Newtown

261a – Milk Bar – Memories of Eccles Past

February 1, 2014 by Andrew Christie 2 Comments

Milk Bar; is it a cafe or a restaurant? That is the the dilemma that faced us. I was on the cafe side of the equation, suggesting gently to Strop that it would be best reviewed as a breakfast or lunch venue, but Strop was having none of that tosh. She pointed out its close proximity to the Dendy Cinema (right next door with ‘outdoor’ tables actually in the foyer) and its reliance on the pre/post movie trade, as reasons that we should visit in the evening. As usual she was right, and that was what we did. However, I vetoed the optional movie add-on, on the basis that it would keep me up past my bedtime.

We waited out the 6pm pre-movie rush across the road at Black Sheep with a couple of beers. I was drinking the provocatively named My Wife’s Bitter and Strop was downing a very fruity something called Stone and Wood, “The chief beer buyer says it’s his favourite, from Byron Bay or somewhere like that”.

When things at the Dendy had died down a bit, with everyone safely choc-topped up and watching Mr DiCaprio wolfing along Wall Street, we crossed the road and settled ourselves down at Milk Bar. The room is a big open space, with a high ceiling that is open onto the street and also opens into the foyer of the cinema. It is simple and modern, having been renovated during the last remodelling of the Dendy building, and is quite an attractive space. The clientele seemed to be a mixture of tourists and locals.

The menu features plenty of pasta and risotto as well as steaks and chicken. I was shocked to see Quinoa Fritters on the starters menu and was briefly tempted, simply on the basis of perversity, but then I noticed the alluringly-named Pork Belly Bites. Strop opted for Crispy Squid. Strop finds it hard to resist ribs on a menu, so that’s what she chose for mains and I passed over the fish and chips and went for the Crispy Chicken, mainly because of the promise of accompanying Italian slaw.

When the friendly young waiter came to take our order, Strop asked about the wine list, but was informed that they don’t have a list as such, just wine. Three whites, two reds, and a rosé to be exact. We felt the undertow pulling us towards the rosé but decided that it was too big a risk, given that the waiter had never tasted it. So we played it safe: Strop went for the Pinot to go with her ribs, and I ordered a Chardy to go with my chicken.

The starters soon arrived but were disappointing. The Pork Belly Bites turned out to be cubes of very tender pork, inexplicably hidden inside a bland coating of deep fried bread crumbs. Nice enough, but they would have been so much better without the coating. The squid wasn’t particularly crisp or tasty, and could have done with more seasoning or even some chilli. When the mains came, I realised that the waiter had misheard my order and put me down for the chicken breast instead of the crispy chicken. Strop is always telling me I mumble so I guess it is my own fault. The chicken was nice enough, if a bit on the dry side, but the jus was good, and the potato dish was great. A kind of potato gratin, with the potato sliced very thin, and compacted into a dense slab. My description doesn’t do it justice, but it was excellent. Strop’s ribs were very tender but they were coated with a strong sweet marinade that overpowered the meat.

The things you find outside the loos... — The things you find outside the loos…

For dessert we opted for a shared combination of drink and dessert. I asked to see a dessert menu but was informed that they don’t have one because the desserts change all the time. So Strop and I took turns to go and check out the options in the display cabinet. There were lots of lavish looking chocolate and cheesecake variations. Strop was attracted to a tart with raspberry and pear (right up her alley that one) while I couldn’t get past the slicey thing called a Monkey Something (sucker for stupid names, me). When I convinced Strop that the Monkey StupidNameThing looked a bit like an Eccles Cake, she went into a nostalgic revery, and started talking like the Goons character who shares the same name. During this slightly disturbing display the waitress arrived and we ordered the Monkey Thing and a Coconut Milkshake as well. The milkshake was great and I really liked the cake, but Strop couldn’t get past the fact that it didn’t live up to her rose-tinted memories of moist and spicy childhood cakes. So I suspect that she won’t leave me in charge of dessert ordering in the future.

Milk Bar is probably more of a cafe than a restaurant, but it has friendly staff and is a pleasant place to wait for a movie or watch the King Street parade (one unidentified Famous Person, a poet and a photographic club tonight), as long as you modify your expectations appropriately. The serving sizes are generous, by the time we left we were so full we could hardly waddle home.

Next up is Happy Chef, which I always want to call Happy Geoff for some reason. Let us know if you’d like to join us.

