Category Archives: The Dining Room

In the Kitchen with Vivienne – Seafood – Part 2

18 Saturday Sep 2010

Posted by in The Dining Room, Vivienne

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CALAMARI rings with Tahini Sauce

First make this sauce:

Buy Mayver’s tahini (hulled stone ground sesame seeds) – comes in a jar and is cholesterol free.

In a small mortar, smash together 1 or 2 cloves of garlic with half a teaspoon of salt.

Use another small bowl and add about a third of a cup of the above tahini, mix in the garlic/salt and add a squeeze of lemon juice.  Mix together and gradually add cold water – it will at first turn thick but keep mixing and adding water until it becomes creamier and a lighter colour.  Taste test.  Most recipes suggest a lot more lemon but I think it is better with just a small amount.

The Squid bit

..... only if you have a large pan and quite a few friends

Buy your squid – if you can get a whole one and know how to clean and prepare it please do so.  Otherwise the frozen squid tubes are quite okay.  Once you have thawed the frozen ones (one per person), check that the inside is free of any gunk and then do your best to mop up excess moisture.   Slice into rings about ¾ of a centimetre thick.  Place about three tablespoons of plain wholemeal flour into a plastic bag and add calamari rings, shake to cover with flour.    Heat peanut oil in deep saucepan and cook in batches for a minute or two.  (same method as with the scallops)

Serve with sauce as a dip.

—ooo—

MUSSELS with a white wine/garlic/tomato sauce

Buy your mussels on the day you want to eat them if you can, otherwise keep in the fridge for no more than 24hrs.  Buy them loose by the kilo or in the prepacked  kilo bags from Tasmania (i.e. this recipe is not for those NZ mussels as only Australian ones will do) and do not buy those in a sealed tray as I don’t trust that method.

Discard any mussels which are open and won’t close with a few taps as well as those which are broken.  Pull out the beards as best you can.  Once cooked do not discard unopened mussels (there is nothing wrong with them) but see if you can pry them open or put under the grill and see if that works.  If they just will not open you will have to discard them unfortunately.

First, prepare the sauce – this should be sufficient for 2 kilos of mussels.

Hard boil one egg.

Heat a little olive oil in a large frying pan, add one finely chopped onion, at least 3 cloves of garlic (crushed) and sauté until soft (do not brown), add a tin of chopped or crushed tomatoes and at least a cup of white wine (for this I recommend a white lambrusco – cask style), add salt and pepper to taste.   Mix well and leave to bloop bloop for 15 minutes, taste test.  You will probably need to add more wine and then leave to slowly bloop for as long as it takes to start reducing in volume when the flavour will become more intense and yummy.  Add a little water to bring back the volume.  Finally, add the chopped up boiled egg.

In a big pot cook your mussels in just a little water with the lid on.  Cooking is quick so don’t leave the kitchen.  You will probably only manage half to one kilo at a time, so you will have to time manage this yourself.  One kilo is about right for two people but this depends on how fond you are of mussels.

Serve mussels with the sauce dolloped over them or with the sauce in a small bowl in the centre.  Sour dough bread goes well with this and is useful for mopping up the sauce.

MUSSELS the really easy way

Just prepare and cook them and place in big bowl on table, pluck the mussels out, dip in vinegar and eat.   Don’t forget the appropriate beer.  This is ideal after a morning of hard work in the garden in the springtime.

—ooo—

TEMPURA FLATHEAD

A plate of Platycephalus

The batter for this can be used for any tempura dishes, not just flathead.  I think flathead fillets are the finest of fish and highly recommend that you use them. The size and shape of flathead is perfect for this style of cooking.  You will need about 250g per person and each fillet should be cut into about three pieces.

The batter:  mix together half a cup of plain flour, half a cup of cornflour, 1 ½ teaspoons of baking powder and salt to taste.  Break one egg into a cup and lightly beat and fill with water to the one cup measurement.   Add this to the flours and only lightly beat till roughly blended.   (For gluten free, you can use all cornflour but do make sure you buy real cornflour because some cornflour is made out of flour, believe it or not.)

Heat peanut oil in deep saucepan, dip each piece of flathead in the tempura batter and cook much the same as for the scallops etc – it does not take long as once turning light gold the fish is cooked.

You might like to have chips with this – I recommend you do yourself a favour and buy the frozen straight or crinkle cut ones and pop in the oven.

Serve fish with lemon wedges and/or a quick dip made of 50/50 soy sauce and rice wine.

