The Axis of Evil

Lipscombe Larder, Hill St Grocer, Salad Bowl … it’s about time a comparison was made between these, Hobart’s dens of iniquity!

Lipscombe Larder, Sandy Bay Road, Sandy Bay.
The reputed mothership of suburban gourmet food stores (aside, of course, from the Wursthaus, which is in a league of its own).
Pretty good basil pesto, although I’m newly addicted to their spinach pesto … I’m hoping not to eat the whole jar in sneaked spoonfuls!
Excellent bread, possibly the best on offer in the foodstore mould. Love their Olive Toscano … could eat it all day.
Fabulous range of cheeses and Tassie wines.
Excellent cakes and chocolates and all that evil stuff.

The Hill St Grocer, Hill St, West Hobart.
Very often in the news, it seems.
Best range of produce this side of heaven. (Just watch me go berserk when the sacks of fresh broad beans or peas are in!) … Great deli section, with excellent variety of pre-prepared meals (try their couscous salad!).
Fabulous range of ‘international’ treats (mmmm, Dutch Breakfast Cake with coffee!).
“Not so squizzy” since their renovations a few years ago, but one still risks serious injury from basket rage at busy times. Such a shame (but what can they do?), as it means that I will avoid the place if it’s “that time of day”.

The Salad Bowl, Macquarie St, South Hobart.
Also undergone some sexy renovations.
Produce is good, good deli section, good bread … but what hooks me every time is their specials in the grocery section … Three tins of crab meat for bugger all, tubs of mussels for next to nothing. Cheeses discounted by the bucket load.
I love a bargain, and if it’s nibblies I’m after … it’s the Salad Bowl for me!

So, in a nutshell each of the triumvirate is unique in its own way. At Lipscombe you risk losing an eye from the proliferation of upturned collars. At Hill St you could be run down by a fleet of Subaru Foresters as you jostle for a park, or you could lose a kidney as you manoeuvre past me in the rush for the peas. As for the Salad Bowl, you’re more likely to be blinded by bare midriffs or rendered olfactorily senseless by the unique aroma of the Tarkine perfume. BUT … If it’s bread and pesto your after, head for Lipscombe. If it’s the full gamut of fresh produce you need (or indeed food advice), go to Hill St Grocer. And if you want a nibbly bargain, scoot to the Salad Bowl.

Don’t listen to the cries of “Oh, but it’s so expensive” to shop at our gourmet stores. This is a myth. No-one is suggesting you regularly buy your kitty litter or eau de cologne here, but in the case of fresh delicacies … if you want to prioritise price over flavour, go to Woollies … your choice.

Launceston Scores Again ... Stillwater River Cafe

I wasn’t being a pig. Really I wasn’t, honest. It’s just that the menu was so exciting AND they had a degustation menu. Actually they had TWO specialised menus … one with six courses, the other with eight. You know which one I had. I agonise over spending sixty bucks on a skirt or a couple of hundred bucks on a much needed new vacuum cleaner, but put me in front of a scintillating menu and I go crazy. I need help.

Stillwater River Café is in Launceston’s idyllic Richie’s Mill, hugging the riverbank (just try to pretend Penny Royal World isn’t across the road). I’d had breakfast there (excellent eggs) and coffee (great coffee), but this was my first outing for dinner. It was a beautiful evening. Typical colourful Launceston sunset. Quacking ducks. Smelly rubbish stuck in the reeds just outside the restaurant (mental note: pretend not to notice the rubbish next time).

Course 1. - Saltwater Sashimi Plate - Calamari with Lime/Palm Sugar/Chilli and Scallop with Mushroom Essence/Truffle Oil.
Very subtle. I scribbled a note to myself – “bland but stunning”. Wonder what that means?
Course 2. - Lime/Sugar Cured Tasmanian Salmon with Green Mango, Laksa Leaf Salsa, Dressed Cucumber Egg Noodles, Lime/Pepper Paste.
Cute little “sandwiches”: two thin squares of salmon with shredded green mango in between, unfortunately the taste of fine-ground black pepper dominated the egg noodles. Go easy fellas!
Course 3. - Beetroot Tapioca & Shredded Basil with Saint Agur Blue Cheese.
This was divine, interesting, weird. Yummy too. We also thought that this could make an interesting half-dessert/half-cheese platter option. But in hindsight that was probably the wine talking.
Course 4. - Seared Scallops with Double Mushroom Custard on Roasted Portobello Mushrooms with Tomato Beurre Blanc.
Ever had mushroom custard? Mmmm. Big flavours.
Course 5. - Slow Cooked Octopus with Lightly Spiced Asian Salad with Vietnamese Mint.
We loved this dish, it was excellently placed to freshen the palate after the Scallops and Mushrooms. BUT we had difficulty differentiating it from the appetisers freely found in Vietnamese restaurants (big iceberg lettuce, sprouts, Vietnamese mint, dipping sauce). All this dish needed was an iceberg lettuce to be the real deal. As for the octopus, its only purpose really was to add a lovely texture to the meal, but that’s octopuses for you. I sound negative, but this dish was lovely (just try not to think of Victoria St, Richmond).
Course 6. - Chinese Duckling Consommé with Coriander/Chilli Tortellini.
STANDOUT DISH. Simple, simple, simple. Broth with a tortellini button floating in the middle. But oh my god, it was beautiful. The broth was rich but not overpowering, the tortellini was a joyous burst of coriander and sweet chilli.
Course 7. - Tasmanian Prime Eye Fillet of Beef in Soy and Sake with Roasted Portobello Mushroom, Buttered Parsnip Puree, Ponzu Sauce and Wasabi Fine Noodles.
Simply a beef stack on top of a mushroom with parsnip mash (puree … so that’s what we’re calling it now?). But oh my goodness me, what an example of how this type of dish works when done well. The beef was rare and thinly sliced. Best preparation of a steak I’ve come across in a long while. The parsnip mash (I mean puree) was really yummy. Top marks.
Course 8. - Assiette of Sweets.
Now, my friend Beryl (who is fluent in Kitchenese) tells me that an Assiette means: the Ass-you-get if you eat too many of these sweets!
a) Strawberry and Basil Pannacotta
A little baby pannacotta pretending to be gnocchi, with a strip of honey something and a strip of diced strawberry and basil. Drooooool.
b) Apple and Lychee Salad
Grated apple and rough cut lychees. Didn’t interest me at all. Once again, really overdid it with the fine-ground black pepper.
c) Chocolate and Mandarin
Was it a fudge, was it a truffle, who cares, it was chocolate! I think I may have moaned aloud.

