Italian

The transition from Inner West to Far South

May 9, 2017 by andyadmin Leave a Comment

Hello there.

It’s been a while I know, but a lot has happened. Let me tell you all about it.

Some of you will have gathered that we have moved our base of operations. Having been close to everything for a long time, we thought we would have a try at being far from things. Far, far away from things in fact.

As all places are defined by their proximity to the birthplace of our nation, we have moved from the warm and noisy embrace of the Inner West, all the way to the startlingly beautiful Far South Coast. Here, under the ever-changing gaze of Mother Gulaga (look it up) we will embrace small town life, get to know the sea mammals, and constantly re-fill the bird baths. (Wattle birds obviously know nothing about water conservation.)

It has been a big change for us, but an exciting one.

We have been pondering what this move will mean for the Quest. The Far South Coast is definitely not King Street. Indeed, in our hometown of Bermagui, the real challenge for the Quest would not be to dine at every eatery, but to do them all in one day. Perhaps that can be a challenge we will put to visitors.

Another option we considered was a survey of the bacon-and-egg rolls of the region, but suspect this might not be as interesting for everyone else as it would be for me. (However, if you are down this way and fancy a lovely breakfast roll, check out the Blue Heron Cafe in Moruya. Highly recommended.)

So without having any fancy scaffolding to prop up a new Quest, I suspect that we will just check out the local offerings, as and when the opportunity arises.

So here we go, starting with a classy Italian restaurant called Il Passagio, which I gather means passage but can also mean passing, crossing or transition. All of which are particularly appropriate to our current condition.

We dined at Il Passagio at the end of Easter, on the last official night of our extended house-warming event, which saw us accommodating 15 wayfarers. Friends and family from near and far joined us for a chaotic, but fun-filled few days. By the last Friday of the holiday everyone had gone home except for the Stropolina, so we took the opportunity for a night out. The good thing about living in town is that, like Camperdown, it is easy to walk anywhere you might want to go. In this case it was across town to the Fisherman’s Wharf, where we stopped first at the Horse and Camel Wine Bar to get ourselves in the mood. After a momentary confusion during which we found ourselves perusing the ‘expensive wines list’ we were directed to the row of bottles on the bar, which were better suited to our modest whistle-wetting needs. We enjoyed their Rosé and Shiraz, but the Stropolina seems to have taken against Temperanillo, claiming it tastes like compost. Sometimes I despair of the young people.

It is interesting in getting to know a new town, to see who drinks where. We noted that the demographic supporting the wine bar seemed distinct from the one at the pub. Even though the wine bar is located at the Fisherman’s Wharf, most of the clientele didn’t look like they had much to do with fish until it was lined up beside a pile of chips.

Our fun evening was somewhat tempered by a sobering phone call from my father’s doctor. Another round of drinks was required to buffer this reminder that even cutting edge therapies have their limits. So we drank to Dad. And Mum, and all the others who have reached their limits over recent years.

Then we moved next door and proceeded to test the limits of our belts. Italian food will do that.

Wapengo oysters to start. These creamy little puddles of seaside essence were hastily slurped out of their shells. Next was an excellent potato, rosemary and anchovy pizza. It was simple and crisp, with clean strong flavours. After the pizza we decided to take a run at all the pastas. The purity of our ambition was somewhat tempered at the last minute when Strop decided we needed to tick the vegetable box too. So she threw a salad into the mix.

My gnocchi was a knock out, and the prawn linguini and spaghetti hardly got a chance to cool down. The salad featured apple, pancetta and a soft cheese I had never heard of called burrata, and it didn’t last long either.

For dessert I went with the specials board: orange and thyme ice cream. And yes, it was as good as it sounds. Stropolina opted for the old favourite, Tiramisu while Strop went for something with meringue and marscaponi – washed down with a glass of Limincello. By this time I was worried about the tightness of my belt, and conscious that the walk home was up hill, so I abstained.

It was a lovely evening and a fitting first outing on the Bermie leg of this blog.

In doing what we laughingly call research here, I discovered on the Il Passagio website, that they are advertising the restaurant for sale. It seems such a pity, but it is a very familiar situation given our experience with the restaurant churn on King Street. We will just have to use it as an excuse to go back again as soon as possible.

