Curry

Shaahi Tandoori – Doesn’t always come with a floorshow

March 12, 2016 by Andrew Christie 1 Comment

I blame Strop. I blame her for my complete lack of professionalism in regard to this blogging business. I should have a schedule, and I would have, if only Strop would stop having birthdays. And if she hadn’t married me, we wouldn’t have had to go to Hobart to celebrate however many years it’s been now. And if I hadn’t been cooped up in a big, aerialised, aluminium tube with a bunch of sick people I wouldn’t have caught man flu…

Actually I blame David Walsh for creating MONA. If he hadn’t done that, then we wouldn’t have felt like the only people left in Sydney who hadn’t been to see the wall of vaginas and none of this would have happened.

So on behalf of David Walsh and Strop, I apologise for the yawning chasm that is the last month on this blog. It won’t happen again. Ever. I promise. Cross my heart, all of that. Never, ever. Ever.

Before we were so rudely interrupted, I seem to remember a trip to a surprisingly enjoyable Indian restaurant. In terms of sub-continental cuisine on Enmore Road, Faheem’s Fast Food casts a very long shadow that hides all other curry joints. I had never noticed Shaahi Tandoori before this visit, but I’m pretty sure we’ll go back. Particularly for the Goat Curry and the Salted Lassi. Yummo.

We sat at the front table with an excellent view of the buses roaring past, and the passing parade of pedestrian punters on their way to the Enmore Theatre. Tonight the crowd appeared to be predominantly of a certain age and greyness. Well, the men were, I suspect a bit of colouration was at work in many of the women’s hair. One of the entertaining things about a night out on Enmore Road is the changing nature of the street crowd depending on who is playing at the Enmore Theatre.

A very sweet and attentive young woman took our order which included Paneer, Chicken 65, Aloo Mattar and Garlic Nan, as well as the goat and the lassi. One of the problems we have found with dining on our own is that we want to try a lot more dishes than we can actually eat. We usually make a pretty good effort though, a clean plate is a good plate, but we pay for it on the walk home.

The Paneer was a bit heavy for my taste but the Chicken 65 was terrific. Basically fried chicken but with all the flavours. I’ll go back for that one too. The Goat Curry was dark, succulent and spicy. Lucky we had the Salted Lassi. I’ve never had it before and it was terrifically refreshing, as well as easing the effects of the chilli.

While we were working our way through too much food, Strop caught a glimpse of a pair of nephews walking up the other side of the street. As she leapt to her feet and rushed out the door I took the opportunity to nab another piece of fried chicken. Strop waved and hallooed across the road, and Keir and Charlie waved back. I kept eating.

Five minutes later Keir and Charlie showed up at Shaahi Tandoori. Apparently their family were just down the road at Cow and The Moon having a refreshing gelato. Young Charlie’s tolerance for watching his aunt and uncle eat food that he wouldn’t touch with a light sabre, was understandably low, so they didn’t stay very long.

Strop and I were back to enjoying the food, trying to decide if we could discreetly undo our belts a couple of notches, when Keir returned. This time he and Charlie had Emma and Will in tow. While Em came and joined us at the table, Keir and Will, proceeded to put on a floorshow outside on the footpath. Enmore Road has everything you need for a night out. You can see part of the show here.

When Charlie couldn’t stand it anymore, Em took her tribe and headed for home, while Strop and I wandered back down Enmore Road.

At the Enmore Theatre the reason for the greying crowd became apparent. Icehouse were playing.

Faheem’s Fast Food is next up on Enmore Road, I’m looking forward to the comparison.

And now for the ratings: Accessibility – 5 Susans; Value – 4.5 Wendys.

391 Lentil as Anything – I’m sure the cow wouldn’t mind

August 30, 2014 by Andrew Christie 3 Comments

Vegan! Not a word I normally have much truck with, but tonight we are off to Lentil As Anything, which I am quickly advised, even before my bum has hit the seat, is not just vegetarian, but vegan. On the upside though, the place does seem to be very popular. It’s full to the brim with mostly twentyish women and a few young men who have obviously agreed to come here, ignoring their natural red-blooded inclination to go up the hill to the Amazon Steakhouse, in the hopes of charming the socks off the women folk. The dress code suggests that the clientele are from the more hippy end of the hipster spectrum, and the strong possibility that there are a few students present.

