restaurants

196 Level 1 – Paju BBQ – Up the stairs to the land of butane

October 27, 2013 by Andrew Christie 6 Comments

It’s Friday night again and tonight we get to go upstairs. There is something a bit mysterious about anywhere upstairs. There is no window to peer in at, to get a sense of the place. You have to commit, climb the stairs and take your chances. You may be shocked by what you find and have to make a hasty retreat (“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise it was that kind of establishment”). On the other hand you may find yourself with a few other happy punters, surrounded by the smell and the sizzle of marinated meats cooking over bright blue butane flames. But first you have to commit and climb the very steep and long flight of stairs.

Strop and I committed. We are always committed (well except for that one time at Guzman y Gomez) otherwise we’d be at home watch Walking Dead or Game of Thrones (well I would be – Strop would be watching something more edumakayshional).

We met up at the bottle shop first and stocked up on Pinot Gris before making our way to the bottom of the stairs. I had arrived early and had applied Dogbolter liberally to my inflamed sensibilities in order to wash away the trauma inflicted when I discovered that my aged parents were secret stationary hoarders and fetishists. I had spent the day sorting through cabinets and drawers full of well-filled notebooks, half-used writing pads, unopened packets of christmas cards, greeting cards, visiting cards, and postcards. Not to mention all the drawings produced by their grandchildren down through the ages. It was a lot to come to terms with, knowing that they had been doing this for years and had never once advised me to buy shares in John Sands. So I was ready for a night out with normal people after spending the day filling garbage bags with paper products.

Our co-questers for the night are Anna (making a much anticipated return to King Street after an impressive debut at Thai-Riffic) and Don (on a brief and welcome return to Oz to recharge his accent.) I suspect that I am the only person who still thinks of him as Don or Donny. It’s all Donald or The Professor now that we’re all grown up, but Donny is how I’ve thought of him since we were group-house whipper-snappers back in, what young people reverently refer to as, The Day.

There was no sign of Don or Anna when we got to the bottom of the stairs, so Strop and I began climbing. After establishing that they hadn’t beaten us to it, we chose a table and plonked our paper bag of wine down. Strop was keen to get a beer under her belt by way of catching up to my Dogboltedness, so she proceeded to confuse the waiter by asking if they had any dark beers. This was a fresh concept for him apparently and he shook his head and indicated the cheapest beer on the menu. “This one is good.”

“Okay,” said Strop, “I was going to order the most expensive Korean beer you had, but on your say so I’ll have that cheap one.”

I said “Me too,” because I am gullible and impressed by people who act confident.

The waiter was lying, the beer was not good. It was called Cass and described itself as Fresh, but it was piss. That was the lowlight of the evening.

Strop proceeded to confuse the wait staff further by enquiring about corkage for our bottle of Pinot Gris, and then changing her mind and opting for one of Paju’s own wines because it would work out cheaper. In the middle of all this Don and Anna arrived in a flurry of kissing and hugging. As we nattered away with catchup chat, the young staff gathered at the countered and eyed our old-person table warily. Eventually they sent a senior emissary to find out just exactly what-the-fuck we wanted to put in our wine glasses. Unfortunately their emissary looked exactly like Brains, of Thunderbirds Are Go fame, so I had a hard time keeping a straight face. But he knew how to handle ridiculous old round-eyed people and we soon had palatable alcohol to drink and were starting to think about food.

Unfortunately I didn’t take any notes about what we ordered – mistakenly thinking that Paju was the kind of joint that would be all over the internet, and I could check the menu later. I mean, they’re Korean – Samsung is Korean – it stands to reason that their menu would be online. Wrong. But everything was yummy, so no biggy.

Because Paju uses BBQ in its name the unwritten Rule of Nominative Nosh applies so we had to have BBQ in the mix. We had a brief discussion about BBQ and gender roles, during which I may have put my foot in it, commenting on a table full of women doing the BBQ thing. It was just like being back in the 1970s only funnier. We ordered a first round of pre-cooked things that came with a huge range of condiments, and a second round of raw things ready to be cooked, including inter-coastal beef, which Strop surmised must really mean bits of meat from between the ribs, and nothing at all to do with shipping canals or Florida. I was a bit disappointed by the mundanity of this typographical explanation.