And the wine! I am head over hills in love with Lalla Gully Sauvignon Blanc (1998, $35/$7), from the Pipers River region. Give me a wine whiffing of capsicum and I know I’m half-way there! We also had a glass of a yummy red with the Tasmanian beef … but by that stage I had no idea what my name was let alone the wine’s!

I was too full to order coffee (goodness!). Next time we’ll try the six-course degustation (with wines matched by the glass), which would have worked out much cheaper (and perhaps easier on my full belly). Our indulgence was ridiculously financially reckless ($300!!!). But don’t let our wantonness put you off. Go … even if it’s just to have a coffee or a glass of wine while you soak up the fabulous ambience. They won’t mind … Whatever suits your budget (or in our case, whatever blows ours completely out of the water!!). For my money, chef Don Cameron (surely “Don” as in Corleone!) is a masterful designer of a wonderful food indulgence. However, perhaps call first to check if The Don is having a night off, our replacement chef was in a wee hurry to get home it seemed.

Sad postscript … Have since discovered (courtesy of knowledgeable bloke at Hobart Gasworks) that the Lalla Gully Sauvignon Blanc is rather hard to come by. It seems to be available only in restaurants (and the vineyard I suppose). Sigh.

Has the HRB Gone Soft???

Currently I’m spoiled for choice … and it’s all good. Recently I’ve had good things to say about Steam Packet, I’ve had good things to say about Navaro’s (in Launceston), and I’ve had good things to say about a few other places too. And yet I’m still not finished … I still have more good things to say! But I’m in need of some thinking music before I deliver this new gospel according to the HRB … so please bear with me.

See ... contrary to the Tas Tourism Board's paranoia, I am capable of giving credit when it's due!

In the meantime …

I had a conversation with a friend today. In 36 degree heat we were stumped trying to identify a good place for a bevvie. Not that there aren’t good places to drink, but we were looking for something other than the usual suspects (T42 … or … T42?). We thought of sitting on the domain and just getting a little bit tipsy in the park … but in 36 degrees? In the end I gave up, stayed home, and sipped refreshing tea in the shade.

Much more sensible really!

Snippets

Snippet #1
As if to erase a bad dream from my memory banks, as if to make me feel as though I’m a crazy lady in some kind of delusional state, Jean-Pascal in West Hobart has pulled the God-damned goods!

Some of you may have seen my terrified comment about milk heated in a microwave. Well the good news is you needn’t be quite so afraid. As with all teething problems, this has been overcome.

Jean-Pascal will never be a coffee palace (they use a domestic-style machine), BUT the coffee is serviceable, AND not being a sweet-tooth I was astounded to feel myself pulled inexplicably towards the display cabinet and finding myself wanting three of everything. There are real chocolate éclairs, real house cakes with pert raspberries on top, real profiteroles, and real cakes. There are other real things that I don’t know the name of. And there are very sexy pies. Oh, and the bread rocks.

Snippet #2
Like a mirage I saw it, an ad in yesterday’s Merc. And just to reassure me that I hadn’t dreamt it, there it was again today. A proclamation. Athena’s has been sold. Not wanting to be harsh but, ATHENA’S IS DEAD, LONG LIVE ATHENA’S. To the new owners … please listen very closely to the saddened whispers of diners gone by. We were so excited by the thought of Greek by the river, we were so saddened by the service and the food. Not to mention the bills (some very nasty rumours flying around about those). Please, take Athena’s bull by its mangy horns and show us what you’re made of. And this time, make it worth our dreams.

Could this be The One?

I took the plunge and dived straight into the refreshing waters of the Steam Packet at Henry Jones last night. In a word: excellent. The service was incredible, the food was exciting, I was even inspired to order pork. I NEVER order pork!

Our waiter for the evening was the delightful Chris. He’s a funny guy. Talks you through the menu with a cheeky grin, you half expect a crash of cymbals at the end of his little presentation to signify that he’s a ham. He is. Chris is a ham. When it’s appropriate. And here is the secret talent of the truly talented wait staff. I watched him operate. To each table he presented a different face. To the two cranky pants behind us he was serious and unobtrusive. To the young couple by the Atrium door he was attentive and helpful. We were obviously up for it and so he gave us a floorshow.

Being a funny guy isn’t everything. That’s why I still haven’t been to Gondwana (because of the “funny guy” who used to work at Rockerfellers and is now at Gondwana … dude, you’re not that funny). Chris is not a mere comic in waiter’s clothing, he is passionate and knowledgeable about the Steam Packet menu. This is the other secret talent of the truly talented host (notice I’ve given him a promotion? … Please do likewise Mr Crawford). Chris had sampled each dish on the menu (damned sensible when you think about it). Better yet, he was EXCITED by everything on the menu. He was bursting out of his skin to be asked a question about a dish, any dish, just ask him a question, go on! AND he’s clearly inspired to be working with the chef. He said so.

All good news.

