks River. The bad weather during the week gave everyone cold feet and led to the last minute cancellation of Strop’s planned outing. So I was allowed to take her out and entertain her on King Street.

With all this superfluous time on our hands we decided to undertake a Painting the Bridge audit. A sort of retrospective tour starting back at the beginning to see what has changed and what has stayed the same. We wanted to map the King Street churn, to see how much has survived, which places have gone bust or changed, and which are completely new.

We started back at the top of King Street and walked all the way to St Peters to our breakfast target, the aptly named The End of King cafe. We had a list and we were checking it twice. The map above is a snapshot summary of how things in the eatery world of King St have changed.

Black dots are places that have closed.
Pink dots are places that have changed their spots (sorry),
and green dots are brand new places.

Overall, while there has been a lot of churn, the picture is pretty positive. Most places have stayed red. Only two restaurants are currently closed, all the others have re-opened as some form of eatery. And there are more than twenty completely new places. Which is great. Some of them look pretty interesting too, and will require further investigation. Izote has lost its place at the head of the queue, with Three Queens cafe sliding into poll position on the corner. Thai la Ong2 has had a name change and is now Alice’s Thai, and Simply Noodles has been replaced by a new and interesting looking Thai place called Bangkok Bites. We’ll have to go and check out their number 37 some time. A few places had changed more than once in the time since we went past. There is a lot of turnover in the Newtown restaurant trade.

By the time we had walked all the way to the End of King we were in a very good mood and were pretty hungry. We decided to sit outside in the sunshine and soak up the other-end-of King Street-ness.

The breakfast menu looked very interesting, with lots of new and interesting combinations – and no Big Breakfast. This is a bit of a shock and also a relief, because it does tend to tie us down to the same-old, same-old, and can lead to nasty scenes when it isn’t clear who’s turn it is to take one for the team. No such fuss was required this time, we could both have free-form breakfasts.

We had a couple of coffees to start while we studied the menu in some depth and Strop did her soc-med checking in thing. The coffees were good, even though Strop wasn’t as convinced as I was. Her diminished taste buds demand a particularly strong brew, to fire the right messages into her brain and set off all the good feels. But for a normal person (me) the coffee was just the thing. In between having this argument we managed to make some choices about what to eat. I went for a special called Smashed Avocado, mainly because it has everything I fancy including a poached egg. Strop goes for the Smoke Stack because it includes corn fritters and she asks for a bit of the eggplant pickle that featured on one of the other specials, on the side as well. Such a rule breaker, she is. And some juices too. Happily Strops corn fritter is much better than the last time she ventured down the breakfast fritter route. It is light and crisp on the outside. The rest of the Smoke Stack is good too.

My Smashed Avocado is good too, although the signature avocado is not obvious at first. It is buried under a pile of haloumi, some excellent smokey bacon and a lovely poached egg. The egg yolk is the same colour as the wedge of orange on the side of the plate. Yum.

The juice was very good too. “No ice,” Strop commented approvingly to the waitress, who looked a bit surprised. “No, not in this cold weather,” she replied. Quite right too.

As we were sitting outside we didn’t really get a feel for the inside of the cafe until we went inside to pay up. It is crisp and clean, and surprisingly spacious inside. Check it out, you’ll enjoy it.

612 – Molly Coddle – When fritters go feral

June 20, 2015 by Andrew Christie 7 Comments

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.

573 Foodarama – An early start and a long walk

May 24, 2015 by Andrew Christie Leave a Comment

It’s early and I’m nervous. Every cafe we’ve been past so far has been closed. This is Newtown, and no self respecting hipster gets out of bed until the rest of Sydney has played 18 holes of golf, or swum to Newcastle and back. 8am is just too early to expect a King Street cafe to be operating. The closest I’ve seen so far on the long walk to nearly-St-Peters is someone mopping a floor. It would be alright if it was just us, but we have Quest guests this morning. Admittedly one of them is the Stropolina, who probably doesn’t count, being family and all, but the other is Jess, and she’s a media professional these days, so she definitely counts. We don’t want her standing around on the icy pavements of King Street, stamping her feet and watching her own steamy breath while we wait for somewhere breakfast-worthy to open. This could be a disaster.

Strop is unfazed. It’ll be alright, she says.

Blind faith and optimism is all well and good when you know things are going… I was just about to start making a fuss when we hove into view of tell tale signs of a functioning cafe: tables, chairs and banners advertising a well known coffee brand.

Saved. Foodarama is an early opener. Everything is going to be alright.

Foodarama has been a long time favourite of Strop. Her go-to coffee spot when she finds herself unexpectedly marooned at this far end of King Street. Despite the fact that I find it hard to believe that she ever unexpectedly finds herself anywhere, I have to admit that Strop has finely-tuned coffee receptors. I have been to Foodarama once, a long, long time ago. It was kind of grungy and nice, with good coffee.

This morning, the Foodarama we find has had a bit of a makeover. It is spick and span and a little bit spartan looking, but at least it is open. Coffees are the first order of business. Campos is the brand and my flat white does everything I need it to, but Strop has higher standards than most of us and finds hers lacking in some indefinable way.

