Always the last on any bandwagon, I have finally hauled my arse to Franklin Manor to be seduced by the Anais Nin of gastronomy, Monsieur Meyjitte Boughenout, and his wife Debbie (eerily reminiscent of Sigourney Weaver). You may have noticed in Friday's real estate guide that FM is for sale (the leasehold will set you back around $600 big ones) ... but I already knew (don't you just love being a smart arse know-it-all?).
The food was, well, all I can say is ...
Oh my God, yes, yes, yes, YES!
And guess what, there will soon be multiple orgasms for all, cos the Boughenouts and their little ones are moving to Hobart. Hurrah! Get your credit card balances in order, keep you diary free, and get ready to add your name to what will no doubt be a lengthy waiting list. Rumour has it (in fact, it ain't rumour) that properties around Hobart have been eyed off (including the Elbow Room site). My heart is going pitty-pat as I write.
The sad news is that Strahan will lose its brightest star, which is a shame for such a stunning location. After Franklin Manor, Risby Cove is perhaps the next on Strahan's dining ladder. To compare these would be insufferably cruel. Risby Cove is not bad; the site is lovely and the staff are enthusiastic and friendly. Simplify the menu and you'll be apples.
But getting back to my culinary sex life: I'm going to try to be chaste and virtuous until Meyjitte opens his doors in Hobart, at which point I will attempt all seven deadly sins at one sitting. Woo hoo, can't wait!
GW
Sunday, May 22, 2005
A Missive from the Ninja
Faithful correspondent Bingeing Ninja wrote:
Not often am I the first with news but...
Sign went up today (Friday) over old Baker's Delight shopfront in North Hobart. Looks like Zum is about to open a satellite store. Further along Elizabeth Street the new fish restaurant is taking shape and the bar area has gone in – they must of spent a motza all up (and no TV network to help 'em either). Pity about the sign featuring the vaguely cubist fish with "coming soon" below. We've been reading it as "ugly fish coming soon" for the last month and still snicker when passing by (what do they say small things amuse?). And Black Pepper is now open. Yes, I know *another* pizza place but at least they're sticking to just pizza and really Hobart could do with a decent pizza restaurant…. just whacking "gourmet", "wood fire" or "Sandy Bay" in front of a sod ordinary pie doesn't cut it. We shall see. Which reminds me….. am I the only one who finds the McCains new frozen "wood fire" ridiculously funny? And is the Canadian owner of Amulet really going to Bruny Island?
Keep up the good work
bn
PS You might want to check out the boys over at Pinot Island:
<http://www.pinotisland.com/index.php?cat=1>
Thanks Ninje,
GW ;-)
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Tuffin on the Loose!
Marketplace - 8pm - Thursday May 19
Onetwelve
112 Liverpool St
Hobart
Tomorrow night the impish Lindsay Tuffin will speak on JOURNALISM & DEMOCRACY IN TASMANIA. A limited (and cheap) bar will be available for those who find listening thirsty work.
And have I got the best ever gossip? But you'll have to wait; one snippet at a time my hungry little poppets.
Onetwelve
112 Liverpool St
Hobart
Tomorrow night the impish Lindsay Tuffin will speak on JOURNALISM & DEMOCRACY IN TASMANIA. A limited (and cheap) bar will be available for those who find listening thirsty work.
And have I got the best ever gossip? But you'll have to wait; one snippet at a time my hungry little poppets.
Sunday, May 08, 2005
Media Ball 2005
It’s 3am and I’m just home from the Media Ball. Don’t ask what I was doing there, long unintelligible story. Anyway there was Dancing Queen Peg Putt, ABC’s Peter Gee was going off, and there was the flotilla of Stepford Wives: self-possessed pretty little journalists flouncing about on the dance floor with seasoned old hacks old enough to know better. This was why I came, to watch these shenanigans unfold like gossip. And it was great.
However there is a “but”.
The ball was held at the Grand Chancellor. Hang your head in shame I say. My $85 got me a self-serve buffet: some fairly ok oysters, bland vegetables, dry pasta, and “5 star RSL carvery” lamb. The dessert buffet was fairly comprehensive, but kind of Fitzy’s City Caf. I sat there drinking the crap Stoney Ridge wine, eating my crap dinner, thinking about what I’d get for $85 a head at any number of my favourite restaurants.
Function coordinators need to understand that function food doesn’t have to be crap. It is lazy, unimaginative, cheap, and nasty. I could never recommend the Grand Chancellor’s food for functions. Sorry, it’s as simple as that.
However there is a “but”.
The ball was held at the Grand Chancellor. Hang your head in shame I say. My $85 got me a self-serve buffet: some fairly ok oysters, bland vegetables, dry pasta, and “5 star RSL carvery” lamb. The dessert buffet was fairly comprehensive, but kind of Fitzy’s City Caf. I sat there drinking the crap Stoney Ridge wine, eating my crap dinner, thinking about what I’d get for $85 a head at any number of my favourite restaurants.
Function coordinators need to understand that function food doesn’t have to be crap. It is lazy, unimaginative, cheap, and nasty. I could never recommend the Grand Chancellor’s food for functions. Sorry, it’s as simple as that.
Monday, April 25, 2005
And another thing!
Just back from a hunting trip over the west coast. I wish someone had warned me that jodhpurs and tweed are not quite the go when on the lookout for a thylacine. So ripped off that we weren't on horseback. Those knee high boots just look bloody kinky without a horse in tow! Bloody hell! Anyway, the 1.25 mill is safe for now, but I've got a plan to smoke out the blerry thing - honey on a stick. Works when my dog won't come out from under the house, oughta do for a tiger I reckon. Can't believe no-one's thought of it before.
But back to the real world. Here's what I've found out since returning from yon hunt:
Stepping into the old 'green store' site in North Hobart (the Seven Day Super Store that became anything but super) is something with a fishy logo. Judging by their staff advertisement, they won't be selling waders. I swear, if it's fish and chips I'll spew
Brew now proudly displays two sizes for take away coffee - regular and large. Brillo! And what a bloody tasty large take away coffee I had. Ta boys.
Did I see Maeve O'Mara in the Choux Shop t'other day? Might have been the glare of lights, camera, action, but I'm sure it was. Remains to be seen if it was for that excellent SBS show Ms O'Mara co-hosts, or for the less glamorous Better Groans and Gardens.
Black Pepper Pizzeria is soon to replace Lickerish. Ace. Just what Hobart needs. Another pizzeria in Elizabeth St. My heart sinks.
By the way, I heard part of the Lickerish/State Cinema stoush was over the owner of the cinema (also owner of the restaurant site) wanting to put a walk-through from the cinema into the restaurant. Classy.
Oh, and apparently I got the whole Amulet story completely wrong (see that entry's comment). Silly me.
GW the HRB
;-)
But back to the real world. Here's what I've found out since returning from yon hunt:
Stepping into the old 'green store' site in North Hobart (the Seven Day Super Store that became anything but super) is something with a fishy logo. Judging by their staff advertisement, they won't be selling waders. I swear, if it's fish and chips I'll spew
Brew now proudly displays two sizes for take away coffee - regular and large. Brillo! And what a bloody tasty large take away coffee I had. Ta boys.
Did I see Maeve O'Mara in the Choux Shop t'other day? Might have been the glare of lights, camera, action, but I'm sure it was. Remains to be seen if it was for that excellent SBS show Ms O'Mara co-hosts, or for the less glamorous Better Groans and Gardens.
Black Pepper Pizzeria is soon to replace Lickerish. Ace. Just what Hobart needs. Another pizzeria in Elizabeth St. My heart sinks.
