Lebanese

489 Arabella – Well done

January 31, 2015 by Andrew Christie 11 Comments

The tap at Newtown Social Club that used to bring forth the darkly fragrant Dogbolter, now spews out my current favourite seasonal froth: Mountain Goat Summer Ale. Truly we live in the best of all possible worlds.

I know this because I have stopped off on my way to Arabella for a beer. I am running late because I lingered too long at the office. So time is short, but my need is great.

Fortified by a Summer Ale that barely touched the sides, I am even later by the time I leave the pub. And, unfortunately, Arabella turns out to be further away, and on the other side of the road, from where my imagination has misplaced it, so I end up crossing King Street twice, and walking faster than is becoming in a man of my advancing decrepitude. All this untethering of the odd and even street numbers down this end of King Street is very confusing.

When I arrive at Arabella, there is no sign of the other members of the party, which is a bit of a relief. Even more of a relief is the waitress’ immediate acknowledgement of Strop’s booking of a table for nine. Without having to refer to any paperwork, she directs me to a large and empty table in the middle of the restaurant. I have only had time to choose a seat (middle of the table facing the street), and contemplate a cocktail (leaning towards a mojito), when the unmistakeable silhouette of Jill appears on the threshold. “There you are Andy,” she exclaims, “We’re all down at the wine bar.” And before I can process this statement, let alone think of a response, she’s gone again. Hmm… just a scouting party then, I think, wondering if there’ll be time for that mojito.

No, apparently not. In less time than it would take to crush a bunch of limes, Jill is back, this time with Monica and Karen. The vanguard. The main horde is still finishing its drinks apparently. (Please excuse the turn of phrase; reading John Birmingham’s Emergence, a jolly underworld romp involving plenty of arcane militaristic jibbering, has unduly influenced me.)

The Horde consists of the last remaining international over-stayers from the Tom&Chloe, nuptials. For the past two weeks they have been killing time, driving all over the state, participating in our national day rituals, and observing our sporting prowess, just waiting for their appointment with King Street. Obviously this was the real reason they are visiting Australia, well that and the lowly Australian dollar. Soon they will go home for a good rest, but before then there is some eating to be done. Roy and Jill (parents of the groom) are the hosting Susan, Monica and Joe, (the aunts and uncle of the groom), and Karen and Brian (the cousins of the groom). Roy is also the coach-driver-elect to the Horde.

Strop is running even later than usual, so when the waitress asks “Who is in charge?” Joe points at me. The waitress looks as doubtful as Susan at this turn of events, but hands me a menu and says something about banquets. A banquet? “Yes please.” Strop doesn’t usually allow banquets, but as she is still negotiating traffic on Alice Street…

With the food issues sorted I move on to the much more important, in fact now verging on quite urgent, issue of the drinks menu. “Pinot Grigio?” I say consulting the table at large, “All those in favour?” Roy nodded, I think. “Right, we’ll have a brace of those please.” Sorted. Women make this whole being in charge thing look much harder than it really is.

As if summoned by this heretical thought, Strop arrives, steaming up the footpath with a determined look on her face. When we realise that she has no idea where she is going, and is about to walk straight past Arabella, we all start shouting at once. Give her credit, Strop doesn’t miss a beat, without breaking stride she executes a stylish left-wheel through the door, and plants a big smile on her dial. Now we are complete.

I had thought that the food situation was sorted. But while I was busy defending the honour of my book from Joe’s critical literary analysis, Strop, Susan and Jill, re-opened the case for Banquet.Sorted, and began re-examining the evidence. Having admitted that Banquet.Sorted was the correct solution, they weren’t convinced that it was quite intricate enough. So on the basis that no one at the table was actually vegetarian, they opted for a mixture of vegetarian and meat-lovers banquets. The waitress took this womanly need for over-complication in her stride. She had to, being a woman and all.

Dips and tabouli were the first to arrive. Babaganoush. In the immortal words of the legendary Molly, do yourself the proverbial. Smokey, silky and yummy.

The potato and mushroom one – quickly checks the online menu, can’t find any mention of the dips – was nice too. The white one was good too, might have been called labneh. The tabouli was excellent, as was the Fattoush.

I think more wine arrived around here.

Fried cauliflower (Strop’s favourite) – excellent, gozleme – spicy and cinnamony. There were falafel, samosas?? (I know, but they would have been samosas if we were in an Indian restaurant) and spring-rolly things, that were cheesey. I think Strop called them lady fingers, but I don’t know if she was referring to the food or just to how it was being served.

It was around this time that the gentle rivalry that had been bubbling along between the two ends of the table (No, don’t pass them the hummus, they’ve got one of their own. Is that their fattoush or ours?), broke out into open hostility. Some of us noticed that They had samosas, while We had spring-rolly things. Luckily negotiations began and hostages were exchanged. In the end the only ones to suffer were the samosas and the spring-rolly things. They all got cut in half.

Then it was meat time – it might have been two-more-bottles-of-wine time too. This was what Brian had been waiting all night for, and it was easy to understand why. Grilled lamb, chicken and sausage things – all with a bit of char and dripping juices. Yumm.