"No, it's definitely an omelette." — “No, it’s definitely an omelette.”

After we had ordered the food we were immediately moved to a larger table and provided with two gas powered barbeques. Wow I thought, we must really have over-ordered, but apparently not, we had just managed to confuse them again and soon one of the barbeques disappeared.

Food arrived – we ate it. More food arrived – we cooked it then ate it. All this while talking a lot about nostalgia and death and knitting and tea cosies. At least that’s what my indecipherable notes seem to say.

Funny how with good friends you just seem to pick up where you left off.

196 – Tamana’s North Indian Diner – Let there be food.

October 19, 2013 by Andrew Christie 7 Comments

On Wednesday we successfully slotted two old, independent-minded, and beloved wrinklies into the Aged Care Machine – for what we presume will be the terms of their natural lives. This is what happens in our world when you outlive your ability to be independent.

It had been a rush, because when two slots open up in adjoining rooms in a well-run and easily-accessible establishment it is best not to fuck about. Those kinds of planets don’t always align so neatly. And even though it has been a stressful time, I am grateful to live in a country who’s citizens can expect to be looked after if they manage to live long enough to need it. We are lucky to have an Aged Care Machine, even if it is a bit clunky and ponderous, and to have a government that subsidises quality aged care for those who can’t afford it. I am also grateful to the lowly paid immigrants who look after the well being of our elderly, and really do seem to care. I don’t agree with Bronwyn Bishop on many topics but I do appreciate what she and her public servants did to change Aged Care in this country.

Okay, enough self-indulgent posturing – let’s get back to business.

The parental move was at short notice and was jammed hard up against a planned outing to King Street. We thought briefly about postponing the outing but decided that we were probably going to need a beer and a curry by the time the day was over. This was a correct prediction.

It was meant to be a quiet dinner, a chance to farewell Monica before she flew off, back to pommieland – just in time for winter, but when we got to the Coopers Hotel the party had expanded somewhat. There was Strop and I of course, my brother Steve (in town for the wrinkly relocation), Roy and Jill (last seen at Thanh Binh), Jill’s sister Monica (soon to depart our golden shores), John (previously seen at Kammadhenu and Thanh Binh, and fast becoming a groupie – or possibly a stalker), the Newlywed and the Newlywed-ette. After a quick beer, during which John informed me that he was planning on getting extremely drunk in order to give me something to write about, we set out on a brief safari towards Tamana’s. As our safari straggled along the footpath, I wondered if perhaps we should have booked but there was plenty of room at Tamana’s North Indian Diner.

Tamana’s has always seemed a bit of a strange restaurant to me. There is no attempt to fashion an intimate dining experience here, no candles or mood lighting. There aren’t even any waiters. What there is, is a big dining hall with a food counter loaded with curries along one side. This is where you order and pay for your food. Tamana’s lies at the cafeteria end of the dining experience spectrum – exactly as the name suggests.

We made our way to the back of the room and dragged a couple tables together. Someone said “Let there be food.” Someone else said “Let there be beer first,” so the Newlywed offered up his credit card as hostage against us doing a runner. “Won’t do them any good,” he said returning to the table loaded with beers, “It’s already maxed out.”

Strop, Jill and Monica took on the food ordering role, and because the food is already cooked, the table was immediately covered with curries, rice, and naan. The Newlywed-ette informed us that she had never really been a fan of Indian food. Not because it was too spicy (she’s Korean and used to chilli), it was more that she hadn’t had the opportunity to try many different types. Well tonight’s the night said the Newlywed who was keen to convert her, as he is a big fan of the curry.

Religious iconography meets romance novel cover

Plates and conversation topics were soon circulating around the table with lots of enthusiasm but very little coordination. And even less note taking on my part. Steve took up John’s idea of helping me out with writing topics. He quizzed the proprietor about the significance of the artworks and began interpreting the religious symbology, even finding out the names of the Hindu deities that were hanging around on the walls. Sometimes I think Steve listens to too much Radio National. Frequent readers of the blog will understand that facts have a very short half-life once I get hold of them. I just nodded and kept eating. The conversation veered like an out of control Segway from Hindu iconography to Fred Nile, and then on to The Greens post-election shenanigans. At this point Steve looked up and pointed out the large number of security cameras and everyone paused to check their handbag. We didn’t want another Good Friday de-funding event.

