restaurants

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.

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.

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.

232 – Moo Gourmet Burgers – Part the Next of the Burger Wars

December 14, 2013 by Andrew Christie 3 Comments

There’s that word again. Gourmet. It always makes me think of The Galloping Gourmet – Graham Kerr. You’re all probably too young, but he was one of the first television chefs. Before the Galloping Gourmet, cooking shows were all hosted by earnest middle aged women in nicely starched, hygienic tunics, whose senses of humour had to be safely tucked out of harms way, before they could start explaining the intricacies of crumbed cutlets. After Kerr, there was Bernard King, all red face, mutton-chops and double-entendres.

Times have changed. Now everything is Gourmet.

Moo is part of a small Sydney based five-link chain. But even so there is something a bit NZ about the place, and one of the links in the chain is at Bondi, the Kiwi beach-head so… I’ll leave you to join the dots. After a bit of internet research, I have learned that Moo has very strong Oz and Kiwi milk bar heritage. So there you go. I was partly right, but mostly wrong.

I think it is the self-conscious quirk thing that made me think NZ. The walls are covered with kids drawings and there is a piano, and one of those old lounges, that you know if you sit in, you will never be able to get out again. Moo offers the punters a wide choice of dining options. You can sit at a normal table, a high table, a coffee table, or an enormous group table. But you can only order burgers. And beers. Or milkshakes. Some wine. And a few cocktails. And a dessert. But mainly burgers.

It is quite full when I arrive so I grab the only free table while I wait for Strop and Mark to arrive. It is one of the high tables, and the chairs are those stupid high stools that you have to climb down off to move, which means you are never quite close enough to the table.

The place seems to be full of teenage girls and large family groups indulging in pre-Christmas get togethers. It is the time of year when young men suddenly sprout antlers on their heads, and women who are old enough to know better, wear red and green flashing earrings. Oh well, it’ll all be over soon and we can get back to bushfires and sunburn.

The staff all seem to be teenaged girls too. Maybe I’m just feeling old. Mark and Strop arrive just when I have decided that I won’t be able to survive my own company any longer without a beer.

The menus are printed on big squares of transparent plastic. I imagine that this makes them very easy to clean, but it also makes them very hard to read. I find that I have to hold mine up to the light so that I can read the burger fine print. There is a lot of it.

Strop and Mark contemplate the duck burger

We are all tempted by the Duck and Bacon Burger but Strop is the only one brave enough to carry the fantasy through to the plate. She adds beetroot to it as well. I opt for the signature Black and White Burger (cheese and egg), apparently named after the first milk bar in Sydney, and Mark eventually turns his back on the duck and goes for the Avocado and Bacon. The burgers don’t automatically come with a side of chips – that seems to be a pub thing – so Strop and I get a basket of chips to share. Given the size of our breakfast, this is probably a mistake.

It was about this time that the parents at the big family table decided that letting their bored kids loose on the piano would be a good way to distract them. It certainly drove me to distraction. Coincidentally Strop was telling Mark all about her hearing aids, as the children banged away on the keyboard, and all the adults spoke up to be heard over the noise. We were only saved by the arrival of their burgers. The children were enticed away from the piano with the promise of chips, and the adults had to stop talking because their mouths were suddenly full.

Then our burgers arrived, and I stopped worrying about what everyone else was doing as egg yolk ran down my wrist, and melted cheese formed a suspension bridge between my mouth and what was left of the Black and White.

We enjoyed the burgers and the chips, but I’ll leave the scorecard summary to my colleague.

“Not as good as Burger Fuel,” said Mark, smothering a little belch with his napkin.

227 – Citrus – We won’t need lunch now

December 14, 2013 by Andrew Christie 3 Comments

We are stumbling towards the end of the year and in order to hit another arbitrary and pointless target, (getting to Church Street before Christmas) we are attempting two eateries in one day. Sometime when we have a spare moment and enough of an energy surplus we are going to have to do some introspection and try to figure out why we need to set ourselves these arbitrary goals. It’s not as if our respective jobs don’t provide plenty of goals and deadlines. So really, what the hell are we trying to do to ourselves? And don’t say fill the void left in our empty lives, because I’ve already thought of that and rejected it on the grounds that our lives are far too full. Maybe just full of the wrong things. That’s possible, I suppose. Still this isn’t the time or the place. I have to finish the blog, then string the christmas lights, pay my tax, and find out how to work the new bluetooth phone thingy, before heading off to drink birthday whiskies with Matt and Jim. No time to think about how empty my life is just yet. That’s what the holidays are for.

Sorry.

All that stands between us and Church St

7:30 am on Friday morning is time for breakfast at Citrus – because it is basically a cafe and that was the rule, and we have to go to work afterwards. On King Street the only people around according to Strop are commuters and meth-heads. “And half-arsed restaurant reviewers,” I point out. She gives me the look.

We are the first customers of the day, and decide to sit out on the street because it is a nice morning and the meth-heads will probably be more entertaining than than an empty cafe. Once we have overcome the challenge of trying to move the table far enough from the bench to fit our legs through the gap, without having the not-actually-attached-to-anything table leg fall off, we sit side-by-side facing out on the world, full of optimism and ready for breakfast. That was when the four bendy-buses of the apocalypse darkened the sky, their engines roaring, and their loose fan belts screaming in pain. We began to reconsider the entertainment value of meth heads, but decided to stay put on the grounds that it was all part of the King St tapestry.

“Citrus is conveniently located right next to a bus stop,” said Strop. “Write that down.”

The big breakfast option sounds huge, especially for a school day, and is quite expensive too, so we decide to share one together with a serve of French toast. The juices sound good. Strop chooses the Stress Buster (ginger and stuff) while I go for the Cold Buster (lots of citrus appropriately + honey).

The big breakfast is vast. Strop decides that it will be more efficiently shared if she makes an incision in the edge of one of the (very) thick-cut slices of toast and inserts her share of the egg, bacon, haloumi, sausage, spinach and mushrooms into its cavernous interior. By the time she has finished she has invented the big breakfast toasty-sanger. It is definitely a thing. And she seems to be enjoying it. I thought my conventional on-a-plate big brekkie was good too, my only whinge was that the haloumi was too salty. The juices were very good as well.

Strop loads the Big Brekkie Toasty Sanger

Then it was time for the French toast which was drizzled with maple syrup and topped with peaches and what seemed to be fried banana bits. Strop asked the waiter for some plain yoghurt to go with it, to cut the sweetness she explained. No problemo. We ordered coffees too.

The coffee was good, and soon there was no French toast left.

As we struggled to get out of the grasp of the self-disassembling table Strop said, “We won’t need lunch now.”

“No,” I agreed earnestly. But deep down inside I knew I would have some anyway.