If any of you are wondering where the next John Lawrence book is up to, never fear, I haven’t left him in a shallow grave beside the Princes Highway. The manuscript for book 3 is here in a pile beside me, waiting for a decision on whether it requires the merciful attentions of a scalpel or an axe. Or possibly a garden fork.

So as the wood smoke mingles with the salt spray, and the cat yowls to be fed, it is time to say farewell from the far, far south coast. Until next time.

Ballers – an evening with Great Balls of Fire

April 10, 2016 by Andrew Christie Leave a Comment

I’m not really sure what to make of Ballers. It presents as a takeaway joint, with lots of red, white and blue on the menu, and tables that don’t invite you to linger. American colours, American-style menu. Meatballs is the name of the game. One of those menus where you combine ingredients from a series of lists. In this case choose your meatballs, your sauce, and your side. Then there’s a column called balls and buns, full of slider and sub options. it’s all very American in an ironic hipster kind of way. And there are lots of balls jokes. Especially in the loo. But the food is good and fundamentally Italian – apart from the slider business.

We arrived at Ballers after a long walk from the Belvoir Theatre, where he had just been to see The Great Fire, which was a great disappointment. Supposedly, a great new Australian play, it was yet another exploration of middle-class angst. Lots of talking and very little drama – the worst kind of theatre. So by the time we got to Ballers we were both thirsty and hungry.

Our first impression was not good. The place was empty and austere, with hard surfaces and high tables. Not exactly fine dining. We ummed and ahhed outside on the footpath, attracting the attention of the woman who was working at the counter. She scurried outside to entice us in while we were still trying to read the menu, saying “It’s all fresh, only fresh ingredients, all made on the premises, today.” Strop gave her the cold shoulder, turning instead towards the traffic on Enmore Road, but I tried a smile. “Thanks,” I said, “we’re just looking.”

We had a quick look down the road to see what was next if we decided to give Ballers a miss. Another Indian joint. This one also empty. We looked back at the menu again. Maybe it will be okay.

There is something appealing about the idea of a meatball eatery. It even has a special Italian name, a polpetteria. I was keen but Stop took a bit of persuading. In the end, despite the woman’s persistent blather we decided to give it a try. A decision that paid off.

The woman turned out to be the owner’s mother, called in to help out because he was short-staffed. She was very keen. Very. At least knowing why made it easier to accept her enthusiasm.

Strop went first and made the fatal error of choosing a vegetarian option in a place that has meat, if not in their name, in their reason for being. Meatballs. It’s all about the meat. Anyway, Strop has been a long-time ignorer of conventions, so she chose vegetarian meatballs, spicy tomato sauce and mash. I went the traditional route of spicy pork meatballs, tomato sauce and spaghetti. We also got a side of green veggies, a real Italian Peroni and a tumbler of rosé.

The food came quickly. It seemed as if we had only just settled down at the cable-drum tables on the street, when two steaming, enamelled bowls of meatballs were placed in front of us. My spicy pork meatballs were delicious with just the right amount of chilli, a rich tomato sauce and perfect spaghetti. Strop’s vegetarian aberration was okay, as good as might be expected, but the spicy tomato sauce was a bit too hot for comfort. It wasn’t just a bit spicy, it was very hot. The mash was excellent though, rich and creamy and smooth. The green veges were excellent, perfectly cooked, beans, kale, and broccoli, with a light, lemony dressing.

While we were there one other couple came in and sat inside and a couple of delivery orders went out, but overall it looked like a very slow night. I couldn’t help thinking that they might do better if they dropped the American/ironic-hipster imagery, and switched to Italian red checked tablecloths. There is a market for it, the Italian Bowl on King Street has been proving that for years. What’s not to love about delicious meatballs?

The pedestrian traffic on Enmore Road lived up to its eclectic tradition. Tonight there was a lot of brightly coloured hair on the young women, and a lot of black-clad young men carrying pieces of drum kit back and forth. Something for everyone.

On the way home we stopped at Gelato Blue, where I had the best passionfruit gelato I have ever had. Excellent work.

So go to Ballers. Ignore the imagery, go for the food, it’s great.

Russo & Russo – loudly living up to its reputation

November 1, 2015 by Andrew Christie 2 Comments

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.

523 Pastizzi Café – The Italian local we wish was a bit closer to home

March 29, 2015 by Andrew Christie 4 Comments

Pastizzi. They make a mess sure, dropping crumbs everywhere, but they’re crunchy, tasty and obviously really good for you. Basically, they’re just Italian sausage rolls. With more flavours maybe.