About this time several people noted that the food was good, and how about another round of beers?

Monica observing John failing to get drunk

The vibrancy of the increasingly tasty food scene in Parramatta bubbled to the conversational surface (Strop can’t help herself) but quickly morphed into a discussion of the consternation expressed by the Church Street Mall derros and druggies when regular citizens turned up and started enjoying themselves en-masse at the recent Parramatta Masala festivities. Another round of curries was required at this point and the Newlywed-ette, having declared herself a curry convert was sent off to the counter alone. It was a test that she passed with flying colours when she returned with the hottest dish of the evening. While sweat seeped from pores and noses ran, the Newlywed-ette tried to explain the presence of a huge-bright-green-furry-irish-joke-hat in her handbag. It was apparently a prop for an up-coming Eurovision-themed works outing at the Horden Pavlova. The Newlywed then began coaching his beloved in the art of the Irish joke.

As we began to disentangle ourselves from our chairs and migrate towards the street, John declared that he had failed completely in the simple task of getting drunk. And that it was the fault of the beer.

It was that kind of evening.

194 – Dumpling King Chinese Restaurant – Can we get some mojo with that?

September 28, 2013 by Andrew Christie 4 Comments

It has finally happened. We’ve lost our mojo. It’s gone. Buggered off. Wandered off into the dusk, last seen slithering through the grating of a King Street storm water inlet, no doubt well on its way through the ancient root clogged pipes to Rozelle Bay along with an assortment of plastic bottles, used condoms and inner-west staffy turds. Come back you chicken-hearted bastard, we’re only a quarter of the way to St Peters, you can’t quit now.

I knew we were in trouble when Strop didn’t set to immediately checking in with Facebook (I know I hate Facebook too, but I think Strop owns shares). This is a ritual that I have complained about many times on our past outings but now I miss it, now I realise that it was the pulse of our mojo. Without that little throbber we’re just a rudderless agglomeration of appetites adrift on a sea of cheap eats. No purpose, no direction.

The second bad sign was Strop questioning me taking notes on my phone. “What are you doing?” she asked. I look at her, not sure what she means. I look down at the notes I am tapping laboriously into Evernote (rather than writing in a Moleskine notebook because it is more socially acceptable to be a bore with an iDevice than it is with paper and pen). What can she mean? This is what I do. Desperately take notes, in the hope that some of the Friday night King Street mundanery can be turned into Saturday morning blog-wittery (fuck-witterings?). She be’s all entertaining, I be note taking. Surely she understands this break down of labour by now. Surely she doesn’t want me to talk as well.

Ok, I am blathering here. In a panic, trying to rescue last night’s mojo-less debacle. Better get back to the story, stick to the facts.

6pm on Friday night. 194 King Street. Dumpling King Chinese Restaurant. It was an early start, still light out, but cooling rapidly. The evening buses were growling and farting on their way out of the city, as I turned up the collar of my jacket against the wind and stubbed out my Winfield Blue. She was late…

Sorry – no idea where that was going (Do they still sell Winfield Blues? I gave up smoking in 1979, maybe they’re called Gangrenous Greens now). Back to dinner. We are starting early because tonight’s eating adventure is just a precursor to a night of scintillating wit courtesy of Mr Wil Anderson’s show at the Enmore. It starts at 7:30 so we need to get a wriggle on. To my surprise, we are joined tonight by the Stropolina who is not coming to the show and has been suffering from a bout of gastro all week. She is sloshing with artificial electrolytes to stave off dehydration, so I’m not sure that going toe-to-toe with a King Street Chinese is the wisest move, but I think I lost my right to give that kind of advice when she turned 25.

As has probably become clear by now, Strop and I are quite literal in our interpretations, and the Stropolina is the fruit of our loins, so there was a fair bit of consternation when it becomes apparent that Dumpling King serves dishes other than dumplings. Consternation turns to outrage when the menu claims that the signature dish of Dumpling King is Sang Choi Bao. I’m sorry, what?