It was soon after this that I decided I was full. Well, that I would be, once I had downed a couple of coffees and a Turkish delight, and some baklava. Then I was full.

So, in summary, we had a bloody good night out. I’m pretty sure that you will too.

Karen also pointed out that my reviews (her term not mine) do not mention accessibility, but that Arabella is wheelchair accessible, including the loos. She is right of course, I should know better, and from now on I am going to include the issue of accessibility. Well done, Arabella.

159 – Istanbul On King – Where the carpet is on the tables and the socks are on the wall

July 22, 2013 by Andrew Christie 2 Comments

Ok, this is really a takeaway joint but it does have tables, so I couldn’t talk my way out of it – even if the tables are covered in carpet.

After the Kuleto’s FOOD fiasco we have come here in search of nourishment and there is plenty on offer: kebabs, pizza, burgers, pide, and of course, chips.

No one is ever going to miss this place, it is lit up like a power station. The colour scheme and the staff uniforms feature the same fluorescent orange that features on hi-vis work gear. They are playing to their audience, Istanbul On King is essentially an eatery for the working man (and woman, but mostly the man – at least while we were there). Security staff, tradies, taxi drivers – this place is for them. Well, the front is. Out the back is a little bit more exotic and eclectic. It turns out to be particularly targeted at Strop. Along with carpets on the tables and walls (but strangely not on the floor), Strop has discovered intricately knitted gloves and socks stuck to the walls. I didn’t know the Turks were into knitwear, this place has paid for itself already.

We order a mixed vegetarian plate for her and a lamb plate for him. Both plates are huge and the vegetarian option has lots of variety (cabbage roll, felafel, vine leaf roll, omelette, tabouli) for the same price as six smoked salmon and nori crackers at Kuleto’s. But the lamb wins, firstly because it is meat, and secondly because it is tasty, crunchy and generally yummier than the vego gear.

I think Sherpa Kitchen is next but I could be wrong.

Number 101 Rowda Ya Habibi – It’s not Swahili

March 21, 2013 by Andrew Christie 5 Comments

Rowda Ya Habibi – I spent a bit of time mucking around in Google translate trying to work out what the name acutally means but gave up when Mr Google reckoned it was Swahili. I’m pretty sure it’s not, almost a hundred percent.

We are back in Sydney with the Davo’s after a week’s holiday gallivanting around the hinterland, during which Ian and Strop spent a fair bit of time discussing the ins and outs of punctuation (Davo’s with an apostrophe to replace the missing letters apparently, not Davos because he is a greek bloke, or possibly a Dr Who arch-villain). Oh, and I should avoid brackets (as their verticality interrupts the flow of the reader’s eyeball) whereas dashes – being horizontal – are oriented to present less resistance.

So on Sunday evening we decided to resume the quest and get back into some semblance of numerical order by visiting number 101. Rowda Ya Habibi has been a bit of a favourite for quick meals and takeaways for a long time. It’s an unusual establishment with a pretty standard looking takeaway place at the front, a large dining room in the back and, apparently, a banquet room with on-floor seating arrangements upstairs.

We usually don’t get further than the takeaway section at the front, which is overseen by a lovely woman who welcomes everyone with a loud “Hello my darling. What can I get for you?” She is supported by a chorus of old people who sit at the corner table, make comments, read the paper and help out when needed. It is a warm, friendly, family kind of place – perfectly fine as a takeaway.

Tonight though we are trying out the restaurant out the back where there are tablecloths. The large room is empty when we arrive, and stays that way for most of the evening. Out the front we can hear the takeaway section doing a steady trade in falafel rolls and shawarmas.

Not being able to find any wines from the Bekaa Valley at the local bottle shop, Ian has chosen a New Zealand white and an Oz red to accompany the meal. It’s a Lebanese restaurant so we order some baba ganoush and hummus to start while we make our way through the menu. The conversation ranges near and far. Lebanese wines, Lebanese wars, Terry Waite, hostages, and Israeli archeological sites all get a mention. Then there is something about the way smartphones are ruining the art of pub conversations by making it too easy to check the facts, but I don’t manage to get all the details typed into my iphone before the food arrives.

We have ordered a variety of dishes to share including Strop’s special favourite fried cauliflower, grilled chicken and kofta, as well as something called foul which turns out to be broad beans and is very nice. But overall we find the food disappointing, ok as a takeaway, but for a proper sit-down meal it was less than we hoped, less than we’ve come to expect at other Lebanese restaurants. Which is sad because we had been very fond of the whole idea of Rowda Ya Habibi. I suppose that is the risk of going to so many restaurants, the harsh light of comparison doesn’t leave any room for fondly held delusions – it’s a bit like smartphones and pub conversations, I suppose.

We ordered baklava and turkish delight for desert, trying to end the night on a high note. They are ok, and the bill is very reasonable.

We’ll probably still visit for the odd mixed plate or Strop’s favourite cauliflower roll, but it won’t be quite the same.