In the Kitchen with Vivienne – Seafood – Part 1

15 Wednesday Sep 2010

Posted by in The Dining Room, Vivienne

≈ 23 Comments

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Recipes by  Vivienne

OYSTERS  – indulge yourself every now and then

Right now oysters are in fine form as they are best during the colder months.  Oysters are low fat, low cholesterol and full of vitamins and minerals.  Treat yourself to a dozen every week or so but have them at home, not eating out!

SCALLOPS

Also in season now and the Aussie ones are well worth spending $28 for a kilo.  Always trim the little tiny muscle bit off and sit on absorbant paper to soak up moisture.  They can be eaten many ways and require very little cooking time.   One of my favourites is crumbed scallops.

Place two or so tablespoons of plain or wholemeal flour in a plastic bag.  Add a little salt and pepper and a pinch of cayenne pepper.  Shake to coat.  Beat an egg or two very well and drench.  Then coat in regular breadcrumbs.  For gluten free you can buy corn crumbs which are just fine.   Heat peanut oil in a deep saucepan (safer if there is any spitting which is usually completely unforeseen).  Pop in about 8 or 10 at a time, turn once – they should look light to medium golden – only takes a minute.   Serve with tartare sauce and your favourite salad.   A kilo will feed four.  (While you are cooking the 2nd, 3rd batches etc keep the cooked ones in your warming tray or pre-heated low oven.)

BURMESE STYLE PRAWN CURRY

From Charmaine Solomon’s book 1972  (slightly altered by me though as I think blachan smells bloody awful).

To serve two:

  • 16 large raw (Australian) prawns  – sauce will do up to 20 prawns if you want more.
  • 1 tbspn  ghee
  • 1 medium to large onion – finely chopped
  • 3 cloves of garlic – very finely chopped
  • 1 inch piece of fresh giner – very finely chopped
  • 1 teaspoon ground tumeric
  • 1 teaspoon ground chilli
  • 1 teaspoon paprika
  • 1 teaspoon ground coriander
  • 2 tomatoes – chopped
  • 1 and half teaspoons salt
  • Water

Heat ghee in good size saucepan.  Add onion, garlic and ginger and gently cook till just starting to turn pale gold.   Add spices and tomatoes and salt and stir well.  Cook on low heat, add about half a cup of water.  Allow the sauce to bloop bloop for at least half an hour.  When you first taste it will seem rather hot but it mellows as it bloops (put lid on).  You can do this earlier and turn off till you want dinner.  (You might want to add a bit more water later – you should be able to judge this.)

Prepare prawns by peeling and deveining and slit the back so the prawns will curl when cooked.

Gently reheat sauce and add the add the prawns to it.  Cook very very slowly for about half an hour. During this time cook basmati rice.  The prawns will have curled and taken on a lot of the colour and flavour of the sauce.

Serve with rice in a circle on plate and add prawns and sauce to centre.    Eat.

For serving with gluten free pasta instead of rice?  Well I think it will work okay.

PORK & PRAWN WONTONS

Mince up pork and raw prawn meat, mix with finely chopped onion, 4 chopped water chestnuts, 3 chopped spring onions and some cornflour, salt, pepper, tiny dash of sesame oil and a dash of soy.   Quantities depend on how many people you are feeding, but a ratio for 2 people would be about 200 grams of pork and 6 large raw prawns.

Mix till more like a paste.

Place a walnut size amount on each wonton wrapper and fold appropriately (triangle or parcel)..

Cook in boiling water for a few minutes, remove and serve in flavoursome homemade chicken broth or have solo with perhaps a dipping sauce.  Top the broth with shredded skinny egg omelette, chopped garlic chives or blanched snow peas.

ADVICE for seafood lovers

If the above seems a bit too daunting …… just go out and buy some oysters and cooked prawns and get stuck into them.

All dishes should be served with a cold Trotters ale or a chilled bottle of white wine of your choice.

It’s Probably Dietary

24 Tuesday Aug 2010

Posted by in Gregor Stronach, The Dining Room

≈ 33 Comments

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Vegan Picnic - carnivore hell....

by Gregor Stronach

It has been said that you are what you eat, in which case today I’m a mixture of instant porridge, Portuguese chicken burger and Thai green curry with prawns. How lovely and multicultural.

And it’s often food that’s the last line of argument for frustrated multiculturalists when dealing with an ignoramus who finds the idea too confusing to entertain. Sadly, it’s an argument that is often met with the phrase “Ooohhh… I love their cooking, but they can’t drive and they eat dogs. Nup – don’t want ’em here, mate.”