We are nothing if not bloody minded – so we ignore the lettuce leaves, and all the other offerings and stick with dumplings. Pork and chive dumplings steamed, and prawn dumplings fried. And some simple steamed veges for the poor Stropolina’s battered belly. The food is good. Not brilliant, but good (this is King Street after all not Enmore Road), but the service is… uninvolved might be the best term. There are plenty of them, but they do seem to spend a lot of time milling around the counter, pointing at the order dockets. Several tables around us were getting huffy due to a lack of menus, or drinks, or wine glasses. Dumpling King does seem to regard itself as a bit of a phenomenon (you can buy a tee shirt emblazoned with “I ♡ Dumpling King” for a mere $15) and by the time we left for the theatre it was packed with punters. Maybe they know something we don’t. We weren’t terribly impressed, but I think our mojo-free status may have meant that we didn’t really give them a a fair shake.

We were impressed by Wil Anderson though. Very funny. I was also impressed by the young woman sitting next to me who sounded as if she was going to laugh up a lung when Anderson turned his attention to the inevitable causative correlation between gay marriage and sex with animals.

Some Indian joint is next.

191 – Moshi Moshi Gyoza – Fun food that hits more than it misses

September 21, 2013 by Andrew Christie 1 Comment

It’s a memorable name, but is it trying too hard to be cute? I was a bit dubious at first, but now I’m a convert. This place is full of cheerfulness and amusing eating. Just what we needed after a week of bad-news on the parental front.

“Let’s order first then talk,” said Strop un-bagging a bottle of WA riesling. I had spent the day filling in forms, and talking to aged-care and medical types, so alcohol and the promise of food was definitely called for before I started the latest Dad download.

We ordered a mixed bag of gyoza from the specials menu, to start, and teppan salmon, ramen with chicken and some edamame. The wait staff are all got-up in brightly coloured Japanese costumes, and they add to the general air of cheerfulness by greeting each new arrival with cries of “Moshi moshi.” And it’s not just the floor staff, the kitchen staff get in on the act too, in a kind of call-and-reply routine, shouting out more greetings from the back of the restaurant in response to the front of house greetings. Our waitress is the only anglo on the staff and seems a little bit nervous and tentative as she takes our order. I presume she must be new, learning the ropes etc. Poor girl, all those strange new Japanese foods to learn… until she shatters my presumptions by bellowing our order out to the kitchen in gutteral and nasal Japanese. Strop reckons the only thing she was nervous about was whether or not to correct our awful attempts at Japanese pronunciation.

Our table is near the front so we have a good view of the passing parade on the footpath. I point out a large group of gorgeous young things in short skirts and tall heels tottering past, no doubt on their way to happy hour at Kuleto’s. “Write that down,” says Strop pointing at my closed notebook. So I do as I’m told.

The edamame arrives first and keeps the alcohol company as I update Strop. Then the rest of the food arrives very quickly, so we stop talking and get stuck straight into the task of serious eating. I think I’ve only ever had one type of gyoza before so the mixed gyoza plate is is a whole new experience. Mushroom gyoza? Prawn gyoza with the tail sticking out the top? Who knew? Cheese gyoza? With tomato sauce for dipping? It is all strange and fascinating and somehow very Japanese. It is also extremely yummy. The teppan salmon is fantastic too, tender and tasty. The ramen is disappointing though. It is made with instant noodles which have soaked up most of the stock, and the egg is hard-boiled. But the stock is tasty and the chicken balls are really good. So swings and roundabouts. Strop is reminded of a Japanese film about a ramen restaurant (from the days when we used to go to Japanese films).

“It had a cowboy hat wearing truck driver.”

“Yeah, I remember, and an old guy who was like a ramen whisperer.”

“And that sexy scene with the live prawn flapping around on the girls stomach.”

“Was that the same film?”

“I think so.”

“But what was it called?”

“No idea.”

Excellent Japanese plates and gratuitous use of lens cap

Strop and I are feeling no pain by this stage and opt for the dessert menu. Yes, we are pleased to confirm that they do have dessert gyoza. And how could we not try them out? What kind of woosie correspondents would that make us? Exactly. So we order the apple and cinnamon and the banana and chocolate. And they are excellent. The banana turns out to be a small refined version of that venerable suburban Chinese restaurant standard, the banana fritter. And the apple is a kind of crispy reconstructed apple pie. More yums.

