Dogbolter

234 – Thai Passion – I’m not feeling the love

December 21, 2013 by Andrew Christie 2 Comments

It is sad to say but Thai Passion is just another King Street Thai. It covers the basics but in the end it is indistinguishable from from any number of other mediocre Thai joints on the strip. Harsh? Perhaps, but I don’t think we are alone in this opinion judging by the number of empty seats last Friday night.

We tried. We entered into the transaction with love in our hearts and a try-harder positive attitude – we were all Clear Eyes, Full Hearts, Can’t Lose as we ran back onto the field. We had a bottle of yummy Mrs Wrigley rosé to drink, and indeed I had downed a Blog Dolter before arriving. We even ordered the entree called Sexy Girl, purely on the basis of its name and my own brand of simple-minded and wildly-misplaced optimism.

There was nothing really wrong with it. It was just a prawn in some spring roll pastry. Deep fried. With sweet chilli dipping sauce. It was crunchy, but it wasn’t sexy. Not in the least.

Thai Passion claims to be Thai so for mains, Number 37 is being resurrected, and this time it turns out to be Cashew Nut sauce with your choice of wokked animal. We chose the duck because probably the only thing we have learned this year is that we often like what Thai restaurants do with ducks. The ducks probably don’t, but if you follow that argument, the logic leads straight to Green Gourmet and, frankly, once was enough. Strop also takes a fancy to the special on the blackboard: seafood and mango salad.

While we are waiting Strop discusses what I should do tomorrow as I am officially in holiday mode but she still has time to serve. There is ham and cherries to be purchased at the markets, a dog to be deodorised, gutters to be cleaned, and a massive seasonal fail to be corrected. Last week in a rush of optimism, grandfatherly pride and stupidity, I strung crass-massy lights across the front of our house, spending a lot of time and aggravating Strop no-end, trying to wrangle the recalcitrant rope of lights into a form that might be mistaken for writing. In the end we managed to get a bemused Asian couple, who just happened to be passing at the wrong moment, to admit that it did indeed spell out the seasonally appropriate and cheerful, but artfully ambiguous, “Merry…” just as intended. I was full of pride when I turned it on and the little lights began to glow. Well most of them did. Some of the little buggers were decidedly unglowy, but the ones next to the unglowy ones were glowing even more brightly, as if to compensate for the lack of effort being put in by their brethren. They glowed brighter. And brighter. And they got hotter and hotter. There was smoke. Never a good sign. The plastic tube began to melt. It was kind of fascinating watching the plastic liquify, then bubble, and blacken. More lights decided that it was much cooler to be in the unglowy group, which seemed to make the over-achieving glowers angry. They got hotter and brighter and made more smoke. Then there was that smell you never want to smell around self-installed electrical devices, the smell of plastic that is just about to burst into flames. So I turned it all off. I decided it didn’t really matter that the lights didn’t work. A clear plastic tube on the front of the house that said “Merry…” was perfectly alright. A little avante garde even, an ironic monument to seasonal excess.

Strop didn’t agree. “Everyone says you should do it again, but this time don’t bugger it up,” she said.

“Everyone?”

“Oh yes. Everyone. They’re unanimous.”

I stalled, saying I would think about it, while I tried to think of a convincing argument that would save me from spending more money and risking further failure.

I was saved by the duck. It looked very nice on a big platter with lots of vegies and cashews and sauce. Unfortunately the sauce was very salty and sweet, so it didn’t leave room for any of the other flavours to come through. The duck was good but was overpowered by the sauce. The seafood and mango salad came next. It was another big platter with lettuce, spring onions, apple, and mango on the bottom, and deep fried and battered seafood scattered on top. The seafood was ok and the mango was nice enough but… it was as if the they had been properly introduced in the kitchen, and they weren’t talking to each other.

The meal was relatively cheap though, so there is that I suppose.

Afterwards we crossed the road to Yogurberry, which we thought had died, but we were informed by an enthusiastic young American man, that it had just been closed for renovations. They had installed swings and an overheated man in a pink rabbit suit. Strop was very enthusiastic because they were having a special re-opening half-price deal, so we had extruded, sweetened yoghurt for dessert. Complete with strange little balls of flavour. I hope Strop has got that out of her system now.

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.

172 – Burger Fuel – Kiwis working hard for the quirk – Part 2 of the Burger Wars

August 10, 2013 by Andrew Christie 5 Comments

I was busily working on a schooner of Dogbladder at the Marly when I got a desperate text message from Strop: ‘I’m here already but there’s no beer and no toilets.’ Just another fast food crisis on Kings Street. This is the cost of thoroughness, and our failure to instigate the No Plates-No Deal rule in time. Oh well, the lack of toilets and alcohol are both good excuses for not staying long.

It’s just the two of us tonight, strangely no one else was keen on joining in this one. Which is a pity because the burgers aren’t at all bad.