By the way, I heard part of the Lickerish/State Cinema stoush was over the owner of the cinema (also owner of the restaurant site) wanting to put a walk-through from the cinema into the restaurant. Classy.
Oh, and apparently I got the whole Amulet story completely wrong (see that entry's comment). Silly me.
GW the HRB
;-)
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Kissing Pedro at Peppermint Bay
Am I lucky or what! Shouted to dinner at Peppermint Bay by saintly friends who are now guaranteed front row seats in heaven.
As you know, I love The Local at PB, it’s cosy and it’s good. In fact, I’m looking forward to winter so I can sit before their fire and make a pig of myself. The restaurant is something else altogether. It is a vast cavernous space, all polished concrete, high ceilings, quality tableware, and subtle lighting. From outside it looks like a great wave of glass and steel.
On the night of our visit, the restaurant was divided in two, with a wedding taking place on the other side of the divider. The sound-proofing in the restaurant was pretty good compared to the racket heard from the corridor to the loos, but I would recommend the staff avoid competing soundtracks in future. The restaurant’s subtle mood music was no match for the wedding singer’s rendition of Khe Sanh.
We had a really good meal accompanied by excellent wines. The wine list at PB is a marvel. And what’s more, the waiter assisting us knew far more about wine than is seemly for a man of his young years. But take advantage of his fabulous knowledge we did, much to our edumacation.
To round off our meal, on young wine-genius’ recommendation (double his salary immediately, Mr Currant!), we supped on a glass of heaven. It was black, it was heavy, it was sticky, it was Spanish, and it was fucking awesome! Pedro Ximenez by Cardenal Cisneros. Bound to be good with a name like that.
So apart from Khe Sanh (which made us laugh anyway), PB’s restaurant pulled the goods. I’ll be back, and I hope Pedro will still be there cos I’ve now got a serious crush!
As you know, I love The Local at PB, it’s cosy and it’s good. In fact, I’m looking forward to winter so I can sit before their fire and make a pig of myself. The restaurant is something else altogether. It is a vast cavernous space, all polished concrete, high ceilings, quality tableware, and subtle lighting. From outside it looks like a great wave of glass and steel.
On the night of our visit, the restaurant was divided in two, with a wedding taking place on the other side of the divider. The sound-proofing in the restaurant was pretty good compared to the racket heard from the corridor to the loos, but I would recommend the staff avoid competing soundtracks in future. The restaurant’s subtle mood music was no match for the wedding singer’s rendition of Khe Sanh.
We had a really good meal accompanied by excellent wines. The wine list at PB is a marvel. And what’s more, the waiter assisting us knew far more about wine than is seemly for a man of his young years. But take advantage of his fabulous knowledge we did, much to our edumacation.
To round off our meal, on young wine-genius’ recommendation (double his salary immediately, Mr Currant!), we supped on a glass of heaven. It was black, it was heavy, it was sticky, it was Spanish, and it was fucking awesome! Pedro Ximenez by Cardenal Cisneros. Bound to be good with a name like that.
So apart from Khe Sanh (which made us laugh anyway), PB’s restaurant pulled the goods. I’ll be back, and I hope Pedro will still be there cos I’ve now got a serious crush!
Monday, April 04, 2005
John Wayne Instruction Manual @ 112
Remember way way back when I asked to be kept abreast of upcoming events? Well here's one. It's not a foodie thingy, but there's a cheap bar and fucking awesome music on offer.
"John Wayne Instruction Manual"
incl. Alistair Dobson, Joe Pirere, Randall Muir, and Konrad Park
112 Liverpool St (used to be the old Whirling Rainbow Cafe, above Diamondworld)
Friday 8 April, 8:30 pm till late
Door charge: $4 students/$5 workers
Presented by the crew at 112, a community organisation. So go on, pull your finger out and go support them!
GW
"John Wayne Instruction Manual"
incl. Alistair Dobson, Joe Pirere, Randall Muir, and Konrad Park
112 Liverpool St (used to be the old Whirling Rainbow Cafe, above Diamondworld)
Friday 8 April, 8:30 pm till late
Door charge: $4 students/$5 workers
Presented by the crew at 112, a community organisation. So go on, pull your finger out and go support them!
GW
Saturday, April 02, 2005
Steam Packet (Take 2)
On a whim we returned to the Steam Packet for another bite at the cherry. I was a bit disappointed to find the menu hadn't changed a jot since January, and absentmindedly ordered more or less the same meal as last time. Silly me.
The oysters were once again bloody stunning. Oysters should sparkle on the tongue, and these do, like little bursts of mermaid sherbet. The BBQ duck was also delicious. The steak was a bit overcooked. At pubs I order steak rare so it will be cooked the way I like it, medium rare. I hope I won't have to do this at Steam Packet as well! Surely just a blip. Unfortunately, the pink eyes with rosemary were a bit too reminiscent of “wedges”. Service, as always, was impeccable.
So, when can we expect to see a ‘seasonal’ menu change?
I still have a bit of an issue with the ambience of the Atrium, I have to say. The pelting water feature did wonders for my bladder, which is fine, but I think some music wouldn't go astray. The Atrium is a difficult space, but they'll get it right eventually. At least with the cooler weather the sails have gone.
Nothing the Steam Packet can do about unattractive couples snogging in the glass elevator though (classy).
The oysters were once again bloody stunning. Oysters should sparkle on the tongue, and these do, like little bursts of mermaid sherbet. The BBQ duck was also delicious. The steak was a bit overcooked. At pubs I order steak rare so it will be cooked the way I like it, medium rare. I hope I won't have to do this at Steam Packet as well! Surely just a blip. Unfortunately, the pink eyes with rosemary were a bit too reminiscent of “wedges”. Service, as always, was impeccable.
So, when can we expect to see a ‘seasonal’ menu change?
I still have a bit of an issue with the ambience of the Atrium, I have to say. The pelting water feature did wonders for my bladder, which is fine, but I think some music wouldn't go astray. The Atrium is a difficult space, but they'll get it right eventually. At least with the cooler weather the sails have gone.
Nothing the Steam Packet can do about unattractive couples snogging in the glass elevator though (classy).
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Polk Salad Annie
Had lunch at Fish Frenzy the other day, and bugger me if it wasn’t good! My friend had the spicy calamari salad and I had the smoked salmon salad (please, can’t we just nickname it the polk salad annie?).
The calamari was a bit oily, but not bad. Loved the smoked salmon though.
In general, for a “business ladies lunch” (admit it, you love Romy and Michelle too) it was fast, cheap, and scrummy.
Can’t comment on the crumbed, deep fried, adulterated seafood, but hey, I’m so cynical I wouldn’t order it anyway. But stuff it! There’s more to life than a fisherman’s basket.
The calamari was a bit oily, but not bad. Loved the smoked salmon though.
In general, for a “business ladies lunch” (admit it, you love Romy and Michelle too) it was fast, cheap, and scrummy.
Can’t comment on the crumbed, deep fried, adulterated seafood, but hey, I’m so cynical I wouldn’t order it anyway. But stuff it! There’s more to life than a fisherman’s basket.
Sunday, March 27, 2005
Farewell Lickerish
The plus-side of being locked in an industrial oven for three days is that you lose three kilos without the need for sit-ups, push-ups, or (God help us) lunges. The down-side is having to stand up a very hot date at Lickerish.
