Strop

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.

Off the Map to Brunswick Heads – fatbellyKaf

January 12, 2014 by Andrew Christie 3 Comments

Well, it’s me, Strop, and this is a special off-the-map guest blog, because Andy refused to write while on holidays.

The daughters, the g-daught, the son-out-law, Andy and I have all been on a summer holiday. This outing was planned as a last night celebration of our two weeks together in Brunswick Heads.

We’ve been to fatbellyKaf twice before, and we’ve never found it wanting – so we are really looking forward to this treat.

One of the best things about Brunz is that you don’t really need to drive anywhere, ever. It’s all walkable.

For instance, the Brunswick Hotel, as some of you may know, is perfectly located on a bend in the tidal creek. It is well-appointed, with many tables and seats under generously proportioned poinciana trees, a variety of beverages and tasty food. It is perfectly designed to entice on the way home from the beach.

The IGA has everything you might need, including local delicacies, and the fruit and vege stall down past the Bowlo offers a wide range of fresh and often local fruit and vege (surprisingly).

And then there are the choice swimming locations: our preferences are for Torakina, a small beach inside the Brunswick River’s breakwalls, or a couple of locations on the Creek. The surf beach is often a bit wild and wooly, not so good for 2 year olds, whereas Torakina has very good sand for drizzle castles (one of my personal favourite activities at the beach) and in fact many other type of sandy constructions – there was a sand car there one day! The creek’s depth fluctuates from very deep to very shallow depending on the tide, so about half of any day there are plenty of places to swim.

The only real reason to get in a car is to visit the splendid farmers markets in New Brighton (Tuesdays) and Mullumbimby (Fridays). They are a must if you have a vehicle, the local food on offer inspires great holiday cooking, in our family at least.

So, on our last night in Brunz we head for fatbellyKaf, which is a short walk along the old highway from our homely accommodation (what a different place it must have been when trucks went hurtling through day and night). We got their right on 6pm as we had the g-daught to feed.

Straight away we were warmly welcomed and settled. It is a family-run business and super toddler-friendly – probably missing their own kids, as we find out later in the night that their kids have been evacuated to the grandparents in Adelaide for the silly season. Within minutes of the g-daught sitting down, a pink cup, plate and eating-irons are delivered especially for her – nice.

We um and ahh over the menu, eventually taking the son-out-law’s lead of several cocktails – I have a whisky sour, mmm-mm. The others enjoyed their fbK specials: Rubejito (manzanilla sherry, mint, lemon, bubbles) and Vissitini (vodka, Cointreau, lime, rose, sour cherry)

Uncharacteristically, at least for me, we opt for a banquet: The Fisherman or O Psaras, for 4 with the addition of a Greek Salad and a Dry Aged Binna Burra Beef Rib Eye Steak with Bravas Potatoes. I’m usually reluctant to commit to a banquet because I expect them deliver the cheapest, least authentic and most mundane options, so Andy is a bit surprised at my willingness here, but I figure that fatbellyKaf will be aiming to showcase the very best of their Mediterranean-influenced sharing fare…

After our delicious, colourful cocktails arrive but before the food, (and before all the other people arrive to detain the him with their needs) out Host comes over to ask, “Is it ok if the kitchen takes a bit of artistic licence?” We all nod enthusiastically.

Through the meal, the bestest Aunt and I take turns to go for an occassional wander with the g-daught – I fail miserably at the first hurdle, bringing her back with not one but two bleeding knees. She is pretty stoic and brave, so is quickly settled with bandaids from the ever-accommodating staff.

The delicious food arrives, perfectly paced and impeccably presented. Happily there are no food fights (though there was one slight altercation about eating the tiny candle before the actual food arrived). The g-daught enjoys many tasty morsels, though there is a bit of bribery action to encourage her to try everything, including the spicy calamari. Her inducements are pretty jewels of pomegranate.

Here is the list of food (Andy would never do this) – but imagine that eating them is even better and more delectable than they taste in your head:

Garlic Bread
Plenty of local oysters some raw, some lightly chargrilled with various delicious dressings such as Pomegranate and Tomato; Finger-lime Pearl; Gin and Fried Onion Butter Gratin – salivating yet?
Tuna á Crudo with Fennel Tomato and Sherry Vinaigrette
Chilli Spiced Calamari with Mojo Picon
Beef ‘Pinchos’ with Olive Oil potatoes
Clear Water Scallops with Confit Duck & Pea Skordalia
Ocean Trout with Fragrant Salt, Fennel Salad& Tunisian Tarator
The beef I mentioned above and the simple tasty salad …

The following words were uttered between smacking lips and splitting everything 5 and a quarter ways: “stunt cooking with terrific local ingredients” – “so delicious, its ridiculous” – “exceptionally good food” – “so much better than anything we’ve had (so far) on King Street”.