Seated in the middle of the restaurant at a junk-shop-find table, our group of four is an island of cynical boomerism awash in an optimistic sea of idealism. And despite myself, I am finding that being splashed in the face with some salty hope and enthusiasm is quite refreshing.

Lentil As Anything in Newtown is part of a Melbourne-based chain of do-goodnik eateries, famous because guests (not customers) are invited to contribute (not pay) what they feel is appropriate. There is no bill, just a contribution box near the door on the way out, “So we don’t know what you put in it,” our charming waitress explains helpfully when we finally start to pull up stumps. The staff are mostly volunteers and the organisation is a not-for-profit which is involved in education and community development. According to the the website they believe in the power of humanity to create stupendous change, and I for one, admire anyone who uses the word stupendous on the front page of their website.

Tonight Strop and I are joined by Mindy and Pete, old mates who we have been trying to spend time with for a while so there is a lot of catch-up natter when we meet at the Social Club next door. The conversation pitter-patters through a bit of job whinging, health issue exploration, bereavement commiseration, parental enquiry, reports of children’s antics, and highlights of holidays past and holidays imminent, before our glasses are empty and we have to decide whether we need food or more alcohol more urgently. Food wins.

Next door we are directed to a table and offered water and chai. Chai! I am not a chai person, but what the hell, I decide to pretend I am in a foreign country, and adapt to the local customs. It is quite nice really. In context. The table is decorated with a bowl of fresh looking oranges. I might have one of those later, I think to myself.

Our waitress explains the offerings tonight. There are three, a noodle dish, a curry dish and a bean dish. There is no tradition of gluten-based-meat-analogues here, though there are probably a few Buddhists in the crowd. The simple choices are a refreshing change from menus that are so long that you are never going to be able to read the whole thing. Our choices are worryingly symmetrical – curry for the blokes, noodles for the womens. The food is really good. Fresh simple flavours, well-cooked and generous. I think the curry is the winner because there are four curries with the rice and salad: beetroot, eggplant, dahl and potato. It is excellent. The noodles are good too but the curry gets bonus points for variety. The vibe of the place is a bit like a very crowded 1970s group house, but with better food and more colourful hair. Just as I am about to help myself to an orange, which is what I would do at home, peeling it over my empty curry plate, the waitress asks if we’d like dessert. Well, yes. There is one dessert, a lime, coconut and raisin pudding. As I am a foreigner in this territory, my non-vegan brain added cream to the list of dessert ingredients. Unfortunately I was wrong, which is a pity because the dessert was quite dry. On the way out one of the staff explained to me that vegan baking is a tricky business. Cream. I’m sure the cow wouldn’t mind.

There is plenty of demand for places at Lentil As Anything, so they tend to squeeze as many people in as they can. We felt a bit uncomfortable lingering over our empty bowls and chai glasses, knowing there were people waiting out on the street to get in. We carried on our catching up outside before going our separate ways, but had to split up in the end as people kept thinking we were the end of the queue to get in. I can see us going back for a quick feed.

When you go be generous, the food and the optimism are well worth it.

196 – Tamana’s North Indian Diner – Let there be food.

October 19, 2013 by Andrew Christie 7 Comments

On Wednesday we successfully slotted two old, independent-minded, and beloved wrinklies into the Aged Care Machine – for what we presume will be the terms of their natural lives. This is what happens in our world when you outlive your ability to be independent.

It had been a rush, because when two slots open up in adjoining rooms in a well-run and easily-accessible establishment it is best not to fuck about. Those kinds of planets don’t always align so neatly. And even though it has been a stressful time, I am grateful to live in a country who’s citizens can expect to be looked after if they manage to live long enough to need it. We are lucky to have an Aged Care Machine, even if it is a bit clunky and ponderous, and to have a government that subsidises quality aged care for those who can’t afford it. I am also grateful to the lowly paid immigrants who look after the well being of our elderly, and really do seem to care. I don’t agree with Bronwyn Bishop on many topics but I do appreciate what she and her public servants did to change Aged Care in this country.