255 – Italian Bowl – Fast, fresh but no frills

January 25, 2014 by Andrew Christie Leave a Comment

This is where we were supposed to go last week when we were fooled by the discrepancy between geographical and numerical order. Anyway, we are here now, a bit earlier than usual because we are off to the theatre (“Darling”) afterwards, for our last festival outing. After taking last year off, we approached the festival this year in our usual ill-informed manner with perhaps an added pinch of cultural risk-taking. It hasn’t paid off. Especially for Strop. Her post show comments have included “Dire!” “Wankers!” and the ever-reliable classic, “That’s ninety minutes we’re never getting back.” She especially didn’t like the afro-futurist jazz played by an eighty year old saxophonist. The only thing she has loved so far was our first outing to a magic show, which was very good. Entertaining, even.

(Optional magic show Rant: There is something strange about going to a magic show. You enter into a consensual contract with the magician to be lied to. You know that there’s nothing magic going on, that it’s all about deception and illusion, but if the trick is wrapped up in an entertaining package you go along for the ride, trying not to give too much thought to how they’re doing it, because the answer is always going to be completely mundane, and in the end you want the showmanship more than you want the truth. Much like religion really. End of Rant.)

Italian Bowl is all about pasta. And speed (no, not that kind). The food is fast, fresh and relatively cheap. It caters to a lot of pre-movie punters and it does a fair trade in take-aways as well, but it is not the sort of place to linger over your linguine. Its business model is based on fast fettucine and the occasional rapid risotto (okay, too much of a mediocre thing, I agree – and you probably can’t cook risotto quickly anyway).

It is not a large place and more than half of the floor area is given over to the kitchen which runs along one side, leaving punters squeezed against the other wall. Or out on the street. We arrived at 6pm, right in the middle of the pre-movie rush and the only table was right out the back. Tonight we are joined by the Stropolina, and it is a bit like being back in Vietnam again as we sideways-shuffle our party of wide-bodied Australians through the packed-out tables, and squeeze into our seats trying hard not to bump the other patrons who are busily slurping up their spaghetti. It was only after I had settled myself down that I realised I was going to have to get up again and go and order at the counter at the front. The big Italian guy taking orders at the front is something of a maestro of efficiency, plucking order out of the noisy chaos around him. By the time I’m half way to the front he has a number on a stick ready and is waiting to take my order. By the time I have got back to the table the garlic bread is hot on my heels.

Italian bowl is not somewhere for a slow romantic meal. It is noisy (you are basically eating in the kitchen), full of the clatter of pans, and a bizarre music soundtrack that Stropolina reckons must have been programmed by someone’s mum. It is however fun, and it is fast. The food may not be brilliant but it is tasty and freshly prepared in front of you. And I do love an Italian place that has parmesan shakers on all the tables.

Afterwards Strop and I strolled back along King Street towards the Seymour Centre, enjoying the light rain, and doing a bit of restaurant reminiscing (I can’t understand why that place is always full etc.) and noting the closures and openings (what’s happened to Asian King?). The show, Ockham’s Razor, turned out to be great, aerial theatre/dance in three short acts. Beautiful, engaging and entertaining, – not a lot to ask for really, and a good way to end our festival.

Next up, according to Strop’s calculations, is Milk Bar which I think is a cafe so it might be another breakfast outing.

258 Iktus Sushi House – The King Street floorshow – always reliable

January 18, 2014 by Andrew Christie 1 Comment

Having stumbled out of Black Sheep, we stepped next door, straight into Iktus Sushi House for a real meal. This place treads a fine line between take-away and restaurant, but as Strop points out, it has proper tables set for eating, and walls covered with photographs of all the food you can order, so we can’t ignore it. We continue with the evening’s theme by ignoring the Nominatively Determined Ordering rule. No sushi for us tonight, instead we order edamame, gyoza two ways (green/steamed and prawn/fried), seafood yakisoba and unadon.

Our table is tiny and so close to the front that passers-by have to step around us. This is where we like to sit when it is just the two of us. The passing parade gives us something to talk about and papers-over any awkward silences. After a short disagreement about who ignored the other and reached for their smartphone first, the food started to arrive. As the plates kept coming our table real estate values sky-rocketed and we eventually had to put the phones away. The food was bought by a taciturn Japanese man in a bright turquoise Hawaiian shirt and a straw hat. Very up beat.