The g-daught reckons she isn't getting enough beef in her diet — The g-daught reckons she isn’t getting enough beef in her diet

My only regret … was that I didn’t order a serving of the extraordinarily delectable and creamy Greek Custard Pastry scented with Orange Blossom that I had last time. Our banquet came with rich buttermilk ice-creamy cone, but I immediately got food envy when a huge serving of the custard was delivered to a neighboring table and my mind flashed back to the extreme deliciousness of this desert.

So, if you are ever in Brunz be sure to make time to eat at fatbellyKaf – try to book if you’re there in the silly season, it was packed out Thursday night, but the service was super.

If there is next time in Brunz for us, we’ve vowed to visit fatbellyKaf earlier in our stay, instead of leaving it to the last night – it is such a wonderful treat.

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.

226 – Splash – They’re Pacific oysters, from The Pacific.

December 7, 2013 by Andrew Christie 2 Comments

Daryl Hannah.

Okay, that’s that out of the way.

Strop has taken to calling this part of King Street the doldrums. She feels that we are currently becalmed in an ethnically indeterminate sea of mediocrity. She may be right. Splash is certainly in keeping with the nautical aspects of this theory. We shall see about the rest.

It is just the two of us again. Strop did try to drum up a bit of company, but either the festive season or the doldrums themselves meant that everyone was suddenly very busy. Or it could be just us, I suppose.

Splash. Seafood, get it? I think this could be the only place on King Street that specialises in seafood, and it’s been around for a few years now so presumably there’s a market need that they’re filling. (Apropos of nothing much, we also noticed the first Froyo casualty. Had to happen – now that’s a market that is absolutely saturated.)

Strop gets her wish and we are allocated a table for two right in the window. So far in the window in fact, that we are almost outside. This is great, we have the moving picture show of King St on Friday evening to keep us entertained, with only slight drawbacks of deafening noise from buses and Ducatis, and the occasional tendril of cigarette smoke.

Right. Now we’re going to need some alcohol. Strop has noticed a special two-for-one deal on cocktails, but unfortunately the deal only applies to concoctions with hideous names that you wouldn’t drink unless you already had ten cocktails under your belt. We decide to forgo the offer and order a couple of full-price mojitos to go with our entrees of oysters and salt and pepper squid. The waiter regrets to inform us that unfortunately the “squid is off” – I think he means that they’ve run out – so we choose salt and pepper prawns instead.

The oysters and the prawns arrive first, and we are just starting to get a bit angsty about the alcohol shortage when the mojitos arrive (stay calm, it’s all going to be alright). The drinks are good. The prawns are very good. The Pacific oysters are rich and creamy, but a bit muddy tasting. Interweb research has since informed me that there is a seasonal variation in the quality of oysters which might be the issue. Strop queries the tattooed waitress about the origin of the oysters. “They’re Pacific oysters, so they’re from The Pacific,” she informs us. Right. The next time the waitress circles past, Strop engages her in conversation and in a very friendly tone points out that Pacific oysters are grown in different places, not just The Pacific. The waitress, now understands the nature of our query and pootles off to do some fact checking, only to return almost immediately and put our minds at rest by informing us that, “They’re Australian. They’re Pacific oysters, but they’re from Australia.” Pheww – thank god for that. I was worried that they might have been from Coffin Bay or Bruny Island or some other outlandish place.

For mains I have chosen barramundi with coriander, and sides of chips and salad, while Strop has gone for a seafood risotto. Seeing as the mojitos seem to have vanished we also order a bottle of Pinot Grigio.

The restaurant is not full but it is relatively busy. At the table next to us the waitress is telling her customers about her tatts. Apparently she is planning to get a couple more old-timey film stars to adorn her body. “Humphrey Bogart. And Gregory Peck, from Roman Holiday. Maybe Fred Astaire too. In profile.” I’m more surprised that she knows their names than that she wants their images inked onto her arms.

The barramundi and risotto arrive and are perfectly pleasant. The chips are good. The salad is mundane.

The couple at the next table have been more adventurous than us and have ordered a seafood platter, but when it arrives they have to call the waitress back to get finger bowls and something to put the shells in.

To me this sums up the doldrums. There is no sense that these restaurants are interested in giving their customers anything other than a bog standard dining experience. How hard is it to train your staff so they know something about the produce they are selling? It is not as if Splash is a cheap place. I understand that seafood is expensive, that’s fair enough, but when you are paying $100 for a seafood platter for two you should expect the people serving it to take a bit of pride in what they are doing. You shouldn’t have to ask for a finger bowl. It wouldn’t take that much effort to make these places a lot better. But maybe no one cares.

Next up we sail back across the street and into cafe land at Citrus.

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.

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.