Okay, enough self-indulgent posturing – let’s get back to business.

The parental move was at short notice and was jammed hard up against a planned outing to King Street. We thought briefly about postponing the outing but decided that we were probably going to need a beer and a curry by the time the day was over. This was a correct prediction.

It was meant to be a quiet dinner, a chance to farewell Monica before she flew off, back to pommieland – just in time for winter, but when we got to the Coopers Hotel the party had expanded somewhat. There was Strop and I of course, my brother Steve (in town for the wrinkly relocation), Roy and Jill (last seen at Thanh Binh), Jill’s sister Monica (soon to depart our golden shores), John (previously seen at Kammadhenu and Thanh Binh, and fast becoming a groupie – or possibly a stalker), the Newlywed and the Newlywed-ette. After a quick beer, during which John informed me that he was planning on getting extremely drunk in order to give me something to write about, we set out on a brief safari towards Tamana’s. As our safari straggled along the footpath, I wondered if perhaps we should have booked but there was plenty of room at Tamana’s North Indian Diner.

Tamana’s has always seemed a bit of a strange restaurant to me. There is no attempt to fashion an intimate dining experience here, no candles or mood lighting. There aren’t even any waiters. What there is, is a big dining hall with a food counter loaded with curries along one side. This is where you order and pay for your food. Tamana’s lies at the cafeteria end of the dining experience spectrum – exactly as the name suggests.

We made our way to the back of the room and dragged a couple tables together. Someone said “Let there be food.” Someone else said “Let there be beer first,” so the Newlywed offered up his credit card as hostage against us doing a runner. “Won’t do them any good,” he said returning to the table loaded with beers, “It’s already maxed out.”

Strop, Jill and Monica took on the food ordering role, and because the food is already cooked, the table was immediately covered with curries, rice, and naan. The Newlywed-ette informed us that she had never really been a fan of Indian food. Not because it was too spicy (she’s Korean and used to chilli), it was more that she hadn’t had the opportunity to try many different types. Well tonight’s the night said the Newlywed who was keen to convert her, as he is a big fan of the curry.

Religious iconography meets romance novel cover

Plates and conversation topics were soon circulating around the table with lots of enthusiasm but very little coordination. And even less note taking on my part. Steve took up John’s idea of helping me out with writing topics. He quizzed the proprietor about the significance of the artworks and began interpreting the religious symbology, even finding out the names of the Hindu deities that were hanging around on the walls. Sometimes I think Steve listens to too much Radio National. Frequent readers of the blog will understand that facts have a very short half-life once I get hold of them. I just nodded and kept eating. The conversation veered like an out of control Segway from Hindu iconography to Fred Nile, and then on to The Greens post-election shenanigans. At this point Steve looked up and pointed out the large number of security cameras and everyone paused to check their handbag. We didn’t want another Good Friday de-funding event.

About this time several people noted that the food was good, and how about another round of beers?

Monica observing John failing to get drunk

The vibrancy of the increasingly tasty food scene in Parramatta bubbled to the conversational surface (Strop can’t help herself) but quickly morphed into a discussion of the consternation expressed by the Church Street Mall derros and druggies when regular citizens turned up and started enjoying themselves en-masse at the recent Parramatta Masala festivities. Another round of curries was required at this point and the Newlywed-ette, having declared herself a curry convert was sent off to the counter alone. It was a test that she passed with flying colours when she returned with the hottest dish of the evening. While sweat seeped from pores and noses ran, the Newlywed-ette tried to explain the presence of a huge-bright-green-furry-irish-joke-hat in her handbag. It was apparently a prop for an up-coming Eurovision-themed works outing at the Horden Pavlova. The Newlywed then began coaching his beloved in the art of the Irish joke.

As we began to disentangle ourselves from our chairs and migrate towards the street, John declared that he had failed completely in the simple task of getting drunk. And that it was the fault of the beer.

It was that kind of evening.

