Quest

654 Pizza Picasso – The end of the beginning

August 9, 2015 by Andrew Christie 5 Comments

It was a big night, the last restaurant on King Street, and I caught the wrong train. It would have been the right train if I’d left work when I had planned to, but we were farewelling three people from my office that night so the normal Friday drinks routine was a bit stretched. Anyway, I had intended to get the train to Newtown and walk down to St Peters for a bit of a reminisce, it seemed more apt than just crossing the road from St Peters station. More appropriate to the marking the end of the beginning. The Quest will continue, possibly as the reQuest or the beQuest, but this is the end of the original and best Quest.

Unfortunately though, I didn’t adjust my travel plans in response to my delayed departure, so instead of an indulgent stroll, I was rushing down the hill muttering about how St Peters seemed to be getting further and further away. Strop had already texted me to let me know that she was nearly at the pub for a pre-dinner drink. I got to the St Peters end not too late, striding past Pizza Picasso, and noting the table set up outside with a reserved sign on it, thinking that it must be for us because nobody else would be sitting outside a pizza joint in St Peters in the middle of winter. When I got to the traffic lights at the end of King St, I could see Strop chatting away to Ashleigh and Ned in the front bar of the Sydney Park Hotel.

Our party for the night was complete when Paul arrived a few minutes later. He had also been to a function, and like me was already a couple of drinks into Friday night. Paul, Ash and Nedsky, (Blossoming Lotus and Yenikoy) are neighbours and good friends, who live a short dog walk from us. We don’t see them as much as we used to now that our dogs are less agile, so it is good to have a chance to catch up on the Quest again. We didn’t hang around long at the Sydney Park. It is a hardline old-fashioned pub, tiles, taps, and fluoro lights. Although Strop would like to point out that it does serve wine by the glass at $4.50 – so presumably she’ll be going back. It is not exactly a hipster haven though. While a bottle of wine was being purchased, Ned took a sudden interest in the pool table, and Ash and I decided that someone needed to invent hipster darts for all the trendy pubs to go with the craft beer, and to give the bearded ones a new interest as they slide into middle age.

Across the road we were greeted by a very enthusiastic and happy host who directed us to the table I had seen earlier. Pizza Picasso is located in a new building with apartments upstairs and shops at street level. We were the only eat-in customers and were seated outside but off the street, in a kind of forecourt that leads to the entrance to the apartments. There is a bus stop just out the front so we always seemed to have an audience of people waiting for a 422 or a 370, as well as residents coming and going from their apartments.

We needed food quickly as Ned had to keep his strength up to play footy the next day and express his support for Adam Goodes by tattooing himself up with number 37. I didn’t really pay much attention to the ordering. I’m not really sure why, because I certainly wasn’t taking any notes. In the end we got three pizzas between us, as well as garlic bread. There was some issue about the pizza of the month that I never really understood. It seemed to be linked to a pizza ominously called the Thunder and Lightening, which came with jalapenos and pepperoni. As we were having a vegetarian outing, we got them to hold the pepperoni and replace it with mushrooms. The other pizzas were a vego version of a greek pizza with crumbled fetta and olives, and a kid-friendly margherita.

Paul works in television so the conversation dipped in and out of popular culture as viewed from the living room. There was some discussion about why Western Australia delivers so many bio-pic subjects. So much money, so few people possibly? I claim some expertise in this matter as the only one at the table who has never been across the Nullabor. We then moved on to the evolution of television comedy, holding out for a while against the gravitational pull of the conversational black hole that is Sydney real estate prices. Eventually though we gave in and started being astonished all over again, at the latest auction results. At the last minute though. we were able avoid complete disaster by veering away into the somewhat more interesting eddy of house repairs. Leaky roofs, leaky taps, and when to get a man in.

During this lull the garlic bread and the first bottle of wine disappeared. Paul was quick to react heading back to the bottle shop for reinforcements. Meanwhile, the pizzas started arriving. Ned had quite a time doing tricks with the the melted cheese, while the rest of us were being pleasantly surprised by the quality of the toppings – they were really good. The crusts were thin and light, and everyone else seemed to like them, but I found them a bit biscuity for my taste. The vego Greek was terrific, and the Thunder and Lightening was gratifyingly spicy even without the pepperoni. I didn’t get a chance to try the Margherita as Ned was keeping it tied up in cheesy knots.