Which has me thinking about food and all things dietary. I wonder how it was that they figured out the recommended daily intake of any given substance. How on earth have they got it figured out down to the milligram? Is there a lab full of malnourished, skeletal university students earning themselves a quick $100 by being starved by unlicensed nutritionists in a basement somewhere? Are they being drip-fed minute portions of trace elements until they become the healthy, pink-faced adolescents that we’ve come to know and love around campus?

The thing that really worries me, though, is the rise and rise of vegetarianism and all of its wacky offshoots, like Buddhism. Vegetarians have a lot to answer for, in my opinion. Their self-righteous prattle and stubborn refusal to come over for a barbecue makes my blood boil. They claim it’s for health reasons, or even worse for philosophical reasons, but the end result is the same – they’re all wan, unhealthy and secretly dying for a steak. I think they’re actually just afraid of eating anything with a face.

There’s absolutely nothing wrong with tucking into a huge piece of barely cooked steak, particularly if it’s been lovingly prepared on a barbecue being driven by wet wood covered in petrol. There’s something special about the unique taste of charred flesh and petroleum products, coupled with the unnerving sensation of chewing bleeding meat that is still at body temperature. It brings out the animal in all of us – far better than sinking a dozen beers and attacking the neighbours when they complain about the noise.

This type of behaviour stems from an ancient need. In eras gone by, it wasn’t unusual for the locals to suddenly band together, arm themselves with colossal weapons and trot off down the street to murder the people in the next village. Scholars have recently discovered that this usually occurred just after the consumption of large quantities of meat. The discovery was made through the study of stool samples found in peat bogs at the scene of some of the massacres. Stools that contained plenty of meat waste were usually found in one large pile, suggesting that the meat eater was full of good tucker, and supremely confident that they could shit where they liked. Samples that contained mostly vegetable fibre were usually found in several small pieces that diminished in size in a straight line from the point of origin. This suggests that the vegetarians were usually running away as they crapped.

These days, meat-induced violence doesn’t occur all that often. Places where men can band together and consume meat are now either heavily policed, or the meat is doctored to lessen its impact. Take, for example, a football match. Football is traditionally a gathering point for men to eat meat, drink beer and watch other men wrestle with each other in mud. A probable hotbed of violence, I hear you say, but football violence is actually a rare occurrence. The food that is served at the game can only be loosely defined as meat, per se. I defy anyone to correctly identify a single piece of flesh in either a hot dog or a meat pie.

Vegetarianism, however, is not the answer to the violence that is invariably prompted by the consumption of meat. Vegetarianism is wrong on a thousand different levels, most of them too boring to list here.

But when you consider vegetarianism, it pales in comparison to veganism. Vegans won’t eat any animal products or by-products at all, which is weird. They’re condemning themselves to a life of feeling weak and having to buy really expensive alternatives to normal food. Vegan pasta, which doesn’t contain any of the usual good bits like eggs or weevils, tastes like cellophane and costs a small fortune.

However, veganism should be promoted at every available opportunity. The reason for this is quite simple – when it all goes south and the global economy and political system collapses, we’ll be reduced to eating each other to survive. And I for one will be targeting vegans.

Vegans will be the new veal.

First publishicated over that Rum and Monkey

Now is the Discontent of our Winter

07 Monday Jun 2010

Posted by in Emmjay, The Dining Room

≈ 38 Comments

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Persimmons - the offal fruit

There’s a time of year that I for one have traditionally come to dread.   It’s marked out for all to see in the fruit and veg in the local greengrocers.

I’m talking about the arrival of truckloads of persimmons.

Persimmons have no reason to resist extinction.  No more reason do they have to exist, than do chokoes.  Yes, they are cheerfully orange at a grey time of year and yes, they have a squishy texture. But they have a dreadful mouth feel – not unlike something hacked up from a lower lobe of a diseased lung.  And they have a more-or-less total lack of flavour.  Sorry, I meant to say that they have a very delicate perfume, quite reminiscent of Clag glue – that favourite staple of my early school years.

Not far behind the persimmons we notice the mandarins.  I personally have no axe to grind with mandarins.  Except the ones that have a seed content approaching 87%.  I quite like the mandarin zest that accumulates under the fingernails, the sticky fingers and the bucket load of skin one needs to dispose as part of the after-lunchtime ritual.  Or not.