“Tampopo!”

“Bless you.”

“No that’s the film.”

And so it was. I thought the name had something to do with flowers but she’s right. Memory is a funny old thing. Loved that prawn scene.

We cruise past a few bookshops on the stumble home, before self-medicating with chocolate and whisky in front of the telly. Simple Pleasures.

186 – Thai Yindee – Exceeding Yet-Another-Thai Expectations

September 15, 2013 by Andrew Christie 2 Comments

I’m developing a new hypothesis. It goes like this: there is a direct correlation between worn menus and good food. When I can convince CSIRO to take this important piece of research on, I think that Thai Yindee will make an excellent test site. The menus at Thai Yindee appear to have been put through a thresher, and yet the food is full of pleasant surprises. Indeed most of the menus are missing their cover pages. Without these it takes a while to work out that the menus are really two separate menus (lunch and dinner) stuck back to back and upside to downside, in the one dog-eared document. The upside of this culinary duality is that there are two number 37s to try. Hooray!

Our visit to Thai Yindee came at the end of a challenging week, and as usual our research was not extensive.

“What’s next?

“I think it’s called Thai Yindee.”

“Really? Another Thai? I thought it was that dumpling place.”

“No, that’s before the Indian. After the Japanese.”

“The Japanese was last week.”

“Not that Japanese.”

“Oh… Do you think we need to book?”

“God knows.”

So our expectations weren’t high, but King Street on Friday night always lifts the spirits. It is a good way to start the weekend, there is a relaxed buzz in the air on Fridays, as if all the punters are just glad to have survived the week. On Saturday nights it is a bit more crazy. There is an air of desperation to the good-time seeking, as if Saturday is the last chance to get wasted or laid before the next week comes charging over the horizon. (Elmore Leonard reckons I should cut this because it looks like writing, but fuck him, he’s dead now.)

From the outside there is nothing to lift Thai Yindee out of the ‘yet another Thai’ dining category, but inside there are clues. The first is the delicious smell, the second is the layout with the kitchen up front, and the third is the well worn menus. The restaurant is warm and welcoming and the other diners look happy. Tonight we are joined by the Stropolina who is in fine form having just had a few days work at a school attached to Randwick Children’s Hospital.

We have been too disorganised to manage to get some wine on the way to the restaurant, so we decide to choose from the wine list. I notice that the couple at the next table have a bottle of rosé that looks very appealing. It is beaded with condensation, and is that pale pink that I associate with nice dry rosés. Unfortunately my primate brain leaps to the conclusion that it is the same as the one in the wine list. No. It is not the same. The one that we get is warm, deep red and very sweet. Strop is undaunted though, quickly saving the day by ordering ice which makes the wine cold and also somehow manages to make it less sweet. Anyway we have absolutely no problem finishing the bottle.

For entrees we order Potato Prawns, Satay Chicken and something called Moo Ping which turns out to be bbq pork on a skewer. For mains we have the two number 37s – Egg Fried Rice and Banana Flower Salad – and Jingle Curry with duck. (I know that it is really Jungle Curry but I am the sort of shallow person who will order a dish purely on the basis of a silly sounding name, or indeed a misspelt one. Strop is further amused by the wait-person’s pronunciation of jungle which involves swallowing a whole live letter g. Small minds etc.)

So about the hens night... — So about the hens night…

While we are waiting for the food to arrive there is a very tense moment when discussion of upcoming nuptials reveals that Strop has not been invited to Stropette’s hens night/weekend. Tension abounds – Strop is actually quite hurt by this revelation that she does not qualify as a BFF. To avoid any hasty phone calls to Melbourne, Stropolina and I engage in some rapid subject-changing manoeuvres.

“Did you know that it’s very important to keep the oncology kids away from the cystic fibrosis kids.”

“No, I did not know that.”

“Well it is.”

“How so?”

“Suppressed immune systems are incompatible with phlegm.”

“Oh.”

Thank god, the food started to arrive.

It was soon followed by the first of many mutterings of the phrase of the evening, “Yum, this is better than I was expecting.”