The green gyoza was nice and so were the prawn ones, even though they were deep-fried, rather than pan-fried. We managed to burn our mouths on both types, the liquids inside resembling molten lava as we bit into them. The unadon wasn’t bad (Strop likes a nice bit of eel), but the seafood yakisoba was disappointing. Greasy and over-seasoned. We have a bottle of ginger beer each to accompany our meal.

What with the ginger beer, Hawaiian shirt, and unremarkable food, it is all bit as if we are still on holidays, except for the floorshow. King Street is always entertaining, and tonight it has laid on the disparate group of bikers who congregate each week at Gelatomassi (two doors down). The first to arrive tonight is a leather clad road warrior on a huge Japanese sports bikes, who turns out, when the helmet is removed, to be a young moslem woman – complete with head scarf! Take a bow multiculturalism. Next is a big bloke on an electric-blue chopper with a Greek-Cypriot theme going on (very classical). Then three little guys on a variety of big loud bikes show up and try and man-handle their mounts into the limited number of spaces available. There is a lot of discussion about who should park where, and eventually the last two to arrive are sent into purgatory across the road. They are not happy about it either. They obviously want their bikes close by, so they can keep an eye on them while they sit on the street and lick their rum’n’raisin cones.

With all this excellent distraction going on, we accidentally eat all of the food that has been put in front of us. Oh well, it’s all in the cause of research after all. While Strop is buying a gelato for dessert, a car pulls out of a parking spot right in front of Gelatomassi. It is as if someone has fired the starting gun at Le Mans. Bikers abandon their gelatos and short-blacks, and rush to bikes scattered on both sides of the street, starting them and riding back to the poll position parking place that is being guarded by the big Cypriot guy.

It must be nice to have a passion in life, I think as Strop offers me a lick of her peanut butter gelato.

256 Black Sheep – Oops, not really back in the swing of this yet

January 18, 2014 by Andrew Christie 5 Comments

Happy New Year? Well, not bad so far but give it time.

On Friday night Strop and I hit King Street again, reinvigorated by our sojourn up the coast and by three weeks forced proximity with young people. Unfortunately we still had our holiday heads on and failed to do even the most basic research before downing a welcome-back Dogbolter and waddling towards Black Sheep. In our enthusiasm to get started again we assumed that Black Sheep was the next place we should be visiting (a quick check of our own blog would have told us that it is not) and nor is Black Sheep even really a qualifying eatery. It is more of a drinkery. A bar that flogs a few tasty tapas-style stomach-liners. By the time we had established all of this, the enticing idea of a nice cocktail had lodged itself in our holiday heads, and a charming tall hipster barman had seated us and taken our order.

Oh well, go with the flow. Live in the moment. Listen to the rather nice music.

While we waited Strop started sorting the postcards she forgot to send when we were on holidays, into geographically based themes, and I tried to remember how to switch off the thing in my new camera that makes it take fifteen of photos of my lap whenever I press the shutter.

The cocktails arrived quickly – an orangey-red rum and amaretto one called the Black Sheep (presumably just because they needed a signature cocktail) for Strop (she liked it a lot) and a very lemony one for me in one of those stupid pretend jam jars. The lemony one was called Atomic Tom and came with a warning. “That one is very sour, let me know if you want me to put some girly sugar in it for you,” said the barman, as he placed it in front of me. Okay, on reflection he may not have actually said girly, but that was what I heard. Any way it was definitely a challenge so there was no way that I was going to admit that his lemony drink was too strong for me, and ask for some girly sugar. Hell no. Luckily after the initial mouth-puckering, it turned out to be very infreshing.

“Food’s taking a while,” Strop said, looking up from her postcards. She was up to the Big Banana at Coffs Harbour by this stage. As is usually the case, as soon as you ask how long your food will be, it suddenly arrives, making you wonder if they have just been hanging on to it to see how long it will take to get a rise out of you. Or maybe it only seems that way if you’re a bit paranoid.

Another, shorter, hairier hipster brought out the food. Grilled chorizo first. “Do you want cutlery for that?” he muttered as he started to disappear. We looked at the sizzling slices of sausage, the big dollop of aioli, and the finely sliced cabbage salad, then we looked at him. Was this a test? Some of the much vaunted hipster irony? Or was he just taking the piss? Or was he a moron? Yes, of course we want fucking cutlery.