There are of course pomegranates to widen the choice of inedible fruit during the colder months.   Pomegranates remind us that we are a culturally diverse nation, doffing our hats to Persia, North Africa and the Middle East.  And like the inhabitants of those climes, they bring colour and texture to our otherwise bland Anglo fare.  But they bring seeds.  Man oh man, they are a seed-rich experience

And quinces – that intriguing cross between apples and rocks.  Thirty cents and the greengrocer will fill up the boot of your car with quinces – because they are a such a sought-after delicacy.  As an alternative, you might consider drying them and using them as a carbon-neutral source of bio-fuel.  Or road base.  Strangely, quince paste is sometimes flogged as an antidote to blue cheese.  The idea being that one smears some on a cracker, followed by blue cheese and then (incredibly) it’s supposed to be OK to eat.  In my experience, quince paste makes an excellent emergency alternative to axle grease and should be part of every caravanner’s kit.  Particularly if the tub is inexplicably lost interstate.

So what do these phoney pretenders to green-grocer shelf-space have in common ?  Answer:  they need to have the absolute bejesus stewed out of them with the addition of two thirds of the Bundaberg sugar crop to be made into the kind of preserves that jostle for space up the back of the fridge behind the coleslaw.  And compete, unsuccessfully with the rock of the school fete – Lemon Butter.

In recent years we’ve seen the arrival of new exotic fruit.  I’m mindful of the dragon fruit – with lovely red, triffid-like skin and fruit with the flavour and texture of jellied sand with black sesame seeds thrown in by way of contrast.

What to do ?  It’s depressing to wander the aisles of the green grocer in the months lacking an “r”.  Best to stay away for a while.  I prefer to go for mainstream preserves during the discontent of our winter.  I eke out a meagre existence on Poire William or Calvados, maybe Slivovitz, and Kirsch – at a pinch, Vodka citron.  Sometimes I even resort to eating Californian pesticides harvested and imported as heavily disguised navel oranges or ruby red grapefruit.

In a desperate attempt to make it through to the first mango of the season, I sometimes revert to purchasing chestnuts – a relative newcomer to the Australian green grocery.  These can sit in the pantry for months until the first mango of the new season arrives, pristine, in its orangey-red hugeness direct from the mango fields of the Northern Territory.  Like the first swallow returning to Capistrano, this mango is not for eating.  The five dollar price tag covers just the transport cost.  Flavour and texture are not included in the price.  Colour, yes, but flavour and texture, no way.

But the chestnuts are divine.  Not for eating, for reminding one of the romance of roast chestnuts in the snow on the Champs Elysees.  I recommend that you do remember them this way – even if you have never been to Paris, I can faithfully report that winter fruit does not get better than this.

Purchase enough chestnuts to pan roast for two people.  That would be two chestnuts.  Then leave them in the pantry until the first stone fruit of the new season appears – and – throw the chestnuts out – saving you the trouble of third degree lacerations from trying to peel them, or third degree burns in the unlikely event that you CAN peel them and inadvertently put one in your mouth.  Oh, and if you’ve made it this far with the chestnuts, they will have a texture and a taste not unlike pencil erasers – completing (with the persimmon-Clag combination) the daily double of infants’ school taste reminiscences.

Not a good memory, but a memory, none-the-less.  Glad to have one.

This was first Published by the ABC at Unleashed – Christ knows why – they disappeared it totally – after just three days …..

This version has the spelling mistakes fixed and a better photo.

Oysters – A Return of Service

29 Friday Jan 2010

Posted by in The Dining Room

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Ah, huitres .... l'avion rose

Story and photographs by Jules

This window dresser and a pigsarmsman recently sashayed into Harrods with his 86 year old Mum for an oyster treat. Mum being insistent that they have, `the selection’.

Now this is a great idea because one gets to do the comparison in `real-time’.  One can guzzle the little molluscs one after t’other and compare taste.

Just as an aside here let me tell you that oysters actually filter and clean the water that they live in. (Makes a change from Humans, the nasty beasts.) A healthy oyster can filter 50 gallons of water a day. Well so I read somewhere. I’m not going to provide a peer reviewed paper!!

Anyway they ( we) had some rock oysters, Japanese Pacific oysters, Clares, Belons- and my favourite The Colchester, accompanied by brown bread and butter. The bread baked on site and the un-salted butter sourced from The Harrods Dairy Farm—or so I’m told.