Hadn’t been to Lickerish for about a year. On that occasion we got frightfully hammered on Craigie cab sav (how disrespectful!) and ate who knows what. A travesty! Too pasted to recall the food. Mon dieu! Well, we had every intention of rectifying this shameful waste and had planned to go back last week. Then the drunken-hide-and-seek, locked-in-the-oven, cough-cough-cough scenario* stepped up to prevent our best laid plans.
No matter, thought I, another time perhaps.
Now bugger me but Graeme Phillips tells me in this morning’s Sunday Debacle that Lickerish have held their last supper. Rather fittingly on Maundy Thursday.
Maundy (or Holy) Thursday is the celebration of the Eucharist, the commemoration of the Last Supper. Being the day before Good Friday, in our house Maundy Thursday is referred to as Appalling Thursday. Only logical really, and besides, crap stuff seems to happen on Appalling Thursday (having to go to work being one example, the closure of restaurants another).
It is traditional on Maundy Thursday for the rich to distribute alms to and wash the feet of the poor. (No-one washed my feet, or gave me any bucks, so I’m assuming that means I’m not poor. Any of you guys get a cash windfall or a bit of a tootsy scrub? How was it?). Numerous Catholic rituals and celebrations occur on Maundy Thursday, including the reconciliation of penitents.
Which brings me back to Lickerish, cos I hope there is some bloody penitence going on today, because there sure as hell wasn’t any reconciliation. According to Mr Phillips, the story goes that a barney over the lease of the Lickerish site (and lets imagine a bitch-slap, cos it adds to the drama) resulted in the Lickerish girls flipping the bird and flapping off to greener pastures. Good for them.
I'll have to settle for last year's pathetic effort at sampling Lickerish’s grub (I’m sure it was delightful, and I do have a hazy recollection that the young waitress was a treat), but I’m hopeful that the gastro-adventurers will be back with something new to tempt our tastebuds soon, soon, soon.
Farewell Lickerish. I may not recall your fare, but I liked your curtains.
* Children, don’t try this at home.
Hadn’t been to Lickerish for about a year. On that occasion we got frightfully hammered on Craigie cab sav (how disrespectful!) and ate who knows what. A travesty! Too pasted to recall the food. Mon dieu! Well, we had every intention of rectifying this shameful waste and had planned to go back last week. Then the drunken-hide-and-seek, locked-in-the-oven, cough-cough-cough scenario* stepped up to prevent our best laid plans.
No matter, thought I, another time perhaps.
Now bugger me but Graeme Phillips tells me in this morning’s Sunday Debacle that Lickerish have held their last supper. Rather fittingly on Maundy Thursday.
Maundy (or Holy) Thursday is the celebration of the Eucharist, the commemoration of the Last Supper. Being the day before Good Friday, in our house Maundy Thursday is referred to as Appalling Thursday. Only logical really, and besides, crap stuff seems to happen on Appalling Thursday (having to go to work being one example, the closure of restaurants another).
It is traditional on Maundy Thursday for the rich to distribute alms to and wash the feet of the poor. (No-one washed my feet, or gave me any bucks, so I’m assuming that means I’m not poor. Any of you guys get a cash windfall or a bit of a tootsy scrub? How was it?). Numerous Catholic rituals and celebrations occur on Maundy Thursday, including the reconciliation of penitents.
Which brings me back to Lickerish, cos I hope there is some bloody penitence going on today, because there sure as hell wasn’t any reconciliation. According to Mr Phillips, the story goes that a barney over the lease of the Lickerish site (and lets imagine a bitch-slap, cos it adds to the drama) resulted in the Lickerish girls flipping the bird and flapping off to greener pastures. Good for them.
I'll have to settle for last year's pathetic effort at sampling Lickerish’s grub (I’m sure it was delightful, and I do have a hazy recollection that the young waitress was a treat), but I’m hopeful that the gastro-adventurers will be back with something new to tempt our tastebuds soon, soon, soon.
Farewell Lickerish. I may not recall your fare, but I liked your curtains.
* Children, don’t try this at home.
Sunday, March 20, 2005
Bitch's Brew
As you know, I love caffeine en masse but understand that some cafés just don’t serve large coffees. C’est la vie. But recent experience necessitates an obviousism from the ol’ GW: Early on a weekday morning is no time to give me a lecture. Don’t be telling me you can do a large coffee “but it will taste like crap because you lose the crema”. I don’t care. If I cared about crema I’d order an espresso. If I want to pay for (in your opinion) a shit coffee to kickstart my brain, that’s my idiotic choice.
I wasn’t going to dob. But I had a dream the other night (from which I literally woke laughing) that convinced me I had to.
Brew in Sandy Bay. Looks good. Nice boys making nice coffee. All good. Except for those early morning lectures. Gently telling me off is one thing, but hearing you chastise other customers wanting a large coffee is a bit much. Good natured though it may be, it’s a bit rough on the early morning nerves. Give it a rest boys.
You might say: “Don’t like it, go elsewhere”. You might even say: “We don’t need customers who want the coffee equivalent of a bucket bong”. I would say: “Fine, but that’s a gutsy call in a small town”.
To be fair, I understand that you are coming from a good place. You aspire to coffee excellence and you want to teach us the difference between excellent coffee, good coffee, and shit coffee. I applaud that. However, sometimes a customer just wants what they want. Case in point: a country café on the big island lists on its coffee menu the “Why Bother?” – seemingly brewed by waving a coffee bean under the steam while frothing the milk. I agree - why bother? But that’s what some people want and I congratulate the café owner’s good business sense in providing same.
Coffee menus are great places for educating customers, lectures are not.
Reasons to go to Brew: The coffee’s good, not too expensive, and comes with a chocolate-coated coffee bean (dine-in), the coffee-meisters are very friendly (lecturing aside), and the spunky guy from T42 works there. It’s a nice café, personally I prefer Satis, but that’s just the E.M.Forster in me.
The dream I had the other night? I dreamt that I told the head Brew-boy that the décor reminded me of Hudson’s. Oops.
I wasn’t going to dob. But I had a dream the other night (from which I literally woke laughing) that convinced me I had to.
Brew in Sandy Bay. Looks good. Nice boys making nice coffee. All good. Except for those early morning lectures. Gently telling me off is one thing, but hearing you chastise other customers wanting a large coffee is a bit much. Good natured though it may be, it’s a bit rough on the early morning nerves. Give it a rest boys.
You might say: “Don’t like it, go elsewhere”. You might even say: “We don’t need customers who want the coffee equivalent of a bucket bong”. I would say: “Fine, but that’s a gutsy call in a small town”.
To be fair, I understand that you are coming from a good place. You aspire to coffee excellence and you want to teach us the difference between excellent coffee, good coffee, and shit coffee. I applaud that. However, sometimes a customer just wants what they want. Case in point: a country café on the big island lists on its coffee menu the “Why Bother?” – seemingly brewed by waving a coffee bean under the steam while frothing the milk. I agree - why bother? But that’s what some people want and I congratulate the café owner’s good business sense in providing same.
Coffee menus are great places for educating customers, lectures are not.
Reasons to go to Brew: The coffee’s good, not too expensive, and comes with a chocolate-coated coffee bean (dine-in), the coffee-meisters are very friendly (lecturing aside), and the spunky guy from T42 works there. It’s a nice café, personally I prefer Satis, but that’s just the E.M.Forster in me.
The dream I had the other night? I dreamt that I told the head Brew-boy that the décor reminded me of Hudson’s. Oops.
Where Oh Where Has She Been?
There was a silly rumour running about town that I had fallen victim to foul play. Yes, dear friends, it was true. Fate led a dark alley, a drunken Georgie, and a menacing fellow to cross paths.
Not really, but it had the makings of a good fib.