The food? Oysters – six natural and six topped with cucumber pickled in chilli and star anise with frozen olive oil. Gorgeous, and forget fresh, these things were alive and charging me by the hour. Smoked Crocodile. Oh yes, Smoked Crocodile. Looks like bacon only lighter, doesn’t taste like chicken (don’t let anyone tell you otherwise), basically “yum scrum pig’s bum”, except it was Crocodile’s bum. Served with a dazzling beetroot reduction, stir fried baby spinach and tomato, and red onion marmalade (would be so ace on toast!). Mains: Pork Belly (now how’s that pig gonna eat without a belly!) with crispy noodles and shitake broth. The pork was from Winnaleah. It was sweet and moist, as all pigs should be (just ask Porky). Longford Eye Fillet of Beef (perfectly medium rare, tender, yum). Rocket and parmesan salad. Pink eyes with sea salt and rosemary.

Wine? Yes please.

The only real problem I have with Steam Packet is the atmosphere. Henry Jones is a beautifully designed complex. I really like it. But I don’t like sitting to dinner with hotel guests staring absently at me while they check in. Some privacy screens would seem to be the way to go here. Let’s face it, there’s no view to lose. This is the other difficulty Steam Packet faces. We know there are lots of stunning boats and watery-pretty things to look at just outside, but because of the nature of the building’s heritage listing (I assume) it’s not possible for diners to have a view. That’s why the interior design and the menu and the service are so important … and thank goodness they work well here. In fact, it’s kind of refreshing to have a waterfront restaurant whose focus is the food, not the view. But did I mention privacy screens … that guy’s picking his nose while I’m trying to eat my oysters!

On the whole we finally have a Hobart restaurant that provides an exciting menu, has talented and well trained staff (who surely deserve a pay rise), and food to match the anticipation. A big fat furry thumbs-up to Steam Packet, and big sloppy HRB kisses to your chef and your staff.

About bloody time!

The Church of Taste

There is no single altar, there are no gently flickering candles and no cloying incense. But I worship none-the-less. I don’t love the shed, I don’t love the rubbish, and I certainly don’t love the ‘street performers’ who want to hassle me when I’m trying to get drunk, fat, and sun-struck in one fell swoop. But God I love Taste.

Not enough tables, too few toilets, too many smelly bins. Too much noise, too many sea critters fried to death. Too many lame pinots. Too many loud wankers on mobiles bitching about real estate, yachts, or “the ex-pat lifestyle”. Pathetic hecklers hassling the buskers in snickered whispers, too scared to get up front and say something worth hearing. Too much money pissed up a rope or vomited later down a toilet bowl.

But God I love Taste.

Having spent the last few summers inconveniently pretending to enjoy Christmases elsewhere, this year was bound to be big. I went three times. The first evening I arrived to join a bundle of friends at a table indoors. Friends now living interstate, who I was so excited to spend a bit of time with in a noisy smelly shed. The second time I popped in for half an hour to say g’day to some family as they sat on tiered seats watching the water and eating mussels.

On the third day we sat at a table flanked by elderly ladies and gents who were enjoying their berries and ice cream. We ate scallops and wallaby from Waji, and drank Stefano Lubiano’s pinto gris (or was it a grigio?). As the afternoon progressed we moved along the table to make room for friends who had joined us. Sitting beside the timber railing, looking over the water, sipping a Meadowbank cleanskin (around 15 bucks). It was a gorgeous day.

I have read what many of you have had to say about Taste and how it could be better. I don’t really disagree. But going to Taste is an art, it takes patience and planning and a bit of saved up pocket money. My gripe with Taste is a more fundamental one … What the hell are The Fish Café, Little India, Sush, and other establishments doing there? Stick to running restaurants/cafes/whatever, and leave Taste to the producers and their talented chefs-for-hire … But back to worshipping at the Church of Taste.

Here’s how I do it:
1. Go in a group and hunt for somewhere to sit
2. Send scouts out to find extra chairs
3. Send blokes to hunt for food
4. Send other blokes to hunt for wine
5. Sit on your arse and enjoy yourself
Easy!

I don’t think of Taste as an opportunity for dining excellence. It is an opportunity for lazy gluttony in the sun. And somehow I always manage to succeed.

GW the HRB ;-)

At Last!

And when I awoke I rubbed my little eyes and whispered, “Surely it’s not morning yet?” I lumped into the shower and then dragged on enough clothes to greet the day. Made it into the car with barely minutes left to get myself to work on time. The car knows its way and rolled me along the usual path.

And then like a surprise birthday present I saw it … the wrapping had come off … the newspapers had come down. Hallelujah!

Jean-Pascal … bread, coffee, GATEAUX!

It’s open, it’s open, it’s really truly finally open.

After what has seemed like an age, the tauntingly sweet looking little patisserie at the bottom of the hill is finally open. I’ve been waiting for months to see what was inside, to see what I could smell and taste. Jean-Pascal … with rumoured links to Jackman & McRoss and possibly even Zum. Jean-Pascal with the sweet little window promising GATEAUX. Jean-Pascal whose window doesn’t promise coffee, but now that the newspapers are down I can see the shining machine. Jean-Pascal who promises little walks down the road to eat little treats and sips of lovely coffee.

Suddenly getting out of bed a little earlier each day seems like such a good idea!


p.s. In case your car doesn’t know the way, Jean-Pascal is on Goulburn Street, next to the fish n chip shop on the corner of Goulburn and Molle.

Tsunami Postscript

With apologies to those generous souls whose activities I am not aware of …

The staff and management of Sisco’s are donating their time and ALL TAKINGS from a special opening on Sunday 9 January in order to support the Tsunami Appeal.

Prospect Wines (purveyors of rather scrummy cleanskins in town) are donating ALL THIS WEEK’S PROFITS to the Tsunami Appeal.

There is a benefit gig at onetwelve (112 Liverpool St – www.onetwelve.blogspot.com) from 4pm onwards on Sunday 9 January with ALL PROCEEDS going to the Tsunami Appeal.

Maybe I’m not so naïve after all … your generosity of spirit proves that business isn’t always about profits, but can indeed be founded on good will and word of mouth.

Thank you.

