That Demon Toucan

At the supermarket recently I witnessed the full throttled fury of a a child in pester power mode & something inside me related to that kid, reminding me of a post I had written a while back

I was remembering my childhood & the cavalcade of cartoon characters that were used to indoctrinate me into a sleeper-cell of pester powered consumerism. My poor parents, no sooner had the brightly coloured & animated demon-creature assaulted me visually & aurally was I whingeing & whining for its promise of a glorious saccharine epiphany. Of course like most parents in moment of weakness or exhaustion, or both, they gave in occasionally. The delivery of the cereal box was eagerly anticipated, each minute whilst mum was away at the supermarket was counted down like a Cape Canaveral lift-off. My senses became highly tuned with expectation, like a cat. Straining, my ear could detect the faintest burble of throaty engine note that belonged to our Fiat’s twin exhausts heralding her arrival. Hyperventilating at the front door, having laid the bowl & spoon at the table & the milk on ice in the freezer to ‘chill’, I impatiently & rudely ushered my fully bag laden mother hurriedly through the front door whilst scanning for the familiar shape of the box through the white plastic.Like the Terminator’s internal infra-red scanner I located the box. ("Are you Sarah Connor?")

Arms flailing I proceeded to shred the bag until the coloured box emerged. The haunting image of the elusive Toucan beckoned me toward paradise. Using a bread knife I sawed the box top off whilst my mother screamed at me not to be so stupid. I was then enveloped in a saccharine waft of chemically, lab tested, ersatz fruit bouquet that sent me into rapture.I won’t go on much more about my dalliance with Fruit Loops only to say that sadly the magic never happened again.

Yes I tried to recapture its essence in later years with Kraft Macaroni’N’Cheese as I was enamored then with the creamy bright orange shininess of the cheese sauce but again I was to be disappointed. I think that cartoon Toucan had a bit to do with it. Was it just me or did it speak to you & say it would be your friend as well?

The Coco Pop monkey just annoyed me. That stupid Cornflakes Rooster, forget about it. The boring Frosties Tiger, Whatever! Don’t get me started on those lame Rice Bubble Elves! The Toucan ruled!

I was infected by advertising & had become ‘brand loyal’. I looked at the brand loyalty of an older member of my family recently. Food brands that he identifies with are: Guardian (margarine), Sustain (cereal) Fibre Plus (cereal again) & plenty of others that seem to say to him, ‘You will survive long enough to spend their inheritance!’ Seriously though, this brand loyalty is a major factor in what we purchase even if we don't think we are doing it consciously. Marketers know this & this is why they try to get us young & this continues throughout our lives. I think it was Charles Revson, founder of Revlon who famously said: ‘We make cosmetics in the factory but sell hope in the stores’. Zillions of woman then are buying dreams. These are no doubt to replace the ones that have been methodically eroded over the years & replaced by a self loathing of body image. Its a self fulfilling prophecy, funny that, they make you feel bad about yourself then offer an antidote, cheers! Years ago Ray Kroc who took McDonald's into the next level of its stratospheric rise realized the potential to sell his burgers with the help of a cartoon character. It was obvious to Kroc that he must seek the council of the Dark Lord himself, Walt Disney, who was the author of these sinister arts. Together they forged an unholy pact & conceived the repugnant plot of marketing to children via cartoon characters that is still practiced in modern covens, these days called Advertising Agencies. The fallout & impact on children from obesity to mental health issues are well documented so I won’t go into it here. The marketing to children by big food is a cynical exercise & should be legislated against ASAP.