So where have I been? I won’t bore you with sordid details, but let’s just say there is a good reason why children are discouraged from hiding in refrigerators. The adult-version should be this: Playing hide and seek while drunk is fun. Hiding in a recently cleaned industrial oven is stupid. Dangerous even.
Cough cough.
GW ;-)
Not really, but it had the makings of a good fib.
So where have I been? I won’t bore you with sordid details, but let’s just say there is a good reason why children are discouraged from hiding in refrigerators. The adult-version should be this: Playing hide and seek while drunk is fun. Hiding in a recently cleaned industrial oven is stupid. Dangerous even.
Cough cough.
GW ;-)
Monday, March 07, 2005
Surprise!
Holy dooly, surprised twice in one week by two establishments I have less than loved in the past.
1. Rockerfellers sat me on my arse with a gorgeous possum stew. Yes, I did say possum. It was rich and tomatoey with a velvety mash (yeah, yeah, I know, but what’s a stew without spuds?), beans and native pepper berries (almost too dominant, but worked). And the possum? Tasted like chicken. Kidding! Rich and gamey, about half-way between roo and emu (but tastier than a regal shield). I am now inspired to appear on the New Inventors with my very own possum trap attached to mum’s old crockpot. Yum.
2. Meadowbank really blew me away with an outstanding whole smoked salmon. Oh yes, it was whole, it was gently smoked, and it was enormous. It sat pertly upright on its little stand and appeared to be riding a wild wave of mesclun. Eyes sparkling, teeth bared. It was a beauty! If not for the formality of the occasion I would have shoved the leftovers down my top a la Dan Ackroyd in Trading Places.
Hurrah! This is the type of innovation (the possum) and exciting, respectful treatment of grand produce (the salmon) that we’ve all been baying for.
The sad news?
The possum was a fleeting special on the Rockerfellers menu. As I paid my bill I overheard the waitress tell another patron there was no more. And the whole salmon at Meadowbank was not standard fare, but part of a function menu. Fingers crossed, a special request in advance might result in a surfing salmon for you too.
More please. I like surprises.
1. Rockerfellers sat me on my arse with a gorgeous possum stew. Yes, I did say possum. It was rich and tomatoey with a velvety mash (yeah, yeah, I know, but what’s a stew without spuds?), beans and native pepper berries (almost too dominant, but worked). And the possum? Tasted like chicken. Kidding! Rich and gamey, about half-way between roo and emu (but tastier than a regal shield). I am now inspired to appear on the New Inventors with my very own possum trap attached to mum’s old crockpot. Yum.
2. Meadowbank really blew me away with an outstanding whole smoked salmon. Oh yes, it was whole, it was gently smoked, and it was enormous. It sat pertly upright on its little stand and appeared to be riding a wild wave of mesclun. Eyes sparkling, teeth bared. It was a beauty! If not for the formality of the occasion I would have shoved the leftovers down my top a la Dan Ackroyd in Trading Places.
Hurrah! This is the type of innovation (the possum) and exciting, respectful treatment of grand produce (the salmon) that we’ve all been baying for.
The sad news?
The possum was a fleeting special on the Rockerfellers menu. As I paid my bill I overheard the waitress tell another patron there was no more. And the whole salmon at Meadowbank was not standard fare, but part of a function menu. Fingers crossed, a special request in advance might result in a surfing salmon for you too.
More please. I like surprises.
Thursday, March 03, 2005
Goodbye Summer
Summer is over.
There’s not a cloud in the sky. It’s quite warm. But summer is over.
Even though summer has gone, this is my favourite time of year. Winter’s coming, but it’s not here yet. It’s like that last five minutes you steal in bed before you finally face reality and get up.
Soon it will be dark before we leave work of an evening. It will be cold. We’ll get the flu and spend a fortune at the chemist. We’ll yearn for next summer, wishing our lives away.
But not yet.
We greedily devour autumnal days because soon enough there’ll be no more BBQs. No more salads. No more sitting on the beach and eating sandy fish and chips. No more sunburnt noses. When winter comes, there’ll be no more sipping of champagne in the warm evening glow while the sun lazily sinks.
But winter’s not so bad. There’ll be roasts and soups, stews and breads, curries and casseroles. There’ll be snuggly Sunday sleep-ins, delaying placing that first foot on the cold cold floor. There’ll be open fires and snow on the mountain. And there’ll be the best excuse in the world for drinking red wine.
Bring it on I say!
There’s not a cloud in the sky. It’s quite warm. But summer is over.
Even though summer has gone, this is my favourite time of year. Winter’s coming, but it’s not here yet. It’s like that last five minutes you steal in bed before you finally face reality and get up.
Soon it will be dark before we leave work of an evening. It will be cold. We’ll get the flu and spend a fortune at the chemist. We’ll yearn for next summer, wishing our lives away.
But not yet.
We greedily devour autumnal days because soon enough there’ll be no more BBQs. No more salads. No more sitting on the beach and eating sandy fish and chips. No more sunburnt noses. When winter comes, there’ll be no more sipping of champagne in the warm evening glow while the sun lazily sinks.
But winter’s not so bad. There’ll be roasts and soups, stews and breads, curries and casseroles. There’ll be snuggly Sunday sleep-ins, delaying placing that first foot on the cold cold floor. There’ll be open fires and snow on the mountain. And there’ll be the best excuse in the world for drinking red wine.
Bring it on I say!
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
By Request: The HRB’s Top 10 of the Moment (it may all change tomorrow)
Feel free to piss and moan about this, because God knows by tomorrow I’ll have changed my mind completely. But, as the request has been made and I am titillated by the concept (and easily baited it would seem), here’s my current Top 10 (in no other order than that dictated by the random firing of synapses in what passes for my brain):
Paesano (Italian - West Hobart, 6234 2111). Good stuff: risotto, calzone, gourmet pizzas, cheap. Not so good stuff: size doesn’t make it an attractive dine-in option, but they do describe themselves as ‘specialising in take away’
Steam Packet (“Modern Australian” - Henry Jones Art Hotel, Hunter St, 6210 7700). Good stuff: the food, the service, the wine list. Not so good stuff: a couple of teething issues, but getting there on the whole.
Novaro’s (Italian – Launceston, 6334 5589). Good stuff: it’s all good baby. Not so good stuff: nah, still can’t think of anything
T42 (“Modern Australian” - Elizabeth St Pier, 6224 7742). Good stuff: view, staff, food, coffee, wine list. Not so good stuff: mostly just the evening bar clientele (T42 is a bit of a “scene”)
Sen’s (Asian/Yum Cha - North Hobart, 6236 9345). Good stuff: duck, wonton soup, yum cha, steamed bok choy, custard tarts, cheap. Not so good stuff: take away (unless ordered from the a la carte menu), wine list could be better.
Stillwater River Café (“Modern Australian” – Launceston, 6331 4153). Good stuff: don’t get me started, I’m dribbling already. Not so good stuff: Price, but it doesn’t have to be expensive (unless I’m there, then it’s Family Violence Act time for my wallet)
Siren’s (Vegetarian – Victoria St, Hobart, 6234 2634). Good stuff: vegetarian with imagination. Not so good stuff: Vegetarian Nazism (check the “rules” on the menu)
Satis (Bistro-style Café, not open for dinner – Sandy Bay Rd, Sandy Bay, 6224 0551). Good stuff: the tea, the coffee, the teapots, the cakes and bickies, the bruschetta. Not so good stuff: it’s for sale.