Tsunami

I attended a dinner party the other night. Small, intimate, nice company. Conversation turned as it would to the Indian Ocean tsunami. We sat looking out over the river and imagined the equivalent damage here. Sandy Bay, gone. Howrah, gone. Before long people began to explore possible explanations for such a disaster: God’s wrath, fault lines, nature’s attrition of over-population, and so on. As I listened I felt a sense of urgency and frustration, without really knowing how to express it. The conversation took a middle class western turn for the worse as members of the party began to discuss how some people would find ways to profit from the devastation in Aceh and other areas. That’s how business works, I was informed.

Maybe I’m more naïve than even I thought.

I don’t want to preach or get all soap-boxy … I would certainly be the last in line to throw the first stone … but can we just put things in perspective for a minute? We are wrapped in the cotton wool of western wealth. We belly ache (well I belly ache) about food and wine and not being offered a cup of coffee. I’ll continue to do this, because my life, your lives, won’t really be changed by this disaster. But in the background I would hope that if not our lives, at least our attitudes will change.

Donate. Time, money, services, best wishes, whatever you can offer. Put it in a kindness cup and offer it freely, without a sense of guilt or a sense of duty. Our lives will go on. I’m off to the Taste today and soon I will celebrate my birthday. My life will go on. But if nothing else, I hope I will never become so complacent as to forget the images of devastation and my own sense of desperation to do what I can to help. Be it ever so small.

New Year's Eve at Prosser's

In the past I have lumped Prosser’s and Mure’s in the same basket … murderers of good seafood, in my humble opinion of course. But then friends from interstate arranged a New Years Eve event to share with us. They had never been to Prosser’s before. I had (hence previous comments on this site about fish drowning in sauces, and the nineteen-eighties being well and truly over). But it had been quite some time and I was gagging for another opportunity to sample Prosser’s fare, as I love the location and I love the idea of Prosser’s. So our dear friend arranged the dinner, booked the table, paid the deposit (!!) and off we went.

New Year’s Eve in Hobart … avoiding the waterfront at all costs has extra-special costs of its own. I’ll give you the heads up … info that I was not privy to before taking my seat at the neatly starched table … Dinner was a set menu at $75 per head, not including wine. Phew, that hurts.

Course 1: Air Freighted Fresh Crystal Bay Prawn Salad with Avocado, Asparagus and Warm Citrus Dressing. I can cope with a prawn cocktail … I’m a big girl, really I can cope. But if I’m going to be served a prawn cocktail, it really should come in a parfait glass and not pretend to be something else just because it comes flat on a plate. Alright, maybe I’m being a bit harsh. The prawns were AIR FREIGHTED. Obviously not a prawn cocktail, silly me.

The second course was MAGNIFICENT. Fresh Local Chilli Salt Calamari with Green Paw Paw Salad and Lime, Palm Sugar and Coriander Dressing. Fresh, zingy, and I could have eaten it all night. Bloody fine gear.

Course 3: East Coast Scallops Lightly Poached in Japanese Dashi Stock and Served in a Mushroom, Lemon Butter (winner best dish tas.). The scallop melange was presented on the half shell. One half shell. Touted on the menu as being the winner of “Best Dish Tas.” … Sorry, it was dull and the sauce was far too reminiscent of the sauce drowning the prawns.

Did I tell you the prawns were AIR FREIGHTED? Ok, whatever.

Then came the trevalla. Blue Eye Grilled with Gremolata Crust On Potato Mousseline and Caper Butter. It was a thick fillet pretending to be a chicken breast, only less dry. The fish was sweet and fresh and not overdone, it was crusted in herbs and served on a mash in a bowl with a bit of buttery sauce. If you’ve read my piece on Tasmanian Times (http://www.tasmaniantimes.com/) about Novaro’s in Launceston, you will know how impressed I can be by a good butter sauce. This wasn’t one of those. Just as I was complaining to my companions about the lack of vegetables with the meal so far, along came a little plate of salad. For all four of us to share. We had to request bread to fill us up a bit more.

Desert … Toffed [toffeed?] Almond and Lindt Chocolate Nougatine Parfait with Seasonal Berries. Translation: Ice cream and raspberries (after extra-large, extra-hot coffees at Hudsons with Fantasia, ice cream is my next favourite indulgence). Just beautiful. Loved it, loved it. And am still wishing I could have had seconds. Mainly because I was still hungry.

Major complaint number 1: After $75 I went home feeling hungry … never a good sign.
Major complaint number 2: Diners at another table were hoeing into crayfish. How did they get to have crayfish? We were not given the option – set menu or nothing. As you know, I do have a tendency to sulk over such things.
Major complaint number 3: We weren’t offered coffee. I was hungry, a coffee would have helped fill my wee belly, but no. No coffee for you, you naughty Georgie Weston. Perhaps I’ll accept responsibility for not being assertive, but before I knew it the bill was paid and I was being ushered out the door coffeeless.

Oh well.

Prosser’s on New Year’s Eve was SO much better than the last 80’s retro cuisine experience I’d had there. But crikey they still have a little bit of work to do. The food was good on the whole. The service was efficient and courteous, despite some clumsiness (our table had not been fully set, but I’ll get over it), but not to the standards of Henry Jones for example. I would have appreciated being taken through the night’s menu and suggestions for wines with each dish would have been dandy. The wine list was pretty average and abbreviated (my companions complained that there were too few wines available by the glass), but reasonably priced. A clever option would have been to match wines by the glass to each dish. But who can fault the ambience? No-one. Oh alright, I’ll have a stab at it: We paid $75 for a New Years Eve dinner. Prosser’s is a lovely restaurant ambience-wise, BUT it could have been any night of the year. A little more effort (no need to be chintzy) to acknowledge that we were celebrating the dying embers of 2004 wouldn’t have gone astray.

Despite the stupidly exorbitant price, it’s nice to see that Prosser’s standards have improved since my last sojourn. Even the décor is a touch more modern. I was impressed enough to be keen to return to Prosser’s to try their a la carte menu, but I can’t recommend Prosser’s for a special occasion set menu. Prosser’s New Years Eve On The Beach? Over-priced and under-special by a very long shot.