Pastizzi Café, as its name implies, has made a speciality of them, and does a hectic take-out trade, selling a wide variety, including sweet ones as well as savoury. But the café is also a restaurant, a very busy one, as I found out when I arrived at 7pm on a Friday night. As I approached, I thought I was in luck. There were two empty tables out the front, but as I got closer it became apparent that the empty tables were occupied by nasty little Reserved signs. Inside the café, all the tables along the side of the narrow room were full. When I asked one of the busy looking waitresses if they had any tables, she said “Sure,” and disappeared so quickly towards the back of the restaurant that I nearly had to run after her. She went out a door at the back, and by the time I got there, I was just in time to catch a glimpse of her disappearing again at the other end of a very narrow passageway. It was so tight that my shoulder accidentally bumped the fence, which was immediately followed by a crash and some muttered swearing. It seems I had upset the neighbours, or at least something that had been balancing on the fence. When I finally caught up with the waitress she was standing beside an empty table in a makeshift dining area that had been created by putting a roof over the backyard. There were a couple of other occupied tables, and at least it was close to the toilets. When this Speedy Gonzales of waitressing had set me up with a menu, cutlery, and napkins, she put some music on and disappeared again. The music was a disco version of Sweet Child of Mine, which she must have like because she had it turned up really loud. When Strop arrived we could hardly hear each other until a second waitress, this one with tattooed legs, turned it down again.

The menu Pastizzi Café is fairly simple and very Italian as you would expect. Lots of fresh pasta options, some fish, chicken and beef. There were some specials too but we decided to stick with the basics. There is home made ravioli and, of course, pastizzi. Strop had the bright idea of topping and tailing the meal with pastizzi. So we ordered a couple of salmon, dill and ricotta pastizzi to start, figuring we’d have a couple of sweet ones for dessert. In between times, she ordered ravioli and a small salad, while I opted for chicken parmigiana. Having decided on the food Strop headed for the nearest bottlo for some wine and I looked at my phone. When she came back with a very welcome bottle of Pikes Clare Valley Riesling, she wrinkled her nose and muttered “I can smell dope.” Now this is a bit of a thing with Strop. She reckons she can smell people smoking dope nearly everywhere she goes, and especially in Newtown. There must be a lot of it about, either that or she has a very finely attuned set of nostrils because I can never smell it. These days I need to be actually handed a joint before I can smell it. When the waitress started pulling a strange face and mouthing something, which, after we gave her a series of bemused looks, turned out to be “Can you smell weed?” She had to whisper it because there were a couple of impressionable children at the next table. Strop was delighted to have her nostril’s accuracy confirmed, “Yes!” she exclaimed, “I think your neighbour is smoking dope.” It was at this point that it occurred to me that the thing I had knocked off the fence earlier, may have been their bong. It would account for the swearing.

Our salmon pastizzi were hot and crunch and tasty. They didn’t last long and were soon followed by the mains. Strop had opted for the entrée size spinach and ricotta ravioli, which was a smart move because the serves are generous. Her small salad was enormous, and my chicken was so big that there was only a bit of room at the edge of the plate for a splodge of mashed potato and a few vegetables. The ‘parmi’ was the best I have had in a long time. There was plenty of eggplant, the chicken was tender and moist, and the tomato sauce fresh, tasty, and abundant. Yum. The ravioli was good too, with a similarly tasty sauce.

Strop wasn’t able to finish the salad, so we decided to take it home, together with a couple of dessert type pastizzi – to have at home, or for breakfast in the morning. Either or.

503 Oldtown in Newtown – Mapping the unknown world

February 22, 2015 by Andrew Christie 10 Comments

At the end of the last post I suggested that Europe Bar and Grill was up next. Well I got that wrong didn’t I. This whole out of sync numbering system is causing a lot of grief at Quest Planning HQ. Strongly worded memos are being circulated, press conferences called, only to be cancelled at the last minute. Chaos really.

I am pleased to be able to announce with almost 100% confidence that this week we are visiting, the somewhat oddly named, Oldtown in Newtown. Which turns out to be quite serendipitous because they have a Kids Menu and our guests of honour for the outing are none other than Will and Charlie of Mad Mex and the Great Onesie Encounter fame. It has taken more than a year’s worth of cajoling and pleading with the pair’s agents and managers to find a slot in their packed program for a headline night back at Painting the Bridge, but this week all that effort has paid off and everything has fallen into place. All we have to do is get them there.