“The Local”, Peppermint Bay (“Modern Australian” – Peppermint Bay, Woodbridge, 6267 4088). Good stuff: great day trip destination, view, venue, food’s good and not expensive, excellent wine list. Not so good stuff: tourists with loud voices/mobiles. (I can’t comment on the main restaurant at PB.)
Mai Ake (Thai - North Hobart, 6231 5557). Good stuff: prawn cakes, bbq octopus, stuffed chicken wings, prawn choo chee, larp gai, basically cheap but good Thai. Not so good stuff: Has lost something since the move to bigger premises, but always a great meal.
If you’re on the list, don’t get cocky. By naming you guys up, you now risk being shot down in flames by a gaggle of people who think you suck. But I like you. Don’t stuff it up.
Asides:
Kafe Kara (Bistro/Café, Hobart). Now open for dinner Fridays. Has always been good for lunch
onetwelve (‘occasional venue’). Hobart’s legal answer to a speak-easy. Cheap drinks, good music, good community events. Watch out for gigs by The John Wayne Instruction Manual (classic funk) and the occasional jazz gig. But you need to be in the know. Go to http://www.onetwelve.blogspot.com/ to get yourself on the mailing list.
Bush Inn (Counter Meals, New Norfolk). Nice view, typical pub fare. Australia’s oldest or longest running or some other bloody “old” status pub. Nellie Melba stayed and performed there. I reckon it’s haunted.
Magic Curries (Indian, Battery Point). Good curries, bad name.
Missing in Action:
These are places that I don’t feel qualified to comment on (yet), despite excellent reputations, because I’ve never been or I haven’t been for ages or I was so incredibly pissed when I did go. But keep your eyes and ears (and taste buds) peeled: Lickerish (Modern Australian, North Hobart), Red Velvet Lounge (Café - Cygnet), Mitsuno (Japanese - Sandy Bay), Franklin Manor (“Modern Australian”? - Strahan), Calstock (French - Deloraine), Criterion Café (Criterion St, Hobart).
And that’s your blooming lot (now you know what happened to Peter Cundall after the fall).
Happy dining!
GW ;-)
Paesano (Italian - West Hobart, 6234 2111). Good stuff: risotto, calzone, gourmet pizzas, cheap. Not so good stuff: size doesn’t make it an attractive dine-in option, but they do describe themselves as ‘specialising in take away’
Steam Packet (“Modern Australian” - Henry Jones Art Hotel, Hunter St, 6210 7700). Good stuff: the food, the service, the wine list. Not so good stuff: a couple of teething issues, but getting there on the whole.
Novaro’s (Italian – Launceston, 6334 5589). Good stuff: it’s all good baby. Not so good stuff: nah, still can’t think of anything
T42 (“Modern Australian” - Elizabeth St Pier, 6224 7742). Good stuff: view, staff, food, coffee, wine list. Not so good stuff: mostly just the evening bar clientele (T42 is a bit of a “scene”)
Sen’s (Asian/Yum Cha - North Hobart, 6236 9345). Good stuff: duck, wonton soup, yum cha, steamed bok choy, custard tarts, cheap. Not so good stuff: take away (unless ordered from the a la carte menu), wine list could be better.
Stillwater River Café (“Modern Australian” – Launceston, 6331 4153). Good stuff: don’t get me started, I’m dribbling already. Not so good stuff: Price, but it doesn’t have to be expensive (unless I’m there, then it’s Family Violence Act time for my wallet)
Siren’s (Vegetarian – Victoria St, Hobart, 6234 2634). Good stuff: vegetarian with imagination. Not so good stuff: Vegetarian Nazism (check the “rules” on the menu)
Satis (Bistro-style Café, not open for dinner – Sandy Bay Rd, Sandy Bay, 6224 0551). Good stuff: the tea, the coffee, the teapots, the cakes and bickies, the bruschetta. Not so good stuff: it’s for sale.
“The Local”, Peppermint Bay (“Modern Australian” – Peppermint Bay, Woodbridge, 6267 4088). Good stuff: great day trip destination, view, venue, food’s good and not expensive, excellent wine list. Not so good stuff: tourists with loud voices/mobiles. (I can’t comment on the main restaurant at PB.)
Mai Ake (Thai - North Hobart, 6231 5557). Good stuff: prawn cakes, bbq octopus, stuffed chicken wings, prawn choo chee, larp gai, basically cheap but good Thai. Not so good stuff: Has lost something since the move to bigger premises, but always a great meal.
If you’re on the list, don’t get cocky. By naming you guys up, you now risk being shot down in flames by a gaggle of people who think you suck. But I like you. Don’t stuff it up.
Asides:
Kafe Kara (Bistro/Café, Hobart). Now open for dinner Fridays. Has always been good for lunch
onetwelve (‘occasional venue’). Hobart’s legal answer to a speak-easy. Cheap drinks, good music, good community events. Watch out for gigs by The John Wayne Instruction Manual (classic funk) and the occasional jazz gig. But you need to be in the know. Go to http://www.onetwelve.blogspot.com/ to get yourself on the mailing list.
Bush Inn (Counter Meals, New Norfolk). Nice view, typical pub fare. Australia’s oldest or longest running or some other bloody “old” status pub. Nellie Melba stayed and performed there. I reckon it’s haunted.
Magic Curries (Indian, Battery Point). Good curries, bad name.
Missing in Action:
These are places that I don’t feel qualified to comment on (yet), despite excellent reputations, because I’ve never been or I haven’t been for ages or I was so incredibly pissed when I did go. But keep your eyes and ears (and taste buds) peeled: Lickerish (Modern Australian, North Hobart), Red Velvet Lounge (Café - Cygnet), Mitsuno (Japanese - Sandy Bay), Franklin Manor (“Modern Australian”? - Strahan), Calstock (French - Deloraine), Criterion Café (Criterion St, Hobart).
And that’s your blooming lot (now you know what happened to Peter Cundall after the fall).
Happy dining!
GW ;-)
Sunday, February 20, 2005
What Happens When an Amulet Doesn’t Work?
Once upon a time there was a lady who was having a baby. Her belly was big and round, tight as a drum. The baby was only weeks away. So her friends decided she needed a celebration with cake and cups of tea and presents. A baby shower, it’s called. They rang around until they found a place that promised to provide room for them to talk and laugh out loud, drink their cups of tea or glasses of champagne, oooh and aaaah over little baby presents, and munch on delicious cakes. The girls asked “Can we come at 3?”, the restaurant said “It would be better for us if you could come around midday, that way there will be lots of cakes for you to eat”.
How delightful. Written invitations were sent out to all the pregnant lady’s friends, who promptly replied. Such was their great excitement and joy.
But then a week before the celebration, or thereabouts, the restaurant called and cancelled the booking. They said “We have too many lunchtime bookings. Maybe you could come around 3?” The ladies frowned and scratched their heads in wonder. Too many lunchtime bookings? Weren’t they a booking too? Weren’t they promised room to talk and laugh out loud, room to drink cups of tea or glasses of champagne, room to oooh and aaaah over little baby presents and to munch on delicious cakes? And weren’t all those lovely cakes going to be more plentiful at midday rather than at 3?
The pregnant lady’s friends put their heads together and scowled a little. “We’ve already sent out the invitations, we’ve already got all the RSVPs. We’ll need to tell everyone of the changed booking time. This is a problem.” So the ladies sent out fresh invitations announcing a change of venue, not time. They weren’t happy with having their booking seen as less important than other bookings. “How rude”, thought they.