A Taste of My Own Medicine

Thank you to everyone who has posted comments on the HRB. In the interests of probity I'd like to share some of the emails not posted as comments to the site ...

23 December 2004 ... from Tourism Tasmania

Dear Ms Watson,

I was disturbed to read your diatribe associated with the Tasmanian Tourism Awards. Firstly, let me clarify that Peppermint Bay was awarded the Best New Tourism Development. This award is very competitive nationally and I am proud of Tasmania's entry and hope that we are in with a good chance of achieving national recognition for what is an outstanding new product.

The process involved with nominating for a tourism award is clear to both the public and industry. Nominees must be willing to put their businesses forward to be judged by a panel of their peers. It is a rigorous process and nominees are required to meet a certain standard before an award is issued. Indeed, there are a number of occasions when the judges have not issued an award because the nominated business did not fit the criteria of 'excellence'. In addition, the awards process is extensively audited through KPMG to ensure absolute integrity in process. I should also point out that the vast majority of industry awards are conducted on a nomination basis to ensure equity for all.

Perhaps it would be appropriate when attacking the industry awards to firstly check the facts with the organisors rather than promulgating misinformation and degrading the outstanding achievements of those that submit themselves for review amongst their peers.

The tourism industry is proud of its outstanding quality and we continue to collect national and international recognition for the quality of our product. We as a Tasmanian community should be supporting these businesses that employ thousands and are one of the largest contributors to the economic revival of the State.

23 December 2004 ... from "Fantasia"

Reading articles on coffee in hobart always makes me laugh.. Sometimes I think the people who are the most outspoken are the people who don't really know what they are talking about!! Anyone who claims to be a coffee lover in one sentence and then in the next sentence cannot stop raving about the virtues of Hudsons and oversized coffees is in my expert opinion a coffee ignoramus. Very similar to the customer who asks for a really good coffee and then in the next breath asks you to make it as hot as you can...Any coffee maker (and we can't call them baristas in Australia unless they have completed the very long course in Italy) knows that the minute you are asked for an oversized coffee you are faced with the issue of how to make it decently. You can use three shots of espresso so the ratio of coffee to milk is still good enough to make the coffee taste delicious. But most customers don't want to pay for the extra shots and would rather you overextracted the espresso, an no self-respecting coffee maker likes to prostitute themselves in this way. The other issue faced is that most large vessels do not fit properly under group handles so espresso needs to be transferred from one vessel to another and thus you lose the best tasting part of the coffee - the crema (something that the Timeless Way has not yet come to terms with).As for Hudsons.. It is the McDonalds of coffee and i have never ever seen any foodie stating the virtues of a quarter pounder.

As for good coffee venues in Hobart there are but a few. Sadly Retro does not live up the repuation is holds and i refuse to drink coffee there ever again after personally seeing them cook scrambled eggs with the steaming wand.T42 is ok but it largely depends on who is on the machine.. Has anyone tried the coffee at Peppermint Bay? If you get the guy with the blonde floppy hair on the machine then you are in for a real treat, well worth the travel down there. But I have to say that the best coffee I have found in the greater Hobart area in a while is at Brew in Sandy Bay. Has anyone been there yet? It is a new espresso bar and the couple that operate really seem to know what they are doing when it comes to creating a coffee. Food is also pretty good (but don't go expecting a dining experience, remember the focus in this place is coffee) and as for funky... It will really change your attitude I think.I must still try the Choux Shop as I have heard only good things... Will be happy to share my opinion one day.

27 December 2004 ... from Henry Jones Art Hotel

Dear Georgie,
Thank you for posting your thoughts about The Henry Jones on your site (which by the way has created quite a buzz in the hallways of the AHA, Tourism Council, etc!) Need to clear up a couple of details my friend…

1. I actually didn’t mean to email you previously – I was about to send you a note, but thought better of it and accidentally pressed send (!). So my apologies if it appeared arrogant, but I am pleased you interpreted it as invitation to check out the hotel.

2. The shade cloth was a shocker, but a necessary short term measure to eliminate the sun glare. The 6 large tailor made sails now in place look the goods.

3. I happily accept your other comments (particularly the favorable ones about our staff!).

From Me to You

On Christmas Eve I thought to wish you all a Merry Christmas. On Christmas morning I thought to wish you all a Merry Christmas. And as Boxing Day rapidly approaches I’m still wondering how to wish you all a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. The best I’ve come up with is this, and I mean it from my heart:

May you eat the food of the gods, may you love the company you’re with, and if you drink heavily, may you fall very very softly.

I raise a glass in your honour.

GW the HRB.

p.s. Now that the worst is over, roll on January, the real days of summer!!

So Far So Good Mr Crawford

In a roundabout way I was invited to the Henry Jones Art Hotel to cast my eye and say what I dared. With a fellow ne’er-do-well I perched myself in the Atrium and settled in for the afternoon. I had in fact been to Henry Jones a few times before. When first opened I frequented the Long Bar for a few weeks. It can be a bit cramped (all popular bars are), but it looks fantastic, and I love the staff in their crisp jackets and smart attitudes. The champagne wasn’t bloody bad either. Anyway, back to the Atrium.

The first time I was there was actually for a corporate networking event. Twenty-five bucks a head and buy your own drinks. Hmmm, bloody bewdy. But not the fault of Henry Jones. On the contrary, they laid on the food thicker and faster than any of us wankers could shovel it in. So, following my “invitation” from the director (please Mr Crawford, don’t let this go to your head) me and my tawdry mate rocked up for a lunchtime nosh. We already had a bottle of champers under our belts and we were ready for a feast.

The menu in the Atrium is brief, very brief. But having just criticised Sisco’s for offering too much in their lunchtime sitting, it would be churlish of me to criticise this concise menu. We ordered the oysters. Mmmmmm, creamy and rich and fresh that day from the Tasman Peninsula (but definitely not for the faint hearted). Then we had the platter with the stupid name: A Taste of Land and Sea. Naff. But it was good and it was interesting and it made the ordering of more wine so easy (hence my inability to actually describe what was on the platter).