Rare shot of Jules in the Harrod's dining room - modelled after the Pig's Arms Dining Room

They were duly dispatched, accompanied by a glass of French Champagne * (from Harrods vineyards, no doubt)- and this enabled us to come to a sensible decision with the suitcase purchase, upstairs.

One of my old haunts in affluent days of yore was Wheelers. Good old fashioned silver service, with slightly snooty waiters. It made me feel good in the seventies, to dine in the up market establishments. Me with denims and kaftan shirt, accompanied by the remnants of “the beautiful people of the sixties” ,the hoi-polloi , current and fading  debutantes and–well anybody really, especially if they had pizzazz.

I never got to Wheelers Oyster Bar in Whitstable, but have avowed to take the pilgrimage one day. This year perchance, if plans for a 400th anniversary school reunion are taken up. It is miles away, nowhere is too far in Dear Old Blighty .

Thanks to Neville Cole for prompting me to dig out last year’s photos. If you hadn’t they would probably just languish on my hard drive for evermore and a day.

But just before I go I’ll just share this:

On a sojourn on the Coast of California once, we picked out a seafood restaurant in Sausalito, just over the Northern side of The Golden Gate Bridge. We had driven up from LA, stopping at a couple of motels and made camp in a Ramada Hotel in San Francisco. You know, we had the family room with two king sized beds for five of us. Fortunately the saucepans were 3, 5 & 7 years old, so we all bunked in No Prob!

I can’t recall the name of the restaurant, but their specialty was lobster and I was very keen, especially after some recommendations.

I’ll keep this short—as it’s humid today and I need a pool fix.  So let me just tell you that it was a riot.

They slapped bibs on us and made a great big fuss, as we were `Poms abroad’. This led to an abandonment of our English manners and we took great delight in making a mess. 5 or 6 beers helped the oysters down and some Californian White (can’t remember the style), washed the lobster down. It is the way we would like to eat, more often I’m sure.

*poetic embellishment—as Mum had champagne and I had soda, lime and bitters.

Oyster Call Australia Home – The Pig’s Arms Welcomes Neville Cole

28 Thursday Jan 2010

Posted by in The Dining Room

≈ 42 Comments

The Pig's Arms new North American correspondent...... shucks

In which I answer the question: Is it ever appropriate to order oysters on a first date?

Oysters are funny things, aren’t they? Right up there with the funniest things you can eat. Not counting the truly bizarre – monkey brains, blow fish, pig balls and the like…but regular food. Oysters have to be the weirdest normal food out there. I mean, let’s face it! Oysters are odd. They look like extremely large boogers laid out on ashtrays arranged on a bed of kitty litter; but we pay a fortune for them (unless you order them at Hooters or something but that’s a pretty dicey proposition, isn’t it?). You have to be a real risk taker or completely mesmerized by boobs and orange shorts to order oysters at that place.

Then again, who am I to talk? I’ve ordered oysters in Rocky Point, Mexico. Ever been there? It’s not what anyone would call a culinary experience. They have this place called the Happy Dolphin. It’s basically a three story bar crammed with tables that serves food smothered in cheese. I’ve never seen a single table of sober people at the Happy Dolphin. Last time I was there my whole floor was having a food fight. Tortillas were flying every which way. One group of middle-aged drunks spent the whole night continually tossing theirs into the ceiling fan above their heads and laughing uproariously as they shot dramatically across the room. The staff didn’t even flinch they just kept loading them with more fish-bowl sized margaritas, refilling the tortilla plates and occasionally sweeping up the mess. There were no looks of disgust or frustration just resignation pure and simple. “Gringos being gringos. What are you going to do, amigo?” they seemed to be thinking.

I did not have oysters at the Happy Dolphin and I did not throw tortillas either…well, not many.

I did have oysters at a little sidewalk café called the Blue Marlin. The food there is excellent and I found the oysters quite delectable. That is, until I got home and every newspaper heading and every TV report and every internet blog was screaming about high levels of fecal contamination in the waters near Rocky Point coupled an outbreak of Vibrio Vulnificus that was causing gastroenteritis, cholera, dysentery, colitis, flux, colic, ague, abnormal flatulence, bloody stools, tachycardia, turgor, vomiting and a hundred other horrible things. Mmm…that’s making me hungry just thinking about it.

Some reports say 99% of the oysters in the Gulf Coast are contaminated with Vibrio Vulnificus…and I am assuming that the Sea of Cortez around Rocky Point is pretty much the same percentage and before you ask, no, Tabasco won’t kill the bacteria and neither will tequila.  Think about it. 99% is right around the same percentage you have of losing in Vegas. I don’t know about you but I don’t like those odds.