But one of the ladies decided to play detectives. She rang the restaurant and played confused. “I’m confused”, she said. “I thought we were coming to eat cake with you, but now I think we have to go elsewhere because you have too many other bookings. I’m so confused.” The man on the telephone was most helpful. He checked the bookings list and said “Yes, we have a cancelled group booking. There’s a squiggly line right through it. But it doesn’t say why the booking was cancelled. We don’t have any other bookings at that time”. The lady’s eyebrow arched high above her left eye. “Oh, really. That is so confusing”, she purred. “But thank you anyway, you’ve been most helpful.”
The ladies had their baby shower yesterday, at another venue of course. They had lots of room to talk and laugh out loud, and to sip their glasses of champagne. But they didn’t have any cake at all. Instead they had an enormous lunch. They munched on pizzas and chicken, on seafood and dips. They talked and laughed about the other silly restaurant, and how glad they were that they hadn’t gone there. There were lots of presents for the pregnant lady, whose belly moved up and down with each laugh as she tore off the wrappings to see the gifts inside. She was surrounded by loving friends who cared about her and her baby. She was wrapped in joy. A happy ending after all.
Imagine. Eighteen women charged with champagne and indignation, feeling defensive on behalf of their pregnant friend. Imagine the power of these women as they march about Hobart furiously declaring their anger at the shabby treatment of their friend with the tight round belly. Imagine how this story will grow along with the growing child, how the baby shower was less important than other bookings. Other bookings that didn’t exist at all. Thank you to one of those cranky indignant ladies who regaled me with this story in great and glorious detail last night over a debriefing champagne. "Class act", she seethed, "Dumping a pregnant lady’s booking in case more money could be made from walk-ins. What’s next, strangling small furry animals?"
Amulet n. Something worn on the body as a charm against evil (Collins Australian Pocket English Dictionary)
How ironic.
How delightful. Written invitations were sent out to all the pregnant lady’s friends, who promptly replied. Such was their great excitement and joy.
But then a week before the celebration, or thereabouts, the restaurant called and cancelled the booking. They said “We have too many lunchtime bookings. Maybe you could come around 3?” The ladies frowned and scratched their heads in wonder. Too many lunchtime bookings? Weren’t they a booking too? Weren’t they promised room to talk and laugh out loud, room to drink cups of tea or glasses of champagne, room to oooh and aaaah over little baby presents and to munch on delicious cakes? And weren’t all those lovely cakes going to be more plentiful at midday rather than at 3?
The pregnant lady’s friends put their heads together and scowled a little. “We’ve already sent out the invitations, we’ve already got all the RSVPs. We’ll need to tell everyone of the changed booking time. This is a problem.” So the ladies sent out fresh invitations announcing a change of venue, not time. They weren’t happy with having their booking seen as less important than other bookings. “How rude”, thought they.
But one of the ladies decided to play detectives. She rang the restaurant and played confused. “I’m confused”, she said. “I thought we were coming to eat cake with you, but now I think we have to go elsewhere because you have too many other bookings. I’m so confused.” The man on the telephone was most helpful. He checked the bookings list and said “Yes, we have a cancelled group booking. There’s a squiggly line right through it. But it doesn’t say why the booking was cancelled. We don’t have any other bookings at that time”. The lady’s eyebrow arched high above her left eye. “Oh, really. That is so confusing”, she purred. “But thank you anyway, you’ve been most helpful.”
The ladies had their baby shower yesterday, at another venue of course. They had lots of room to talk and laugh out loud, and to sip their glasses of champagne. But they didn’t have any cake at all. Instead they had an enormous lunch. They munched on pizzas and chicken, on seafood and dips. They talked and laughed about the other silly restaurant, and how glad they were that they hadn’t gone there. There were lots of presents for the pregnant lady, whose belly moved up and down with each laugh as she tore off the wrappings to see the gifts inside. She was surrounded by loving friends who cared about her and her baby. She was wrapped in joy. A happy ending after all.
Imagine. Eighteen women charged with champagne and indignation, feeling defensive on behalf of their pregnant friend. Imagine the power of these women as they march about Hobart furiously declaring their anger at the shabby treatment of their friend with the tight round belly. Imagine how this story will grow along with the growing child, how the baby shower was less important than other bookings. Other bookings that didn’t exist at all. Thank you to one of those cranky indignant ladies who regaled me with this story in great and glorious detail last night over a debriefing champagne. "Class act", she seethed, "Dumping a pregnant lady’s booking in case more money could be made from walk-ins. What’s next, strangling small furry animals?"
Amulet n. Something worn on the body as a charm against evil (Collins Australian Pocket English Dictionary)
How ironic.
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
I’d Eat the Crutch Out of a Low-Flying Peking Duck
In fact I did.
It was fresh from the duck-hangery and still warm when brought lovingly home to me. It was sweet, it was tender, and it was spicy in a star anisey kind of way.
In the past I’ve instructed you all to give the bain-marie at Sen’s a very wide berth. In fact, I would say that unless you’ve sat at a table at Sen’s and ordered from the menu (or the specials board) you deserve what you get and have no right to tell me that Sen’s sucks. I still stand by this mantra. And now my love of Sen’s simple and cheap food for the soul has been strengthened by their blessed duck. To know that this is my rescue from cheap Butter Chicken when I want a Friday night at home has made it all the more sweet. I’m craving more as we speak.
But this long weekend it didn’t stop at the duck (mercy me). On Sunday we had what some may call a “delicate condition” going on. I’d been carousing into the wee hours of the morning and was craving something far more than stroking my own forehead could provide. I needed soothing in a big way, and the only way to get that kind of soothing (from the inside out) is a big bowl of Sen’s wanton soup. Clear broth, bok choy, prawn and pork wantons floating like bloated goldfish. Heaven.
When I have to agonise over menus that make me freeze with petit mals of boredom, it’s so comforting to find that Sen’s (with a little touch of traditional Chinese music to welcome the Year of the Rooster) can still pull the goods.
See, sometimes it really is just the simplest things. And not a mash in sight!
It was fresh from the duck-hangery and still warm when brought lovingly home to me. It was sweet, it was tender, and it was spicy in a star anisey kind of way.
In the past I’ve instructed you all to give the bain-marie at Sen’s a very wide berth. In fact, I would say that unless you’ve sat at a table at Sen’s and ordered from the menu (or the specials board) you deserve what you get and have no right to tell me that Sen’s sucks. I still stand by this mantra. And now my love of Sen’s simple and cheap food for the soul has been strengthened by their blessed duck. To know that this is my rescue from cheap Butter Chicken when I want a Friday night at home has made it all the more sweet. I’m craving more as we speak.
But this long weekend it didn’t stop at the duck (mercy me). On Sunday we had what some may call a “delicate condition” going on. I’d been carousing into the wee hours of the morning and was craving something far more than stroking my own forehead could provide. I needed soothing in a big way, and the only way to get that kind of soothing (from the inside out) is a big bowl of Sen’s wanton soup. Clear broth, bok choy, prawn and pork wantons floating like bloated goldfish. Heaven.
When I have to agonise over menus that make me freeze with petit mals of boredom, it’s so comforting to find that Sen’s (with a little touch of traditional Chinese music to welcome the Year of the Rooster) can still pull the goods.
See, sometimes it really is just the simplest things. And not a mash in sight!
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Now Listen Here Young Lady!
I’m in so much trouble.
She pointed her finger and waggled it at me ferociously “Who the hell do you think you are!” I frowned a sulky frown and pursed my lips and scuffed my feet on the floor beneath me. It was worse than the dressing down I got in Grade 10 Home Economics.