In brief I love the staff at Henry Jones, they are all so special and make diners, drinkers, and gawkers alike feel like they’re worth a million bucks. I’m looking forward to trying the Steam Packet, Henry Jones’ flagship restaurant. It is the namesake of a 19th century Hobart pub, which augers well.

One criticism Mr Crawford: sending an emailed business card without an accompanying message? A bit arrogant, n’est pas? Oh, and the shade cloth in the Atrium, a bit Bunnings don’t you think?

But so far, so good!

Sisco's and the Disappearing Trolley

I’d come to Sisco’s because of an ad that said Sisco’s was trying something new. A lunch trolley: no waiting, the perfect solution for the one hour lunch break. The ad promised tapis, yum cha dumplings, sushi, wraps, all sorts of bits and pieces to tempt and taunt. I knew what would happen. The famous eyes-bigger-than-my-belly would kick in and I’d want one of everything. One hour wouldn’t be long enough, one stomach not big enough. I hoped to be so excited by small plates and big flavours that I’d want to come back each day until I’d tried everything twice. So on a whim I tucked Tim Winton under my arm and climbed the stairs to small food heaven.

I took a seat. Deathly quiet, except for the incessant rat-tat-tat-tat of the ceiling fan over my head. Then it dawned on me. Not a trolley in sight. Shit.

The waitress was warm and attentive. She brought me a drink. And three menus. Oh dear, where was the trolley? There was the standard lunch menu (really the dinner menu), there was the fish specials menu, and there was the crayfish specials menu. I craned my neck and gave my eyeballs a thorough 360 degree workout. Where’s the trolley? Panic rose in my throat. The waitress patiently explained: they tried the trolley for a few weeks. But no-one came. They needed to prepare three trolleys at a time. But no-one came. “Maybe Hobart’s not ready for it, cos no-one came”. Hobart’s not ready? I’m ready! Instead of leaving in a huff I ordered the prawn bisque.

It was nice enough, the bisque. It came rich and red with a prawn cake and a whole prawn wrapped in silk-like pasta threads. But I couldn’t help feeling an ongoing sense of disappointment. I wanted the trolley. But beyond not getting my own way I was disappointed in Sisco’s for not keeping their money where their mouth was.

Sisco’s has a mixed reputation. I’ve had stunning meals here and abysmal ones in equal measures. Hurrah to them for trying something new, boo to the patrons (myself included) who were too slow to grab the chance, and boo to Sisco’s for being too quick to punish us for our tardiness. Any new venture is an expensive risk. Maybe it was a risk worth persisting with. Maybe it was just what Hobart needed. And then again maybe it was crap and we are all better off not knowing.

I was about to scoff my coffee and leave, but then I noticed the recently-arrived table of middle-aged women quizzically eyeing their three menus … “Um, what happened to the trolley … we booked here a month ago specifically because of the trolley …”. I rose and paid my bill. The woman taking my money was the 'boss' of Sisco’s. I thanked her for the lovely bisque and the excellent service. But then, grabbing the bull by the horns I told her how disappointed I was that the trolley was so short-lived, I told her what a good idea it had been and that she should have persisted. But her attitude said it all:

"We’d have three people on a table wanting the trolley while the fourth person would want something off the dinner menu. People would ring up wanting to know what it was all about, what was on the trolley, would it fill them up, how many courses were they allowed, and so on. It was all too hard. Hobart’s not ready for something like this."

Maybe you should try again?

"No, I can’t be bothered."

I felt outraged.

I’m tired of feeling punished by restaurant owners with this attitude about Hobart and its diners. It was clear to me that due to their own impatience and poor menu control Sisco’s was bound to fail with their lunch trolley. But Sisco's obviously doesn't understand this, so in the interests of patiently explaining the problem I’ll use simple words:

1. Most restaurants have a different lunch menu from their dinner menu, diners expect this.
2. At lunch time, don’t give people the dinner menu to order from. Boring.
3. To give a new lunch idea such as the trolley the best chance of success, don't give diners the option of ordering from the dinner menu. It's lunch time, diners will deal with this.
4. If diners need educating about your new lunch option, be patient and teach them what it means. If you have no patience with this personally, have another staff member deal with telephone enquiries. Given that you are rarely open for lunch, people will be curious and the onus is on you to be patient.
5. Don’t bitch to local diners about Hobart “not being ready” for your brilliance. It is graceless and leaves a very bad taste in the mouth.

Pier One

Pier One at the Casino is Hobart’s premier waterfront restaurant and bar. It says so on the menu. We were there for a Christmas function. Dozens of faxed menus had been inspected before a consensus decision to book. But imagine my surprise when the staff acted as if we’d poohed our pants when we first rocked up. Sneering waitresses who looked pissed off already.

I was less than impressed when our waitress tried to “up-sell” by offering flat bread for the whole table (i.e., pizzas … why can’t they just call them pizzas?). I suggested people could order their own. When she thought I wasn’t looking, she asked someone opposite me the same question. I looked her in the eye and repeated my original suggestion. Surly look. Maybe I really had poohed my pants.

I ordered two entrées and got on with the serious business of enjoying some wine. I sat with my back to the rest of the restaurant looking out at the water. Nice view, but the novelty soon wore off as my gastric juices began eating through my stomach lining in anticipation of food. Waiting, waiting, waiting. Gee, must be packed, I thought. Nope, not even half full.

Finally my entrée arrived. Half a dozen natural oysters. Mmmm. Tasty. Tasty in the way oysters shouldn’t be. Not off, but had that “sitting in the fridge a few days” piquancy. Ever the optimist, I ate one more and then one more, searching for a nice one. Fool. And then we waited again. And waited. I felt sorry for those at the table who had foregone the entrée, imagining the state of their stomach lining. At least my foul oysters were staving off the gastric acid.