Knives, forks, plates and napkins duly arrived, followed soon after by our croquettes. The food was very good, especially the chorizo and the salad, and disappeared very quickly. Which was just as well, because we still had to find somewhere that served actual meals to review.

So apart from the hipster unfamiliar with the function of cutlery, Black Sheep was a pretty good place for a drink and a nibble. But I might just have a beer next time.

236 – Pho 236 – That’ll do for this year

December 29, 2013 by Andrew Christie Leave a Comment

There is a no nonsense attitude about this place. It is there in the name, with the street address included. There is nothing fancy in the fit-out either, and no decorations. Just a long narrow rectangular tube with glass at the street end and a counter at the back. Tiled floors and plain painted walls, containing a row of tables on either side of a central aisle that leads straight from the door to the business end. There is nothing fancy about the food either: Vietnamese/Chinese that is not great but good enough for the price. Service is fast, and you can drink Coke or Sunkist or Water, or you can bring your own. We brought our own. A nice little Pinot Grigio courtesy of the Coopers Arms across the street, which seemed a bit far to go as there is a Vintage Cellars next door, but unfortunately it is closed due to it being Boxing Day and there being trading rules.

It is early but Pho 236 is fairly busy — as it always seems to be. It has been around for as long as we have been paying attention and nothing seems to change. It is popular with the traditional Newtown set of students and people after a quick feed before a movie or going on to a pub or whatever it is that young people do after 9pm when all decent gentle folk are in bed or watching Midsomer Murders.

We are earlier than usual tonight as we have the granddaughter, Pancetta in tow, and we are leaving bright and early the next morning to go on a Summer Holiday (sing along now with Uncle Cliff: We’re all going on a…., No more worries for a week or two, etc.). Stropette and the Heathen are along for the ride and we’ve extended the family to include, Cousin Alison and Brother Steve. After dragging a couple of tables together, counting heads and matching them to chairs, we are delivered of a pile of particularly raggedy-looking laminated pictogram menus.

Due to the rule of nominative determinism Strop and I resolve to have the Special Beef pho. Strop likes to go for the “Special” because it traditionally comes with sausage and bits of tendon (or gristle as she refers to them). Steve orders the chicken pho, Alison goes for sizzling king prawns, Stropette orders spring rolls and vermicelli for herself, and tofu and vegies for the Pancetta. The Heathen has something with prawns and tofu, chow mein I think — I wasn’t paying very close attention. To start we have fresh spring rolls, because they’re usually delicious, and a bit of a tradition with us.

The Pancetta, being blonde and gorgeous, proceeds to seduce the staff behind the counter by smiling and talking nonsense at them, only occasionally interrupted by the ear-drum piercing squeal of a metal chair leg being dragged across a ceramic floor tile, and being amplified by every hard surface in the restaurant. Yes, it is a bit noisy. But the food comes quickly, preceded by a handful of cutlery and chopsticks, placed in a delicate pile in the middle of the table.

Fresh spring rolls: nothing special, nothing terrible. About the same quality as you can buy in any food hall in the city.

The Special Beef pho is not bad, although Strop is disappointed by the total lack of gristle, but there is plenty of sausage to compensate. I really enjoyed the stock when I got the balance of basil, chilli, and lime garnishes just right. Strop was disappointed but then she is comparing it to Pho Pasteur which has very good stock. I think the verdict on the rest of the dishes was along the lines of “Okay, but I’ve had better.”

I hadn’t planned on being the entertainment for the evening, but that was the way it turned out when I got a chilli seed caught at the back of my throat. My usual reaction to a chilli overdose is a light-hearted bout of hiccups, which is particularly entertaining for Strop. This was different. This was coughing. And choking. Perhaps not life threatening, but certainly snot-and-tear-inducing. The worst part was that it seemed to have scarred the back of my throat so that even when I had regained my composure, and assured Strop that I didn’t need “a good thump between the shoulder blades,” every subsequent mouthful of soup brought on more coughing. How they laughed — once they had decided I wasn’t going to actually die.

The menu board doesn't look as if it has changed this century — The menu board doesn’t look as if it has changed this century

The damage, apart from my pride, was $75 for seven people. Not bad.

So now we have reached the intersection of Church Street, from now on we will be turning right at King Street and making the run down towards the railway station, where we will have to decide whether to stick with the mediocre task at hand, or allow ourselves to be seduced by the bright lights and higher culinary standards of Enmore Road. Only time will tell. See you next year.

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.