On that sordid occasion Mrs Fatso (really, that was her name!) had been standing behind me just as I felt the need to announce how much I hated her daggy menu for our school formal. “Fatso” I declared “wouldn’t know an exciting menu if it jumped out and bit her dimpled arse”. Oops. Mrs Fatso clipped my right ear (I should have sued) and sent me to the back of the room to read Margaret Fulton and write an essay on the gentle art of menu design. Bloody hell she was harsh!
Look, I’m the first to admit that I know jack shit about menu design (I’ve blanked out that essay’s content) or food science (I failed Home Ec). But I do know what does and doesn’t excite me, I do know what does and doesn’t taste good (to me!), and I’m not afraid to tell. But that doesn’t make me right (or wrong if you disagree with me). It’s just my opinion.
I have a mouth, and sometimes it runs away with me. Worse yet I can type as fast as I think (show off!), so I have a wee tendency to regret my actions from time to time. Should I shut down the HRB, banish myself to a dungeon and not come out until I have learnt to be a silent and penitent shadow of myself?
Nuh!
But, the idea of “Hobart Restaurant Bitch” is to have a bitch, not be a bitch. And I don’t want my big mouth to get in the way of a valid restaurant experience, therefore I do not accept freebies or invitations to ‘review’ (the “invitation” from Henry Jones wasn’t actually an invitation), I do not book tables under Georgie Weston or HRB, and I do not reveal that I’m a “reviewer” (mostly because I’m not a reviewer’s arsehole). See, I have ethics.
So there I was this morning getting a bloody good dressing down, having flashbacks by the boatload and feeling right sorry for myself. “Who the hell do you think you are,” she asked again, finger still waggling, “some bloody expert or something?” Hmmm, maybe she had a point. But like my rebellious teenage self, there I stood, sulky and shitty and wanting to fight back. “Expert? Hey, it’s just my OPINION!”. “Who are you talking to?” my husband asked, startling me so that I jumped and dropped my toothbrush on the floor. I looked back at the mirror, she was still there and now sprayed with toothpaste. Oops.
Call me crazy, but I suspect that, like me, you guys like to eat out occasionally, preferably without having your wallets ripped out through your botty holes or your taste buds bludgeoned to death with the boredom stick. I’m sorry if we don’t see eye-to-eye on all things. But I’m not sorry for expressing my opinion. As a consumer with a voice I can say what the hell I like. But via the HRB you get to say what the hell you like too. And that means all of us hungry little consumers can have a say.
And that’s the point Belvedere … as long as I can face that scary bitch in the mirror tomorrow morning.
GW ;-)
She pointed her finger and waggled it at me ferociously “Who the hell do you think you are!” I frowned a sulky frown and pursed my lips and scuffed my feet on the floor beneath me. It was worse than the dressing down I got in Grade 10 Home Economics.
On that sordid occasion Mrs Fatso (really, that was her name!) had been standing behind me just as I felt the need to announce how much I hated her daggy menu for our school formal. “Fatso” I declared “wouldn’t know an exciting menu if it jumped out and bit her dimpled arse”. Oops. Mrs Fatso clipped my right ear (I should have sued) and sent me to the back of the room to read Margaret Fulton and write an essay on the gentle art of menu design. Bloody hell she was harsh!
Look, I’m the first to admit that I know jack shit about menu design (I’ve blanked out that essay’s content) or food science (I failed Home Ec). But I do know what does and doesn’t excite me, I do know what does and doesn’t taste good (to me!), and I’m not afraid to tell. But that doesn’t make me right (or wrong if you disagree with me). It’s just my opinion.
I have a mouth, and sometimes it runs away with me. Worse yet I can type as fast as I think (show off!), so I have a wee tendency to regret my actions from time to time. Should I shut down the HRB, banish myself to a dungeon and not come out until I have learnt to be a silent and penitent shadow of myself?
Nuh!
But, the idea of “Hobart Restaurant Bitch” is to have a bitch, not be a bitch. And I don’t want my big mouth to get in the way of a valid restaurant experience, therefore I do not accept freebies or invitations to ‘review’ (the “invitation” from Henry Jones wasn’t actually an invitation), I do not book tables under Georgie Weston or HRB, and I do not reveal that I’m a “reviewer” (mostly because I’m not a reviewer’s arsehole). See, I have ethics.
So there I was this morning getting a bloody good dressing down, having flashbacks by the boatload and feeling right sorry for myself. “Who the hell do you think you are,” she asked again, finger still waggling, “some bloody expert or something?” Hmmm, maybe she had a point. But like my rebellious teenage self, there I stood, sulky and shitty and wanting to fight back. “Expert? Hey, it’s just my OPINION!”. “Who are you talking to?” my husband asked, startling me so that I jumped and dropped my toothbrush on the floor. I looked back at the mirror, she was still there and now sprayed with toothpaste. Oops.
Call me crazy, but I suspect that, like me, you guys like to eat out occasionally, preferably without having your wallets ripped out through your botty holes or your taste buds bludgeoned to death with the boredom stick. I’m sorry if we don’t see eye-to-eye on all things. But I’m not sorry for expressing my opinion. As a consumer with a voice I can say what the hell I like. But via the HRB you get to say what the hell you like too. And that means all of us hungry little consumers can have a say.
And that’s the point Belvedere … as long as I can face that scary bitch in the mirror tomorrow morning.
GW ;-)
Monday, February 07, 2005
Gondwana (sigh)
Jason, Jason, Jason. Where have you sent me? Gondwana … theme restaurant in a time warp. Great Southern Land meets dull 80’s menu.
We struggled with Gondwana’s selection, I’m afraid to say. It took us a rather long time to wade through the options. Unlike Stillwater where a degustation takes the agony of choosing out of my hands, at Gondwana the agony of choosing was not about being spoilt for exciting choice. It was a comprehensive enough menu, but just plain uninspiring.
Calamari … could have been Fish Frenzy, could have been Rockerfellers, could have been my Nanna’s kitchen (admittedly my Nanna does rock with a deep fryer!).
New York Cut of Ocean Trout … perfectly cooked but bland fish (trout just doesn’t compare to salmon in my books, unless it’s raw) sitting on, you guessed it, A BED OF MASH (yawn).
God I sound hard to please. The truth is I’m not! Really! If you have a whole commercial kitchen and a plethora of fresh produce at your feet, there is no excuse for not dazzling my tits off! Seriously!
The most exciting item presented to us was the little “palate cleanser” … vodka and apple juice with a tart little dollop of sorbet. Sheer delight.
Look, the service was good. And laughing boy seems to have grown up and was actually rather pleasant. We were well looked after, we were offered tastes to assist in our wine selection, and so on. But it wasn’t enough to overcome the failings of the menu. The food was not bad, it was just a bit ho hum. And I had such high hopes!
I’d write more, but to be honest I can’t be bothered. Like our be-shackled mates of days gone by, when it comes to the Great Southern Land, we couldn’t wait to escape.
We struggled with Gondwana’s selection, I’m afraid to say. It took us a rather long time to wade through the options. Unlike Stillwater where a degustation takes the agony of choosing out of my hands, at Gondwana the agony of choosing was not about being spoilt for exciting choice. It was a comprehensive enough menu, but just plain uninspiring.
Calamari … could have been Fish Frenzy, could have been Rockerfellers, could have been my Nanna’s kitchen (admittedly my Nanna does rock with a deep fryer!).
New York Cut of Ocean Trout … perfectly cooked but bland fish (trout just doesn’t compare to salmon in my books, unless it’s raw) sitting on, you guessed it, A BED OF MASH (yawn).
God I sound hard to please. The truth is I’m not! Really! If you have a whole commercial kitchen and a plethora of fresh produce at your feet, there is no excuse for not dazzling my tits off! Seriously!