We were pretty astonished when a Dominos pizza guy turned up with a delivery for someone in the building. Why? When you’ve got somewhere like Picasso downstairs, why would you choose Dominos. Sometimes I despair. Ned took it personally and started booing the guy.

We were looking forward to dessert. Ned had his heart set on gelato but they had run out, so Ash took him off on a sub-quest. They ended up across the road at Alberto’s. While Ned was having his gelato cravings quenched, Strop, Paul and I were enjoying a couple of saucy puddings. There was some disagreement about which was the better. Paul thought the chocolate was definitely best, but he was wrong. The banana was the definite winner.

It was a great night out, a really relaxed and enjoyable way to end the Quest. As we made our way back up the hill, through the Friday night crowds, Paul was busily reminding us what a great place we live in. Full of variety, full of life. He wasn’t wrong about that, but he was wrong about the pudding.

199 – Fringe Cafe – 9am isn’t early unless it’s Newtown

October 27, 2013 by Andrew Christie 6 Comments

Fringe is our first cafe and it throws up a couple of issues for us to resolve, because we are now entering the cafe-dense midlands of King Street. The first problem is that Fringe does not open at night – so do we go for lunch or breakfast? Secondly, what basis are we going to use for comparison with all the other cafes? I resolve that we shouldn’t think of them as problems, but as opportunities to make up more Rules. Making up Rules is fun, so here we go with the Cafe Suite of Rules:

Cafes are a breakfast outing.

At Cafes the order must include the Big/Full breakfast option.

There will be coffee.

There you have it, two points of comparison and a whole new time-slot to explore.

So on Sunday morning we take our grumbling tummies up the hill, anticipating the bacon and caffeine to come. We have Steve (of Tamana’s and Radio National fame, back in town for more parent-extraction duties and recreational questing), and the Stropolina (Thai Yindee), in tow this morning. We had assumed that 9am would be a reasonable hour, time for a few other punters to have started breakfasting, but not so late that we wouldn’t be to find a table. Around our place, the cafes open at 7am for the early rising dog-walkers and boot-campers, but when we got to Fringe they were still putting out the tables and chairs. “We’ll be ready in a moment,” they said as we stood dumbfounded on the sunny but mostly empty footpath. As we did a slow amble up to Missenden Road and back we mused that this was King Street after all, and different rules and time frames apply here. When we got back to Fringe there was already one table occupied so we didn’t feel too stupid or lonely or suburban.

Sunday Mornin' Comin' Down — Sunday Mornin’ Comin’ Down

I quickly checked the menu looking for the Big breakfast, and there it was, just above the Massive breakfast. Now what, I thought, is Massive the new Big? Will I have to change the rule before it has even been tried? No, I decided to give Big a chance – Massive has too many coronary connotations. We may be close to RPA but who wants to spend Sunday morning trying out their triage. Strop opts for an omelette and the rest of us have the big, with Steve asking for extra spinach. We all order juices.

Fringe is located on a street corner and has big windows that allow in plenty of light. This is good because the place has nothing else that could be mistaken for decor. There are a couple of big and decidedly dusty blackboards along one wall and a shambolic mixture of furniture, but nothing resembling style, not even grunge.

The juices arrive first and they are all huge and excellent. Then the plates arrive and they are huge too. I am glad that I didn’t go for the Massive – it would have defeated me, even if it didn’t kill me. Steve’s spinach fails to arrive at first, causing a moment of consternation, but it appears soon afterwards. Strop’s omelette is almost too big for her, but every time she says she can’t finish it, a bit more disappears, and in the end there is nothing left to bag up. The food is good quality, if fairly standard, cafe fare.

Our coffee order throws the Canadian waitress into disarray, and I am worried that we won’t get out of Newtown alive when Steve orders a quarter-strength flat white, but the Stropolina rescues our street cred by creatively ordering a long black over ice. “It’s an iced coffee without all the milky shit,” she explains helpfully.

Steve offers up the comment that the Kris Kristofferson song Sunday Morninin’ Comin’ Down would be a good soundtrack for our visit to the cafe, but you can’t take a reference to a song about a hangover seriously from a man who is drinking a quarter-strength flat white.