Bored and hungry we approached the bar to order more wine. Ahhhhhh, above the bar like a beacon shone a bottle of Craigie Knowe. And it was the 1999 vintage. Ooooohhh, this could perhaps make up for everything. “We can’t sell it too you. We’re out of stock”. But I’ll just have that one, the one up there. “No we’re out of stock.” But it’s just there! “We’re not allowed to sell it to you”. Right. Now I was angry. I sat and sulked and waited for my bloody next course. I scowled over my shoulder from time to time, silently willing that bottle of Craigie to fly to my side. But when I looked again it was gone. Spirited away and hidden! Right! Now I was furious and sulking. But sulking in silence because I didn’t want my Soft Shell Crab to be spat on.

Finally the food arrived. The Soft Shell Crab came as a quarter of a small crab wrapped in an attempt at wonton-style pastry. It was surrounded by a slick black moat of black bean sauce, which was unbelievably strong and salty. The crab wasn’t oily, but tasted like it had been cooked in the same oil as last week’s fry-up at the Mustard Pot. Now I felt sick. This was not going well. I spent the rest of the night feeling queasy, and not even a Red Corvette at the Birdcage Bar could save me (what was I thinking?). At four in the morning I awoke feeling decidedly unwell and lay awake until dawn feeling pissed off.

Pier One … Hobart’s premier waterfront restaurant and bar! My arse!

Welcome to the Intrepid Traveller

I would like to take the opportunity to welcome a new visitor to the site, who is also a visitor to Hobart. The anonymous comment was posted today, and it highlighted for me that it is not just the cynical chattering classes of Hobart who despair over food and service quality here. Our Victorian Visitor complained thusly:

Bless you Ms W - just come across your site today and it is long past due that the whacks be laid in. We visit Tas 2 or 3 times a year, Hobart usually in there, and have come to despair of eating out in your fair city. That's not to say that the raw produce isn't fantastic. We make pilgrimages to the Hmong gardeners, the Wursthaus, the oysterers [surely the French have a name for it - huitrines?] with the sole regret that we don't have a kitchen of our own to hand. But eating out? It's merely a necessity to be borne until we get the goodies home. I guess it's not that the food is fairly conventional and the service is erratic, but that the prices being asked are out of keeping with the content. If all I can get in Hobart is ordinary food I'm prepared to pay ordinary prices, but Sydney prices? All that said, Hobart doesn't have the monopoly on poor service. I had read much about The European in Melbourne and finally got there a couple of weeks ago. Won't be back. I'm too old to put up with the kind of crap that used to be de rigeur at the Black Cat in Fitzroy.

In my earlier days I spent quite some time at both the Black Cat in Fitzroy and The Galleon in St Kilda. The service in both establishments was legend. You know the sort: hennaed hair, Brains glasses, sour look, and superior attitude. But the coffees were good and it was kind of cool to pay someone to make you feel inferior (why do you think the Dominatrix is such a sought after service provider?). These days though, it is not cool for staff to think that the Soup Nazi a la Seinfeld is a model to aspire to. And it is deplorable that visitors are left wishing for their own kitchen to make the culinary aspect of their Tasmanian travels more palatable. We all know that we have excellent produce and wonderful locations. In summertime, where better to sip champagne by the water in the summer sun. In wintertime, where would you rather be sipping on a gutsy red in front of the fire when there's snow on the mountain and the sky is that dazzling blue? Our chefs and our restaurant owners should be experts in maximising the assets we have here. But alas.

To add salt to the wound, see Graeme Phillips' article in the Sunday Tasmanian (Sunday 5 Dec, 2004) for an illustration of the depths some establishments are stooping to: frozen fish and mis-truths about produce availability. Naughty naughty naughty. We think we know who won't be on Santa's list this year!

Is the Spirit of Christmas a Single Malt?

I have somehow managed to manoeuvre myself into the fabulous position this year of having numerous Christmas party clashes. Each occasion involves really good friends, treasured current or former work colleagues, or just damned attractive cut-throats, so no single option stands out as a better offer. They all involve dinner, and not a bloody one of them is the "pop in for a little while" type. Worse: there are "activities" planned (shudder) to keep us busy, to distract us from drinking too much, to stop us snogging the boss and photocopying our bits. Activities. What a stupid bloody word and what a stupid bloody idea at Christmas! Why can't I just turn up, get pissed, and stagger off into the dawn like the dishevelled Scrooge that I am? I don't want to go bloody go-karting, boot-scooting, bowling, or bungy-jumping. And what is it with holding me to ransom by not handing out the Secret bloody Santa until the end of the night? Ooooooh, better not go to that other Christmas party for dessert, you might miss out on a chocolate penis from Santa!

I know I should feel blessed that I have so many friends who want to share my company at Christmas ... NO THEY DON'T ... THEY'RE JUST HOPING FOR THEIR OWN BLOODY CHOCOLATE PENIS! Well hell I say, go buy your own and leave me out of it. But no, it would be bad of me not to go, I would be forever hounded by the ghosts of Christmases past/present/to-come maddeningly chanting in my ears: You have to go, it's Christmas. So, is this the true spirit of Christmas in this post-modern age: Obligation? (Look out, I'm hearing a bunch of comments being tippee-tapped away as I speak) Obligation to family and friends, obligation to buy presents, obligation to credit cards? And obligation to not let me get completely, tit-flashingly pissed. Truth be told I never really get that drunk (collective sigh of relief), but this mad and desperate spree of Christmas parties leaves me breathless with the overwhelming sense of duty they inspire. It leaves me hanging out for January, the real days of summer where we can bask in the laziness of holidays, barbecues, backyard cricket, and madcap spontaneous get togethers. Where simple things like cicadas and aeroguard, sandy fish and chips, and a sunburnt nose mean so much more. Where our friends and family gather because they want to, not because they think they should. Where photocopiers and go-karts breathe a collective sigh of relief ... until next year.