Burger Fuel is a New Zealand franchise that seems to have plans to take over the world. So far these uppity Kiwis have confined most of their efforts to the Middle East – this is the only outlet in Sydney. The place is very crisp and bright, straight out of the convenience-store school of mood lighting. Stainless steel and lacquered pine are used on the surfaces, and there are vinyl banquette seats, in a colour that used to be known as baby-shit brown. This characterless but functional decor is overlaid with a perfunctory attempt at quirky humour, in the form of a mural (a death’s head labelled ‘born to grill’) and a strange light fitting made out of washers and spark-plugs. There are video screens as well, a deplorable but growing trend in King Street eateries. One screen is advertising specials, and the other seems to be showing a kind of Youtube loop featuring cute furry animals being cute, and hapless young men falling off things. I am quite disappointed that there are no bikini-clad women firing AK47s though. The sound track is loud and of the doof-doof baseline variety. I don’t think Strop and I are the target demographic of this franchise – but then that applies to the whole of King Street really.

Deathstar meets death's head — Deathstar meets death’s head

The menu on the illuminated board above the counter makes gratuitous use of the word gourmet to distinguish between the various categories. 100%-pure-NZ-grass-fed-beef and fresh-natural-BF-aioli feature heavily, and silly names have been fully deployed to label the burgers in a further attempt at quirkiness.

I am about to lock in the Bastard Burger on the basis of the name alone, until a perusal of the fine print reveals that it features mango. I’m sorry, tinned mango? I don’t think so. Instead I go for the Peanut Piston (defining ingredient: satay sauce) and Strop chooses the Ford Freakout (avocado). In the interests of thoroughness we upgrade to the meal-deal which adds a can of soft drink, a packet of chips and a little tub of aioli. Mayonnaise and garlic, is that the same as aioli? It goes well with chips anyway. Service is prompt and we are soon presented with a tray loaded with paper bags and cardboard containers. And the burgers aren’t bad. And the chips are good (especially with a gleaming gob of aioli resting on the end). On a previous visit I had tried the Ring Burner (chilli), which I also enjoyed. I don’t think they are quite as good as the burgers we had at the Marly but they are pretty good.

By the time we leave the place is full. A crowd that looks and sound as if it is predominantly Kiwi. Out for a taste of their native quirky humour and grass-fed cuisine, no doubt. Meanwhile, we are on our way home for a serving of Broadchurch and a sizeable glass of Highland Park.

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?

Number 145 – The Marly – Let the burger wars begin

June 9, 2013 by Andrew Christie 7 Comments

Hooray. First pub, first burger. But first I have to wait for Strop to return to civilisation from the outlands of Parramatta where she is working late, finishing things off before going on holidays. So I down a Dogbolter or two, read my Kindly book (Wool – it might be overrated but I am only halfway through), go for a walk, look at the young people, have another Dogbolter…

When Strop arrives she is in a very good mood due to being on hols and going to Fiji in a few days time. I have managed to appropriate a table in the crowded Garden Bar, conveniently close to the loos. The Marly is a Newtown institution, which is not necessarily a good thing in my experience. It has recently had a bit of a makeover though, and the vortex of the redecorating whirlwind seems to have settled on the back bar which has become quite girly and gardeny. There are friezes and murals on the general theme of plants, lots of exposed brick, and even internal window boxes with plastic lavender (I wonder how they dust those).

It’s all a bit gorgeous really. Still, the vibe is lively and the staff are very efficient and friendly. As they all have beards, tatts and oversized earings, the only way to tell them from the punters is by the tea towels they all wear, hanging jauntily from their waists.

Rule Number 6 says burgers, so that’s what we’re having. At first I like the look of the Newtown Cheeseburger – well it’s just the name really, I’m a sucker for a good name – until I read the fine print and realise it is a No-Meat option. No thanks, I’ve been waiting a long time for this burger opportunity and the presence of meat is non-negotiable. So the order at the bar is two Beefburgers With The Lot, another Dogbolter for my good self, and a glass of Rioja for the missus. While at the bar I notice that the top shelf is brimming with single malts and decide to forego dessert in favour of a Talisker later on.

There are pot plants in macrame holders hanging over the bar. I’m glad to see macrame is making a comeback with the hipsters, but it is an odd feeling when the trappings of your formative years become the next generations ironic plaything. Luckily the burgers arrive before I get too depressed by this thought.

Old school burgers - well apart from the girly red basket — Old school burgers – well apart from the girly red basket

The burgers come in little red baskets with chips on the side and they are excellent. Nothing ironic here, just a reverential tribute to the old-school definition of The Lot: egg, bacon AND pineapple. There may have been cheese in there too but I didn’t pause long enough to be sure. And the burgers are not too large in the diameter dimension. They are a traditional burger size, although piled high enough with fillings to warrant spearing with a bamboo reinforcing spike.

Strop decides she would like a bit of mayonnaise to go with the chips. The staff are apologetic, “Sorry we only have aioli.”

“Even better,” says Strop.

The only negative we find is that the buns are a little on the sweet side. This doesn’t worry me but Strop likes to make constructive criticisms. To my mind, the role of the bun in a burger is similar to a napkin, it is only there to keep your fingers clean. All you want to notice about the bun is the toasty inner surface, nicely softened by barbecue sauce and fat.

We finish off the evening with a Lagavulin and a Talisker before stumbling home to fall asleep in front of the television. The Marly has set a high pub-burger standard. I wonder how the others will compare.