While we are talking percentages, I’ve read that 60% of the people treated for oyster-related illness are men. I don’t think that necessarily proves that women are stronger than men. I think it proves that more men are stupid enough to believe that oysters are an aphrodisiac or that men are more desperate to try an aphrodisiac than women. Honestly, who really believes that a snotty little mollusk will make you “strong like bull in the sack?” Same people who think that rhino horn will do the trick probably.

I do want to go on record here…this is not the reason I like oysters. My love of oysters is hereditary. I grew up on the things. Back in Australia in the 70s oysters were king. We could get them everywhere. I’m serious we could quite literally drive into a gas station (well, petrol station) and say “Oy, mate! Fill ‘er up and while you’re at it check me oil and I think one of me tyres is a bit flat too. Oh, and top off the washer fluid, will ya? Oh, yeah… and we’ll take two dozen oysters. Yeah, go ahead and shuck em we’re gonna eat them in the car.” It’s true…google meribula oysters petrol if you don’t believe me.

They have good oysters down under. Small but tasty. The first time we came to the States (in 1977) we arrived in San Francisco and went straight to Fisherman’s Wharf and ordered an oysters appertizer. We couldn’t believe what they carried out to us…two or three inches long they were. Great slabs of oyster meat! We thought we’d died and gone to heaven. Then we tasted them. Wasn’t pretty. I’ve had plenty of good oysters stateside since then but that was not a good day. My mum, she’s 80 now, but she still talks about the horror of it.

“We ordered oysters in San Francisco, it was” she’ll say. “Oh, what was the name of the place? Filene’s Basement, I think.”

“No mum, that’s the place you went shopping in Boston.”

“Oh yes, marvelous place. We had to get coats in San Francisco. It was so cold. Even in summer! That San Francisco is so dirty. Not as dirty as New York City but still not like Melbourne. Well, Melbourne does have some dirty spots I suppose, don’t you think?”

“What about the oysters, mum?”

“Oh, they were terrible, weren’t they? Flabby, tasteless, horrible, yuck! Not like we have here in Australia. You see, our oysters are much smaller but they are sweet and delicious…” Yes, that’s right…my mother is Dame Edna Everage. So now you know where I get it from…

Anyway, the point is I don’t eat oysters to get feeling all sexy or anything like that. I really do like how they taste. But sometimes it is hard to convince people of that. Ever order oysters on a first date? The girl will be all “Uh-uh, no way buddy!” She will immediately be all up in your face, wagging her finger and doing that thing where they kind of move their head independent of their shoulders in a threatening way as if to say “You did not just do that! You did not just order oysters! Not with me! Not on a first date!” Men wont do that if the girl orders oysters, of course. No girls, if you order oysters on a first date he will just assume you’re a slut. So, all in all, it’s better to wait a while before going the for the old oysters on the half shell.

Come to think of it, there’s really only one good time to order oysters: Valentine’s Day. Picture it…a nice romantic dinner, both of you all dressed to the nines, a nice bottle of wine chilling by the table. You look at her and see desire in her heart. That’s the night to order oysters. Just make sure you don’t happen to be having this dinner at Hooters or in Mexico because if you are you won’t be “getting it on” later that night you’ll be in the bathroom alternately puking your guts out and suffering from horrendous bouts of explosive diarrhea. Bon appétit!

L’aubergade

31 Thursday Dec 2009

Posted by in Gerard Oosterman, The Dining Room, The Public Bar

≈ 15 Comments

Just when my reminiscing had calmed down and were having our second coffee in bed, up came the subject of popular inner city restaurants. I suppose, the period between the eighties and mid nineties. We had kids that were grown up enough not to need minding and enough dosh to occasionally go for a nosh. L’ironique was French and next door almost to our flower shop ‘Bloomsbury’. It was always good value and the peppery steak mignon with cantarelli mushrooms was my favourite. A great pity the owners walked out after that disastrous Rainbow Warrior affair in New Zealand  in 1985,when many locals turned against anything French, including L’ironique restaurant. The couple running it were actually from Belgique.

This is the reason of the picture of my first bike. I spent time in Southern Belgium just after the war when the Rotterdam quack reckoned I was too close to expiring and in dire need of good and more tucker than my mother could provide. I developed as a first language French and mes parents could not understand me when I finally returned after adequately been fattened up, mainly by bucket loads of mussels. I can still see steaming pots of them. Those temporary foster Belgians gave me that bike and had a large garden in which I was fascinated by all things flying, especially butterflies for which the kind people had given me a net to try and catch them.