With our coffees warming us up, we chat. Quite a bit. So much so that every time the waitress makes a move towards our table, she is scared away by the intensity of our conversation. Eventually, when our wit and words have settled down to a steamy simmer, Strop calls the waitress over.

Foodarama’s breakfast menu is divided into a big breakfast section and a small breakfast section. Which seems a bit silly to me. Who goes out to have a small breakfast? Slim people maybe.

It is my turn to take on the big brekkie offering, and because I want bacon I shy away from the vegan option towards the Big Fry Up. Oh well, some one has to.

Strop chooses the Moroccan breakfast which promises to come with dukkah, and the Stropolina and Jess both order the breakfast burrito. And orange juice.

We almost forgot the orange juice. Which would have been a pity because it is really very nice, although the Stropolina says she misses the pulp… her mother’s daughter.

The food doesn’t take long and looks good on the plate. My Big Fry Up doesn’t leave much room on the plate for manoeuvring. It is piled high with toast, very nice tomatoes and mushrooms, the best bacon I’ve had in a long time, and some spicy baked beans. The only disappointment comes from the eggs which are a bit too solid for my preference. But still, I’m well happy. Jess and the Stropolina are pleased with their burritos at first, excitedly discovering the jalapenos, but in the end they found the experience a bit disappointing. “Not enough flavours. Six and a half,” is the Stropolina’s verdict. Harsh. Strop too was a bit disappointed by the lack of complex flavours in her Moroccan breakfast.

Mind you no one left anything behind on their plates. Except me, I decided I didn’t really need the second piece of toast. Strength of character, right there.

Of course as we set out on the long walk back, all the cafes were open.

549 The Gallaxy – not quite the cafe at the end of the Quest

May 17, 2015 by Andrew Christie 5 Comments

I’m sold. This place is great. Perfect eggs. Good coffee. The orange juice was freshly squeezed. A nice bright space with plenty of spare room on a sunny Saturday morning. Quiet. No canned music. What more could you want for your weekend breakfast? Service? Sure, just the right amount of care and attention dished up by friendly and efficient staff. Now if they could just spell their name right.

What else? Company. Our breakfast companion was Mark, a long standing PTB stalwart (Painting The Bridge is officially going all acronym now – it makes it look like everyone is saying the name so often that there would be a drain on national productivity if it wasn’t shortened).

We don’t see so much of Mark these days as he is currently dog-less and thus not a regular companion on the circuit around the park. So it was good to catch up. Good to talk about neighbourhood things like “Did you see what they’re doing to the bowling club?” and “What do you reckon your place is worth?” “That much? Really?” and “How’s your new house mate working out?” All that.

Mark drove us to The Gallaxy as the quest frontline has advanced so far that we almost need to take a packed lunch for the trip if we’re walking, and Mark had to rush off for a hairdressing appointment after breakfast. It was a perfect morning, sunshine, more parking spaces than we could reasonably use, and lots of smiling faces wandering about checking out the glory that is Newtown. There were a couple of people sitting outside when we arrived but plenty of room inside. We took a window table looking out onto the passing parade of pedestrians. There was a lot of traffic on the street and a lot of motorbikes. Presumably the sudden outbreak of sunshine had tempted a lot of two-wheelers out of their garages. Unfortunately, they all seemed to be Ducatis making slow but noisy progress through the King Street traffic jam. Oh well, at least they’ll be able to find a decent coffee.

We decided it must be Strop’s turn to take on the Big Breakfast, although she did side step the challenge slightly by going for the vegetarian option. I was half expecting her to order a side of bacon, but no, she played it straight. Mark and I went for the corn fritters. Having had my first choice gazzumped at our last breakfast outing, I decided that going with my gut instinct was more important to my gut than any concerns about doubling up.

The corn fritters were really good, coming with a kind of avocado and tomato salsa, and topped with bacon and a poached egg. Strop’s Big Vego Brekkie was full of tasty but unmeaty morsels, but she singled out the mushrooms for special note. They were perfectly cooked and had that buttery dry melty thing going on.

Our noshing and catching up was only interrupted by a phone call to Mark from his hairdresser wondering where the bloody hell he was. Oops. Got the time wrong didn’t he. You don’t want to do that too often with a Surry Hills hairdresser, you’ll get sacked.

Afterwards, now that he had nowhere special to be, Mark accompanied us to the button shop where Strop was on a mission to get some nice buttons for her new green winter coat. As Strop homed in on the heritage listed genuine vintage green buttons, Mark came over all helpful and fashion conscious, pulling out orange buttons, and yellow. “What about these? Or these? You want something that really pops. These red ones are nice.” It was fascinating, like watching a child skating out onto the thin ice of a lake, ignoring the cracks forming beneath them. As Strop’s smile got thinner, I realised it was time to distract Mark before he plunged into the icy waters. While Strop and the shopkeeper chatted about the historic origins of her chosen buttons, and how she should buy a few spares as they were irreplaceable, I gently pointed out to Mark that Strop rarely needs help choosing haberdashery. Basically, your button store, or indeed your sewing or knitting store, is a female domain, their equivalent of a hardware store, and really, we’re very rarely of any use in that environment.