“Walking?” says Will dubiously. Obviously the Painting the Bridge transport budget doesn’t stretch all the way to his limousine expectations.

“Yes, it’ll be fun,” says Strop, “An adventure. We’ll go through the park.”

Will and Charlie look at each other, weighing up the possibilities and communicating silently using Jedi mind powers that us old people can only imagine. “What park?” Charlie is sceptical; he knows that the devil is in the detail.

Strop assures him that it is a proper park with a proper playground, and I seal the deal by offering to bring along an old orange ping-pong ball that has been sitting on my desk for three weeks.

At last we set off, holding hands to cross roads, stopping to play in the park, checking out the Fire Station and the Police Station, examining the light pole adorned with shoes, until at last the “Is this the restaurant?” question is answered with a relieved “Yes.”

Oldtown is an Italian family restaurant, although you would never guess it from the décor, which has a bit of a retro boho theme – Strop assures me that this is the correct term – in pale tones of orange and green, with a few old soft drink crates stacked up around the place for character.

I have made a booking, not wanting to risk embarrassing our guests of honour by stuffing up the evening. Our table is marked out with a tiny easel and tiny blackboard, with my name written in chalk. Will thinks this is very cute but reckons they don’t know how to spell Andy. Strop has obviously done this kind of thing before, and gets him going writing out Andrew with the textas she just happens to have in her handbag. Unfortunately she only brought one piece of paper, which quickly gets torn in half.

While I am checking out the menu, Strop encourages the boys to drink a glass of water, hoping to fill them up before the fizzy lemonade hits the table. The kids menu has three courses: arancini, pasta Bolognese and gelato. Perfect. We’ll have two of those.

And for the grown-ups? The specials are, zucchini flowers, duck prosciutto salad and seafood soup. The grown-ups will have all of those, to share please. And some chilli chips.

The boys are drinking Limonata, which Will finds a bit exotic for his tastes but which Charlie is having no trouble making disappear. Strop and I are drinking beer: an IPA for her and a stout for him. While we are waiting for the food to arrive Will gets on with more writing and Charlie takes on the task of drawing the World of the Map.

The kid meals arrive first, an arancini in a little pot of sauce and a bowl of farfalle with Bolognese sauce and plenty of parmesan. The boys have no complaints. Our zucchini flowers arrive soon after, fried, brown and crispy, with a capsicum based sauce. Yum. Strop is amazed when Will and Charlie both finish off all their food with great gusto. Apparently this never happens.

The restaurant is filling rapidly now. Our next dish, the duck, takes a little while to arrive but luckily the boys have gone back to mapping the known, and in Charlie’s case, several unknown, worlds. The duck salad is excellent with slices of duck prosciutto, quarters of nectarine, cress, walnuts, white cheese and a drizzle of toffee. I really enjoyed this dish although I think Strop thought some of the duck fat was too fatty. We both found the lumps of toffee stuck to the plate very frustrating. There was no way to get it off without the risk of breaking the plate.

The seafood soup has a tomato-ey base and is piled high with octopus, muscles and crab and comes with lovely pieces of crispy oil soaked bread. Unfortunately we have to ask for spoons. The flavours are great although I am still of the opinion that crab is not worth the effort involved in getting at the meat.

By this stage the restaurant is very busy and the floor staff are looking a bit harried. Will and Charlie have given up on mapping the world and moved on to making weapons out of the clip-together pens. Strop and I intervened before they started shooting the other patrons. Will re-imagined his pens into a guitar – Heavy Metal! – before commandeering Charlie’s pens in an attempt to make a pen-tower tall enough to reach the roof. He didn’t quite make the roof but he did give the light fitting a good poke.

Eventually we have to ask the whereabouts of the chips and the boy’s gelato. The staff are apologetic about the delay – and I wonder if they are more busy than usual as a few family members seem to have been roped in to help out.

When the chips arrive they are worth the wait. Hand cut slices of potato, fried golden brown and sprinkled with chilli and parmesan. Charlie thinks he is in little boy heaven as I spend the rest of the night picking off bits of chilli and feeding them to him.

The gelato is vanilla and comes with strawberry coulis and a big strawberry garnish. Charlie polishes his off but Will only manages the strawberry and seems to be starting to find the whole evening a bit outside his comfort zone.