The most exciting item presented to us was the little “palate cleanser” … vodka and apple juice with a tart little dollop of sorbet. Sheer delight.
Look, the service was good. And laughing boy seems to have grown up and was actually rather pleasant. We were well looked after, we were offered tastes to assist in our wine selection, and so on. But it wasn’t enough to overcome the failings of the menu. The food was not bad, it was just a bit ho hum. And I had such high hopes!
I’d write more, but to be honest I can’t be bothered. Like our be-shackled mates of days gone by, when it comes to the Great Southern Land, we couldn’t wait to escape.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
How Do We Learn to Love Wine?
You know how when you’re a kid you love Kahlua and Milk but wine stinks? How do we reach the point where wine becomes pleasant (alright, an obsession)?
I have two very distinct wine-related memories from my childhood. The first is a scene from Daddy Long Legs (an appalling film with Fred Astaire and the revoltingly saccharine Leslie Caron). It is a balcony scene where ol’ Fred and young Leslie are having breakfast and they clink their OJ glasses together. That subtle act is misconstrued by nosy parkers as evidence of an affair (surely paedophilia) because “nobody clinks orange juice”. Hmmmm, I thought, at the age of 7, don’t they? So I promptly made sure to clink my OJ, my coke, my raspberry cordial, but definitely not my water! The second wine-related childhood memory is even more obscure. I recall another charming quote whereby a man states: “A woman’s breasts should fit inside a champagne glass (no, not a flute you tit), as more than a handful is a waste”. Maybe it wasn’t a film, maybe it was Oscar Wilde. Maybe it was my friend Beryl. Can’t remember.
The point (I hear you beg)? The point is, how did these snippets of information feed into my psychic template of the enduring grandeur of wine and champagne? Dunno.
Regardless, at the tender age of 15, I rather precociously and memorably announced to a bunch of 70-year old golfers that the Cabernet Sauvignon Malbec on offer was “not bad for a cocktail”. I recalled at the time that the words on wine labels usually denoted the variety of grape from which the wine was derived … hence the ‘cocktail’. What I was doing drinking wine at 15 with 70-year-old golfers is another story (and not as sordid as you might think!).
Now as a supposed grown-up, I find that my wine knowledge has not expanded exponentially with my increasing years. For example … I recently discovered that sometimes wine labels do not denote the grape from which the wine is derived (shock, horror) … sometimes wine labels tell fibs!!! One of my all time favourite cab savs, for example, is actually a petit verdot (gasp!).
Well. But does it really matter what’s in wine, how it’s made, which type of oak (if any) it’s barrelled in, what the sugar content is, or whether the vintner is a cross-dressing Albanian nun? Who cares, as long as it tastes good, right? Well kind of … I do wish Tamar Ridge well for the sake of the region, but knowing what’s in it (Gunns $$) I can’t bring myself to like it because I can’t bring myself to drink it. What a dilemma!
And what of the wine epiphany … the discovery of a joy-inducing wine that becomes one’s personal holy grail? Alluring, tempting, intoxicating, and yet unattainable (just like me really). Such was my tale of woe, twice. Recently with Lalla Gully Sauvignon Blanc (see my bit on Stillwater River Café), and in the past with a Moorilla Cabernet Sauvignon.
Aaahh, the Moorilla. It was 1993 and there used to be a little wine cellar around the corner from Salamanca that had the most wonderful array of secrets and lies. I found a bottle of Moorilla Cab Sav … 1986! It was only $18! Naturally I bought it, but a word from a wise man made me too scared to drink it (“Only $18 for Moorilla … be careful, be very very careful”). So I was careful. I took it to a family function with half a zillion cousins who I don’t particularly like. Opened the bott. Splashed it about the place like a great big show-off, and downed the one sip left for me in one great gulp. Oh my god. What had I done? It was honestly the best wine I had ever tasted.
It took me another 10 years to realise that no matter how much I pestered, Moorilla were not going to magick me another bottle of the stuff. Quel domage.
These days I still know little more about wine than I did at 15. My palate and nose have been educated, but not my viticultural knowledge banks. But I still know what I like. I like wine. And champagne. Who could ask for anything more?
;-)
I have two very distinct wine-related memories from my childhood. The first is a scene from Daddy Long Legs (an appalling film with Fred Astaire and the revoltingly saccharine Leslie Caron). It is a balcony scene where ol’ Fred and young Leslie are having breakfast and they clink their OJ glasses together. That subtle act is misconstrued by nosy parkers as evidence of an affair (surely paedophilia) because “nobody clinks orange juice”. Hmmmm, I thought, at the age of 7, don’t they? So I promptly made sure to clink my OJ, my coke, my raspberry cordial, but definitely not my water! The second wine-related childhood memory is even more obscure. I recall another charming quote whereby a man states: “A woman’s breasts should fit inside a champagne glass (no, not a flute you tit), as more than a handful is a waste”. Maybe it wasn’t a film, maybe it was Oscar Wilde. Maybe it was my friend Beryl. Can’t remember.
The point (I hear you beg)? The point is, how did these snippets of information feed into my psychic template of the enduring grandeur of wine and champagne? Dunno.
Regardless, at the tender age of 15, I rather precociously and memorably announced to a bunch of 70-year old golfers that the Cabernet Sauvignon Malbec on offer was “not bad for a cocktail”. I recalled at the time that the words on wine labels usually denoted the variety of grape from which the wine was derived … hence the ‘cocktail’. What I was doing drinking wine at 15 with 70-year-old golfers is another story (and not as sordid as you might think!).
Now as a supposed grown-up, I find that my wine knowledge has not expanded exponentially with my increasing years. For example … I recently discovered that sometimes wine labels do not denote the grape from which the wine is derived (shock, horror) … sometimes wine labels tell fibs!!! One of my all time favourite cab savs, for example, is actually a petit verdot (gasp!).
Well. But does it really matter what’s in wine, how it’s made, which type of oak (if any) it’s barrelled in, what the sugar content is, or whether the vintner is a cross-dressing Albanian nun? Who cares, as long as it tastes good, right? Well kind of … I do wish Tamar Ridge well for the sake of the region, but knowing what’s in it (Gunns $$) I can’t bring myself to like it because I can’t bring myself to drink it. What a dilemma!
And what of the wine epiphany … the discovery of a joy-inducing wine that becomes one’s personal holy grail? Alluring, tempting, intoxicating, and yet unattainable (just like me really). Such was my tale of woe, twice. Recently with Lalla Gully Sauvignon Blanc (see my bit on Stillwater River Café), and in the past with a Moorilla Cabernet Sauvignon.
Aaahh, the Moorilla. It was 1993 and there used to be a little wine cellar around the corner from Salamanca that had the most wonderful array of secrets and lies. I found a bottle of Moorilla Cab Sav … 1986! It was only $18! Naturally I bought it, but a word from a wise man made me too scared to drink it (“Only $18 for Moorilla … be careful, be very very careful”). So I was careful. I took it to a family function with half a zillion cousins who I don’t particularly like. Opened the bott. Splashed it about the place like a great big show-off, and downed the one sip left for me in one great gulp. Oh my god. What had I done? It was honestly the best wine I had ever tasted.
It took me another 10 years to realise that no matter how much I pestered, Moorilla were not going to magick me another bottle of the stuff. Quel domage.
These days I still know little more about wine than I did at 15. My palate and nose have been educated, but not my viticultural knowledge banks. But I still know what I like. I like wine. And champagne. Who could ask for anything more?
;-)
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