171 Kammadhenu – apparently it is pronounced kammadhenu

August 4, 2013 by Andrew Christie 4 Comments

We are going to Kammadhenu tonight (two proper restaurants in a row, things are looking up), and we are catching up with John and Pauline, who were last observed at Than Binh. A flurry of emails has led to an arrangement to meet John at the Marly, for a Dogblotter or two before the main event. There is a lot to talk about. John and I both went to Epping Boys High School in the dim dark past, although not in the same year, he is definitely older than me. The talk eventually turned to school japes, and I was recalling the time some wag had arranged for a truckload of soil to be delivered to the front lawn of a teacher who had displeased him in some manner. I thought that this had been done by someone in my year, to one of my teachers, but then I also thought that it may just have been a playground myth, trotted out by some boastful and spotty twerp each year. John went a bit quiet while I was describing these supposed events, taking a sudden and keen interest in his schooner of Dougbelter. As my story petered out, he looked up with that shy grin thing he does, and said, “It wasn’t topsoil, it was blue-metal gravel. That was me.” Strop and I nearly fell off our stools – we were in the presence of a legend – well a playground legend anyway. We’ve known John for forty odd years and this has never come up before. We were busily pumping him for all the details when Pauline and Kirsten arrived. We got as far as – it was the librarian’s front lawn – in reprisal for an unfair caning (aren’t they all) – and involved a girl with family connections to a gravel and sand business. A love interest too! I’m pretty sure there is movie deal in this.

With the party now at full strength we threw back the last of our Dogbaskets and decamped to the restaurant. Kirsten is a quest newbie (or is that noob these days? I will have to check with Keir and Tessa, my consultants for all things teenager). She is Pauline’s grand niece thrice removed or something. She is also a Kiwi but she can’t help that. John and Pauline inform us that they have been undertaking a quest of their own, and it is longer than King Street! They are doing the Coastal Walk from Barrenjoey to Kurnell in weekend installments, complete with appropriately timed whale glimpses and coffee-shop stops. I am immediately envious, as this sounds like far more fun than King Street. And it has actual wildlife, not just drunken revellers in animal themed onesies. Kirsten is joining them on the walk, bright and early the next morning to act as chaperone for all the oldies, which is why she is available to join us tonight.

Kammadhenu is basically a curry joint with dhosas on the side. Their newish looking menus proclaim this loudly in yellow and purple. 1300 CURRYS is the headline, so I imagine they do takeaways too. The menu colours match the colour of the walls and go surprisingly well with strip of GI-cordial-green LED lights running around the walls. The culinary roots of Kammadhenu are in India, Sri Lanka and Malaysia, which presumably explains the colour scheme.

There is no wine list but there is a drinks fridge up the back, from which we are invited to help ourselves. There are quite a few beers on offer, but not many wines so I quickly dispatch myself back up the road to fetch a Pinot Grigio/Gris. “Get the one Rebecca bought at New Taste,” says Strop. Umm ok. “Any idea what it was called?” My question is met with her dont-be-stupid look, so I go freelance and come back with a NZ wine that elicits a lot of comments along the lines of, “My…, that’s fruity isn’t it… and quite sweet.”

Having contributed on the wine-infliction front I leave the food selection to the others. We go for a range of dhosas, some curries and some snow peas. I wasn’t paying very close attention to the details of the order as I was intrigued that the waiter was entering our choices onto an iPad. How very C21.

The food does not really distract from the conversation. It is all very edible but none of it is particularly memorable. Not by me anyway. Dhosas are always fun but the size of the plates proves a bit of a challenge to the whole food sharing ethic. Still there wasn’t any left over by the time we spilled out of the restaurant, and started shuffling along King Street in search of a gelato for dessert.

Your correspondent suffering the effects of the pre-dinner Dogblotto

On the way we walked past a new shop that seems to specialise in the supply of onesies to the Newtown stylemeisters. It was at this point that I learned that Kirsten is a bit of a onesie aficionado (“but I wouldn’t wear it in public,”). Apparently they are unparalleled as after work, house-lounging wear. Seeing as my current choice of house-lounging clobber consists of nastily stained tracky-daks and a twenty year old shag-pile polar-fleece, I am seriously considering a change to a pink and white zebra-striped onesie. It could only be an improvement, although I do worry about the whole toilet thing.

Next up is Burger Fuel. Strop and I will probably keep this one all to ourselves. Unless anyone is really keen?