Charlie prepares to attempt a double somersault dismount while Will impersonates a zombie angel

The trip home is a lot faster than the outward journey. Powered by sugar hits from their soft drinks, the boys dance and cavort their way through the Saturday night King Street crowd. Not looking at all out of place amongst the pre Mardi Gras revellers.

The food at Oldtown in Newtown was very good, let down a bit by the delays. I would give them the benefit of the doubt, hoping that this was just an unexpectedly busy night. I would certainly like to go back some time and try out more of their menu.

367 Soffritto – Sometimes you just have to ask

July 5, 2014 by Andrew Christie Leave a Comment

It’s just as well Strop booked – this place is packed. Although it might have been wise to get in a bit earlier, I think to myself, as we troop through the front room, past the kitchen and down the side to the out-backiest, out the back table they have. Right next to the toilets. Hmmm, we may need to re-set our expectations about just waltzing up to King Street eateries and getting a table up the front. They obviously do things differently down the south.

Tonight we are joined again by John and Pauline (Thai Pothong, Thanh Binh) who have recently pressed the retire button, sell-house button, and backpack-off-into-the-sunset button (although due to them not being as young as they once were, they are opting for backpacks with wheels). We are, frankly, jealous.

Soffritto is right next door to 3 Olives and is another of the quality eateries that we are enjoying and coming to expect in this part of the quest (which I have just decided to call the elbow of King St – or possibly the knee – I’ll let you know which I settle on). But while 3 Olives is all bright and relaxed, Soffritto is much more sombre and subdued. The front dining area is so dark, that from the street you have to look carefully to see if it is actually open. It feels as if this is a place that takes food seriously. Where we are sitting out the back is brighter, and has radiant heat lamps to keep the winter chill at bay, but unfortunately they only work on one surface at a time. We toy with the idea of periodically changing seats, rotating around the table as a kind of rotisserie but before we can put this plan into effect Pauline has had a quiet word with the staff and they have promised us a table inside as soon as the current occupants finish their coffees. Sometimes you just have to ask. That is a life lesson I am still in the process of learning, my default position being to simmer in a stew of equal parts bitterness and regret.

A little plate of hot battered olives is the first thing to arrive at our table followed by a very pleasant bottle of tempranillo. Hot olives seem to be everywhere nowadays, and this is a good thing, but these are a bit too hot I discover as I help myself to the first one and have to do that thing where you try to hold the hot thing with your teeth so it doesn’t come into contact with your tongue or other soft sensitive parts, and suck air in around it to try to cool it down enough to chew. Everyone else is too busy talking about Morocco, and sharing camels, to notice my distress. They don’t eat their olives until they have had time to cool down a bit. Sensible bastards.

The menu is Italian-ish, not huge but well balanced. There is a five course degustation option and a special for three courses, but we opt for à la carte, and give the entrees a miss. Having overlooked the slow-cooked lamb last week at 3 Olives, I decide on the lamb shoulder with pappardelle, John picks the roast beef with pancetta, and Strop and Pauline opt for the barramundi. Before the mains arrive we are invited to join the chosen ones in the warmth of the main dining room and given some yummy bread and olive oil. The bread is made on the premises, which the waiter points out a couple of times (he seems very proud – maybe he made it himself) and it is crunchy and hits the spot. Despite the full house, conversation is easy. Soffritto is not one of those noisy places that makes me think it must be time to get my hearing tested. The floor staff are good, moving efficiently and quietly through the crowded room.

I thoroughly enjoyed my lamb pappardelle, although it may have had a bit more salt than it needed. The barramundi was excellent, with tomato and just enough chilli, and John’s beef disappeared very quickly. For dessert Strop and I couldn’t go past the steamed marmalade pudding, and John opted for the chocolate pudding. Pauline decided against dessert, but was later observed tucking into quite a bit of John’s chocolate pudding. This sharing may have been a better option for Strop and I, because the marmalade puddings were quite generous and we are not the kind of people to leave any food behind. By the time I’d finished my coffee, I could barely move.

As we made our rotund way home, John and Pauline pressed their cold noses against the glass window of Corelli’s, where their son has just started working. It was a heart-warming scene as young David stuck his head out the door and told his parents to go home and stop stalking him.

Not sure what exactly is coming up next. Whatever it is, it’s bound to be brilliant.