The next best restaurant was in Cleveland street, Surrey Hills named L’aubergade. I feel it could still be there. They survived the anti French period. Another beauty but Italian was La Lupa, first in Surrey Hills and later in Balmain. I used to love their grilled liver soaked first in lemon juice.

Another Italian place in Liberty Street, Stanmore was the one for veal and oregano (saltimbocca). It was a family run restaurant in a large converted house.  I have forgotten the name.

So, there you are. My first bike. Mike has put me off the H Davison, I suppose too big and heavy, too US too. Think will contemplate the Duke. I saw a yellow one here in Goulburn, very sleek.

All the best for everyone but especially all the piglets in the New Year.

Gerard.

Pig’s Arms Bumper Christmas Edition – Deep and Crisp and Even

24 Thursday Dec 2009

Posted by in The Dining Room

≈ 11 Comments

Hmmmm

Fat cats, mermaids, sealing our fates or fatalling our ceilings.  Copenhagen naturally got me thinking about food.  But rollmops and herrings for breakfast weren’t on my radar.

Cut to an image of the usual obese contemporary crowd scenes with spherical kids in school uniforms and chopped off or blurred heads.

Flashback to the school tuck shop.  1960.  With just one professional manager, everything else was created by the loving labour of volunteer mums.

Picture this, dear reader.  A seven inch round flaky pastry beef pie.    Like the Feast of Stephen, lying there in its brown paper bag, deep and crisp and even, but flakier, resplendent in its golden skin and membranous interior crust.  The only thing standing between this god-given delicacy and immediate gorging was the fact that the internal temperature was fairly close to the melting point of tungsten.  Do you remember when we had grazing animals –before tofu and lentils ?  When coleslaw was a distant and unanticipated future threat ?  Actual meat !

Problem –lunch was a time-bound event; a tricky balance between searing hunger and the opportunity to play games of skill and lethal intent, heroism and public ridicule.  Cocky Lora, sponsored by the Australian Dental Association), Fly  – for the boys and hopscotch for the girls (sponsored by the College of Orthopaedic surgeons), Butt – tennis ball against the wall – excluding those who couldn’t cope with just one bounce (sponsored by ophthalmic surgeons); cricket of course, elastics for the girls.  Where was I ? Oh yes, lunch.

Solution :  – peel off the pastry lid, and alternate between eating that and blowing on the pie contents – boeuf a la gristle, Offaly kind of the pie makers.  But marvellous to the taste.  And the pain of third degree burns to the tongue was easily dealt with by drinking copious bottles of milk flavoured by barber-pole straws impregnated with substances and dyes that the German petrochemical juggernaut insisted were fair approximations of strawberry and chocolate.  They weren’t but they tasted better than luke-warm raw milk.

Flash back a couple of hours earlier in 1960.  To play lunch – or for anyone born after the baby boom, “little lunch”.   It’s winter, and only the wealthy kids had appropriate socks and ! Shorts and mittens.  Tuck Shop Mum solutions to the icy conditions (for the climate change denialists that was when you had to walk across white, frosty lawns crackling your way through your suburb) – vats of hot steaming cocoa – served in china mugs – with the thickness of a Steve Fielding or Barnaby Joyce parliamentary speech.  No, seriously, they weighed as much as well.  You could drop one from a standing height onto the asphalt – and it would bounce and not break.

This was an even more challenging situation.  Only 20 minutes to deal with the boiling brown lava – as well as get in a few games or watch Alan Mackie punch some hapless victim into next week.

Solution: peel the skin off the top of the cocoa and blow.  Repeat.  Alternate with the consumption of a vanilla slice (suspiciously like Sunlight soap with pink icing )– or the real thing – a pink-iced finger bun.

Let’s be honest here, the only thing standing between we kids becoming the same size as the mums with the generous aprons and the prototype tuck shop arms – was the fact that we used to run around non-stop – both sides of refuelling at the tuck shop.

And then suddenly, our world was turned upside down when the P&C (or P&F for some) went on a health kick.  Yum ! A salad sandwich, no lollies.  No cocoa, but little boxes of sultanas and nuts.  Bloody reconstituted orange juice in little cardboard boxes.  (I hate them to this day).  Worse was to come – forget the peanut butter sandwich – it was vegemite with or without cheese.  And wholemeal bread.  Had these people no kid compassion ?