Simple Pleasures

I have slept today away in the fitful slumber of one with head and lungs full of unpleasantness. I have dreamt of drowning and woken myself coughing. Throughout this eventful illness (I’m sure it’s consumption) I have been blessed with great advice. Day 1: A hot toddy (brandy and … I forget the other ingredients, never really got past the brandy); Day 2: Spiked orange juice (juice of 3 oranges and 1 lemon, leatherwood honey, 2 disprins, and a slug of brandy). Tasted like a bad cheap cocktail at a wedding, but did me some good I’m sure, especially when I followed it with another brandy. Day 3: Liquid Echinacea three times a day in water. This is my least favourite option. Firstly I have no Liquid Echinacea (easily fixed tho), secondly it doesn’t involve brandy (easily fixed too). But it just sounds too darn sensible!

Anyway after waking and launching myself for two hours into Tim Winton’s ‘Cloudstreet’ (what a magic dusty way with words), I finally roused myself from my chamber, showered, fed the cat. Straight for the tea and toast. Smothered in leatherwood honey (the toast, not me). And now I’ve got the biggest, loudest, most irrational craving for butter chicken. Or potato cakes. So why is it that when we’re sick and snotty all we crave is simple pleasures? You could come flouncing in here with your horn of plenty overflowing with crays and champagne, and all I’d be asking is “but where’s the toast?”. I dare say I would even turn my nose up at a Craigie Knowe Cab Sav (gasp!), saying “can I have a cup of tea please?” Some days life has a way of putting things into perspective.

Anyway, seeing as how I’m all fey and wan and unable to dine with orgiastic abandon this weekend … I call upon the HRB sprites to away! away! and return with tales of joy or woe to stuff our heads with nonsense (beats snot anyway).

Athena and the Minotaur

It's the first day of summer. It's grey out there, there's a chill in the air, and I'm getting a cold …

Oh and it’s official, I’m going straight to hell on the back of a Minotaur, cos here I go with some gossip. It’s a tale of classic Greek foes facing off in a silent assault on service standards in Hobart. The combatants: Athena’s (lovely location on the pier) and Mezethes (great atmosphere in the old Mr Wooby’s spot). Both serve classic Greek food with not a little focus on seafood.

Confronted, as I was, by a new acquaintance in Barcelona (the bar, not the city), I was left mouth agape by the tale she told of her experience the previous night at Athena’s (the restaurant, not the goddess’ house):

“We were kept waiting for our food for two hours, we were really patient but finally we got a bit annoyed, but when we complained to the man and asked for a free drink as compensation we were told … ‘I’m not saying sorry for anything, I didn’t do anything wrong’. We thought this was a bit rough and wanted to complain about his bad attitude … but then we found out this guy was the owner!”

Wow! Stunning ennui from someone who obviously doesn’t feel the need to ensure repeat business!

The irony of this story is that on the night in question I was bound for Mezethes with a gaggle of raucous 30-something women, with whom I’d been drinking for the previous couple of hours. We were late, we were loud, we tried not to be obnoxious. We broke glasses, we spilt drinks, we sang loudly with the musicians roaming the room, and a diner at another table (quite rightly) shot in our direction a “Look at Moiye”. We had a fabulous time, the food was okay (yeah, I know, just okay), but the service was warm and hospitable and friendly and accommodating. It was as if the only thing that mattered was us having a good time. Such a different experience to my new acquaintance’s encounter with the management at Athena’s … and so much cheaper!

I went to Athena’s when they first opened, hoping for an experience akin to the exquisite Greek seafood I encountered years earlier at Nick’s in St Kilda. I was so under-whelmed by the seafood and by the service at Athena’s that it has never occurred to me to go back. Similarly, whenever I speak with anyone else who has dined there, I hear a similar tale.

But that’s okay, cos by the sounds of it, the management of Athena’s is doing just fine with one-off diners. They seem to be quite happy to leave the repeat business to Mezethes.

Get a Life

How do some people manage to get their faces in the paper? I pondered this question as I supped on a late and leisurely yum cha at Sen’s this afternoon (despite an average reputation for take away, Sen’s has a good range of freshly prepared yum cha – I continue to mourn the passing of the yum cha trolleys, but the food is good, and staffed mostly by Asian students the service tends to be changeable but today excellent). Anyway, back to the faces in papers issue. My interest was piqued by an article in the Sunday Age’s magazine “Sunday Life”. It promised to tell me the secrets of “what makes an eatery worthy of a repeat performance”. But alas, aside from obviousisms such as consistently good food and warm professional service (hmmm where have heard this before?), the article focused on annoying profiles of “The France-Soir Fans” (Melbourne), “The Inner-City Experimentalists” (Sydney), and “The Flavour Addict”. Wealthy (one must assume) hedonists who were keen to avoid cooking at all costs. The Experimentalists (oh, please!) were so radical as to refrain from installing a proper kitchen in their converted Sydney warehouse (must do wonders for the re-sale value) because they eat out six nights a week. The Flavour Addict ate out most days at The Pier, where staff have “catered to their quirks” such as self-applied salad dressing (how radical) and helping his wheel-chair bound wife (I’m sure she would slap me if I referred to this as a “quirk” of hers). I found this article to be more about the attitudes and personalities of some diners than anything to do with what makes a restaurant great. To me much of the pleasure in eating out is the search for the great meal, the ‘great time’. I’m not sure how I would feel if I reached the zenith of my search and lazily repeated it every night. It sounded such a hollow pursuit to me. Sure I’d eat out every night if I could, and I’d eat great food at home every night if I could, and I’d hold or attend great dinner parties every night if I could. And I’d be just as happy with some nice soup and crumpets every night. And isn’t this the point? There is so much to be enjoyed, so much to be experienced and tasted. Rather than envying these poor buggers who eat in the same establishment restaurants night after night, I felt pity for what this article portrayed as a profound poverty of spirit of culinary adventure.

GW the HRB