One thing about cafes: you don’t have to feel self conscious about making notes in a cafe in Newtown. Every second bastard is a poet or is working on a screenplay. And all the others have blogs.

Don't make any sudden moves, there's a poet just behind you — Don’t make any sudden moves, there’s a poet just behind you

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.

130 Atom Thai – Really strange name, really nice food

June 1, 2013 by Andrew Christie 1 Comment

Strop has been looking forward to this place for ages. “When we get to Atom, there are a whole lot of my work friends who want to come. It’s supposed to be really good.” Well obviously this kind of hype, not to mention the promise of a huge party of people I don’t know, freaked me out. As it turned out though the untimely demise of Jester Seeds threw out all the scheduling and brought Atom forward a week, so in the end only the four of us could make it: our good selves, and the delightful Bev from Liverpool (the original and the best, where the Beatles come from) and John from Telegraph Point (a place with one of the best names ever – it should have a song written about it – I’m thinking a fusion of T.Rex’s classic, Telegram Sam and Wichita Lineman – bound to be a hit).

Before attending the restaurant I manage to fit in a glass of my new favourite beer, Dogbolter, and stop off at the bottle shop where my eyes are grabbed by a label with a trout fly on it and I hand over the cash without further consideration. This turns out to be not-a-great-move on my part. Oh well. Trout flies, they work on trout and me apparently.

Atom is a little bit posh compared to most of the Thai places we’ve been to so far. While pouring your wine the waiters put their non-functional hand behind their backs, holding the bottle by the base, of course. They also place the (paper) napkin in your lap for you, just like the fancy places. There are lots of staff and they are very friendly and good at their jobs. Everything goes smoothly. As Bev and John are Atom aficionados – it is their favourite local Thai – Strop and I promise to relinquish all responsibility and leave the ordering to them – except for number 37.

Being a semi-posh place the menu is not numbered of course. Bev leaps at the chance to do the required counting, soon determining that the 37^th dish is Stir Fried Eggplant with Beef. There is a pattern emerging here: number 37 seems to spend a lot of time in the wok section of the menus. Bev asks if she should have taken into account the specials board in her counting. Strop and I look at her in wonder – aren’t the rules stupid and arbitrary enough already without slathering on another layer of complexity? “No that’s fine,” we say, “No need to count again.”

John loading up on Luv-a-duck before attempting the Barramundi Salad

To go with the eggplant and beef, Bev and John order Miang Goong (prawns and betel leaf) as an entrée, Luv-a-duck Panang Curry (I know, I said I’d let them decide but when I saw the name I had to insist) and their favourite Barramundi Salad.

The conversation wanders all over the place as we work though the dodgy trout fly wine and John’s far more sophisticated offering. I learn that VW Golf’s sumps have an aversion to cattle grids, for instance. Did you know that? And also that a little bit of epoxy applied by a trout farmer can save you a whole new German motor. I also learn that Liverpudlian families are very close. Very, very close. Bev and John took Bev’s extended family on their honeymoon with them. John is undoubtedly in line for some kind of honour come the next Australia Day list, for services to family harmony. While the rest of us are chatting away my dear wife is quietly falling in love with one of the waiters. She can’t taker her eyes off the one with the dimples and his hair pulled up into a bun. “Isn’t he sweet?” she asks no-one in particular. I personally can’t see the attraction but Strop is definitely smitten. She is still talking about the waiter with the dimples a week later.

The food is excellent with the possible exception of number 37 which pales in comparison with the other dishes. The Mian Goong are a perfect start. I could have just kept eating those little bite size taste bombs all night. The duck curry is smooth, mild, full of flavour and the unanimous choice for winner. Close runner up is the barramundi. It has been battered and fried then reassembled into a fishy shape and covered with a shredded apple, onion, mint and cashew nut salad. Double yum.

One of us isn't amused — One of us isn’t amused

I think we have a new candidate for the favourites list here. There are lots of other dishes on the menu that I would like to try but unfortunately that sort of indulgence will have to wait until we have eaten at every mediocre joint on the strip – for that is the nature of the quest.

Next we cross the road yet again to Rice Paper.