This brought on the velvet revolution.  There were two approaches.  Cruel parents cut lunches.  I had a short confrontation with – what Dad called “Soggy Sandwiches”.  Mum used to slice tomatoes – those delicious Grosse Lisses – and by lunchtime all the juice had seeped out into the bread.  Texture nightmare.  Disgusting.  Then Mum got a paying job and heaven happened.  Back to lunch money !  But not back to the Tuck Shop.  The corner shop did a roaring trade in Fry’s Cream Bars, Freddo Frogs, Violet Crumble Bars, Hoadley’s Pollywaffles and Sunny Boy iceblocks.

This sounds pretty disastrous – and it was – except for Mr Mackenzie – the local dentist.  “I’m sorry to tell you this, Mrs Jones, but young Michael here has 15 fillings to come.  So much for Mum’s second source of family income.  But in truth these confections were nothing in comparison with the new big gun – the Mars Bar.  And the writing was on the wall when Coke eclipsed Tarax.

And over the horizon was fast food and over the horizon after that – was computer and video games.  So the die was cast.  The pandemic of obesity had its roots in the innocuous and well-meaning decision to cut the cocoa and the flaky pastry pie and to banish the vanilla slice and the pink-iced finger bun from the Tuck Shop.

I have to confess that I did attempt to turn back the tide when the Emmlets were at school.  While I was treated with courtesy and kindness, in their Tuck Shop, I did feel a little like a trespasser in a female domain and was shunted out to help the delivery dudes unload the incoming supplies.  If I was a bigger sexist pig I’d say there was a bit of misanthropy going on there – but I suspect the real cause was the faux pas of mentioning “tomato” and “sandwich” in the same sentence.

Kisses and French Dressing

28 Saturday Nov 2009

Posted by in Helvi Oosterman, Ladies Lounge, The Dining Room

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My remaining five  mysteries

By Helvi Oosterman

As you have all been waiting, with bated breath no doubt, for my remaining five mysterious things; no more suspense, here they are. To please dear Asty, I’ll start with something ‘sublime’ and leave the more mundane mysteries last:

6. Why are so many men cagey about shaking hands with females, whilst at the same time happy to pump their mates’ arms almost to a breaking point? Here I stand with my extended hand only  to be conveniently ignored. Are we girls a lower caste, or are the men afraid to appear too intimate with us. After all the French men hug you and plant not one but four kisses on one’s cheeks without fear of retribution. Swearing when there are females  present is another baffler. Don’t tell me the old story about ‘ladies’; we only have them in England, and they go together with the Lords…

7. I also like to know who ever came up with this unforgivable term, a ‘naughty’ or it’s brother ‘nookie’ when referring to making love. He wasn’t a Frenchman, that’s for sure.

8. We had lunch with some newish friends; the quiche was very good and the desert was divine. There was a salad to go with the main, but it wasn’t dressed, the vinaigrette was missing; what to do? Follow the hostess and sprinkle some oil from one bottle and a few drops of vinegar from another. But this is not the same as having a real vinaigrette made to proper quantities of oil, vinegar, salt, pepper, French mustard, pinch of sugar, some fresh herbs and even garlic if you so prefer. Is this two-bottle custom from middle ages?

9. While we are talking food I have to ask what is this calling some cheeses ‘tasty’? Are the other cheeses tasteless, perhaps? I have a husband who sometimes still buys those packets of pre-sliced processed ‘cheeses’, these slices are individually wrapped and at times very hard to get to. I suggest that he eat them with wrapping and all; they both taste the same more or less.

10. Now we are coming to the one mystery which I actually hate, really the only thing I hate, the flies. Why are there so many flies in the Australian bush? My dreams of picnics on the river were killed by millions of flies as soon as we took the tucker out. One Christmas I decked the table on the veranda with my best linen and tableware; as soon as the prawns arrived we all had to run inside as the flies swarmed from nowhere to attack the food. On my dad’s farm in Finland we did everything outside during summers, we had our coffee breaks, lunches and at times even dinners al fresco. We were not bothered by flies. I know the northern part of my fatherland is made inhabitable in summertime by mosquitoes , but that is a story for another time. I remember visting Bali when it was still pretty dirty and when the food scraps and other rubbish littered the place, and of course plenty of unclean water for flies to breed in, yet hardly any about…

I hope you can show some light into my little mysteries; be truthful or inventive, all explanations thankfully accepted!