The entrees all come with four pieces, which is a bit of a problem as there are only three of us, and knowing our family THAT could lead to nasty scenes. While I am wondering how to cut the fourth potato prawn into three with a fork and spoon, Stropolina comes up with the perfect solution – everyone gets a second helping of their favourite. She quickly gobbles down her own favourite (Potato Prawns) before her parents realise that this solution only works if we all have different favourites. This is the kind of parent managing strategy that you learn after years of working with children apparently.

The Jingle Curry, and the Banana Flower Salad are excellent and the Egg Fried Rice is fried rice with egg. The phrase of the evening gets more of a work out. The Banana Flower Salad is the stand out dish, and the only disappointment, apart from the wine was the satay sauce which was a bit too salty. The wait-persons are friendly and efficient, keeping the food coming and the water topped up.

I would be very happy to go back to Thai Yindee – but that would involve breaking the Rules.

We have had a few queries from friends wanting to join us on future outings so we are going to put up a page listing the next few eateries on the schedule.

Love to all.

Will you just take the photo... — Will you just take the photo…

184 – Iiza – What the hell is an izakaya anyway?

September 7, 2013 by Andrew Christie 7 Comments

As is often the case, we start this week’s adventure with a small dispute. What the hell is an izakaya anyway? Japanese tapas says Strop, full of the glib confidence of someone informed by friends. Personally I thought it was something to do with matching food and drink, having once misread a good food guide entry. Turns out that we are both just right enough to save face and to assure ourselves that we were each more right (or less wrong than the other). The great wikipedia reckons that izakaya are basically sake shops that let you sit around and drink on the premises, and they provide a bit of food to soak up the alcohol. Makes sense, the three places I have been to that called themselves izakayas have all been liberally decorated with sake bottles. I suspect that is where the similarity ends though, as most of the emphasis is on the food here.

Iiza has been around for a couple of years now and has always looked a bit exotic from the outside (cool name – izakaya trendyness – scarcity of japanese joints on the King Street – wishful thinking – all of that). Strop and I were looking forward to trying it out. We did have vague plans to include some other participants in the outing, but it’s been a busy time. Strop reckons it felt as if someone had grabbed the back of her belt on Sunday night and given her the bum’s rush through the week. So it’s another Friday night with only ourselves for company.

It could be romantic, date night, even. But we blow our chances at the first hurdle. After both arriving within a few minutes of 7:00, we fail utterly to recognise the presence of each other. We are 2 metres apart, sending txt msgs to each other ARE YOU GETTING CLOSE? – I’M HERE – WHERE IIZA?? COS THAT’S WHERE I AM. “Oh there you are!” we both exclaim, finally having a good look around. After nearly forty years, we are invisible to each other apparently. The staff are bemused, it’s not as if Iiza is a big a place, and it is certainly not packed.

Wine. We need wine. Strop turns down the option of sake in favour of a nice flinty West Australian riesling. And food. We order a couple of specials (raw beef and seared salmon sashimi), gyoza and vegetable sushi rolls. That should get us started. The Iiza decor includes the requisite giant sake bottles, and calligraphy, and it is very brightly lit by large white paper lanterns. A small arrangement of origami at the counter is a nice touch.

Unfortunately the specials turn out to be disappointing, tender but without much flavour. The gyoza are a winner however, and the sushi are good too, despite crumbling under the clumsy onslaught of my chopsticks.

Well, that lot didn’t last long – we are going to need reinforcements. My turn with the menu now: duck teriyaki, (never had that before, and pleasingly, but totally irrelevantly, it is item number 37), and pork belly. The waitress is sorry to inform me that unfortunately some other bastard has eaten the last of the duck teriyaki. I build a bridge and get over my outrage, ordering assorted tempura instead.

The pork belly comes in a broth and is sweet tender and entirely edible. The tempura is crispy on the outside and soft on the inside, with lots of vegies but only 3 prawns.

All in all Iiza is a bit disappointing. Some of it was nice enough but nothing was really outstanding. There are good izakaya joints out there – just not on King Street so far. We went to one in Surry Hills a couple of weeks ago that had loads of sake and japanese beers, as well as flavour packed food (charcoal grilled octopus :-).

We had high hopes for Iiza but we have been reminded once again that this is King Street, and unexpected delights like Thai La-Ong are few and far between.

What’s next? No idea, I’ll just check with Strop.