The road trip

They drove in silence mostly, the big car gobbling up the miles, the towns & it seemed any expectation of conversation as well. The old man, ravaged in later years by the excesses of his earlier lifestyle choices, was at the wheel, squinting through the grubby bifocals he doggedly refuses to change. The backseat is occupied by his two adult children, both staring out to the flashes of gasping landscape that the recent rains had failed to quench. In the airport, now 3 hours behind them, lingered the hugs & kisses of their fumbling & awkward rendezvous, their union now restored to its familiar state of building tension, a tension that is never far away from these family gatherings.
The daughter, the younger of the two backseat passengers, tried to extract something other than a mumble from her father who in his reluctance to engage, hunched nearer the steering column with each question. Pulling himself away from the numbing bleakness of the fleeting scenery which seemed to have hypnotised him somewhat, her brother answered her query.
‘She always wanted it this way, talked about it in that maudlin way of hers’
She absorbs this & her temper fizzes momentarily
‘Yes I know exactly what her maudlin way was’ her tone indicating the years of suffering an older brother & continued, ‘I was really saying’ her scolding eyes still on him, ‘that I feel a bit, well you know, left out of the whole thing’.
‘The whole thing?’ he said giving her his full attention for the first time since the airport & that look that she always interpreted as being slightly superior, it always shitted her.
Her exasperation begins to uncoil but before she can release it, he says quietly & reflectively, ‘Yes. I do too’ which wrong foots her & she wrestles back her intended words & bites her lip for some comfort.
‘Heather’, a voice from her childhood shocks her into the present. ‘Don’t bite your lip!’ says her father, his spectacled grey blue eyes, glowering at her from the rear view mirror.
Her brother turns & beams at her fully for the first time since the morning, both of them transported, knowing.
Their father disengages his stare from the mirror to the road & then across to the passenger seat. The sash of the seat belt coddles the urn with the initials M.L.L.C. he pats it & allows himself a grin, they’ll be there soon, a countery, a few pots & a motel bed. ‘What kind of cooked breakfast will I have?’ he speculates. ‘Bet there’s fuckin’ butter portions though’ snatching another sideways look at the urn, almost expecting a rebuke. Then his sons voice, deep & manly, not like he remembers, that of the small soft, timid, cuddly boy, quick to tear & to flinch says the word that brought them together for this road trip
‘Deniliquin ’

Tsindos Bistrot-A continuing love story

I woke up all nostalgic today. Perhaps I needed to distract myself from the days chores & idly reminisce in the swaying hammock. The sounds of the farm are busy this morning with spring activity. Closing my eyes, birdlife noises rise & fall, the drone of a heavy bumble bee past my ear, the dog scratching on the door mats & the cows chatting to each other across the paddocks.
My thoughts turn for some inexplicable reason to the restaurants I have worked in. I think yesterday I was explaining to someone where we had come from before we moved to Tassie & some remnant of that conversation remained un exercised & it decided to pronounce itself in my thoughts. I was an apprentice once, a long time ago now & for two years of it I worked in, what I have come to regard as a truly great restaurant, a restaurant of the old school & one I suspect would look quite archaic these days were it to suddenly reappear back in Burke Street Melbourne. I am talking about Tsindos Bistrot & yes it is spelled correctly. At risk of being even more self indulgent than I usually am I will re-post a poem I wrote a few years back about this restaurant that shaped my formative years in kitchens

Tsindos, a love story.

Carrying the restaurant key as an excited apprentice, always there first
The early morning gaggle of Italian cab drivers, boisterous & sipping espresso at the bar,
Closing my eyes, I am not in Melbourne & I imagine Naples
The hiss of the Gaggia, the aroma of the grinder
Maria always laughing, squeezing the orange juice,
A metallic ‘ting’ as the salami is sliced, the pannini filled, the ricotta cheesecake iced
The gentle bubble of sugo & herbs, the roasting of bones & the sizzle of sofrito
Eggs & hard flour morphing into pasta, snaking into drying trays,
The maddening wafts from the char grill & Tex with the tongs.
A long day prepping, the banter, the deadlines, the arguments & the laughter.
The jazz of the waiters, white coats, black ties, Brylcreem & Old Spice
Paul, Silvano, Trevor, Renaldo, Adriano, Tony, Mario #1, Mario #2 & Ray.
A rushed bowl of ragu with some bread for mopping, a swig of red wine & lemonade.
Hand written dockets, shouting, the waving of arms, the spatter of oil & the burns.
Antipasti, spaghetti Puttanesca, Fegato Veneziana, Cotolette Milanese, Cassata.
A gang of boys on the line, sweating, still friends, now men,
Chef, our chief, always at the stoves, always doing the mains, always there.
A blur of service, adrenalin & dinner rush, the after theatre crowds,
Turning the tables, dark suits & the shimmer of gowns, glamour peeped from the kitchen window,
Deals done in the dining room, faces from the TV, faces from the stage,
Smoky mirrors, the dull shine of brass, rich dark leather & the patina of the timber,
The huddle of couples, whispering in nooks, sharing.
The yellow glow of the lamp on the cashiers face, squaring the bill,
The relief of last orders, the cleandown, lights off, the restaurant gently exhaling all into the street.
The abrupt coolness of the city lanes & the lonely tram ride home.

Our daily commute-Oh the stress of it all!

Finally some glorious sun, we can walk for a change

Made it to the road

Green & blues

Reaching the edge of town, one K to go, no sign of road rage.