Since all of us who have a blog about food have been unceremoniously dumped into the bubbling pot that the New Larousse Gastronomique has deemed ‘Alimentaires blogueur à soupe’, I feel its time to dissect us into easy, bite-sized sub categories.
I SO wanted to give examples here but thought that might ruffle too many feathers ha ha!
Chefs or restaurateurs who blog
These exponents tend to use their blogs primarily as a medium to advertises their particular establishments, trouble is most people don’t get past the ‘And here’s where I work’ bit.
Reviewers
Amongst visiting copious eateries and critiquing them much of their focus is steered toward that holiest of holy grails-being the very first to review the latest hip place.
The ‘what I ate last night’ crowd
Totally pre-occupied with explaining in excruciating detail, the contents of their bowl of Weetbix and milk
The Arbiters
This lot just post random stuff that we are meant to take as profound, they rarely, if ever engage with other bloggers as they’ve apparently said all there is to say on the subject
The groupies
A kind of fan-boy blogger always trying to engage with their idols on line barely unable to conceal their sycophantic glee. Close cousin to a Cyber stalker actually.
My life is so dreamy and your isn’t
These bloggers are responsible for affluenza-like symptoms of envy in readers as they grow, harvest and cook in their desirable homes which resonate with overwhelming creativity and appreciation for the aesthetic life. A difficult life to emulate from one’s council flat.
The Literary wannabe
Probably the least read of the tribe. Pepper their posts with writerly posturings and clumsy literary references that any grade five kid could recognise.
The camera wielders
Like all, exhibitionists, they’ll jump at any opportunity to unzip their fly and flop out their ginormous, long and hard new lens at the table. Truth is they all hate food & restaurants and would prefer just to talk about their cameras
The cutesy, anime or girly-girl blog
Upon viewing theses blogs you are battered by a fully loaded saccharine assault on your senses with splashes of lolly pop colours, cuddly cartoon characters and baby doll fonts. Not sure what they are about as I’m too busy having a hyperglycaemic moment
The ‘I’ve got one foot in both camps’ blogger
The tern running with the foxes and hunting with the hounds was coined to describe these opportunistic fence-sitters. As we all know, one day you’ve got to nail your colours to the mast- need I go on with the metaphors?
The freebie grubber
This lot give our whole potage a bad rap simply because whenever a journo has a slow news day and intends to do a hate-job on bloggers, they invariably get trotted out, of course that’s once their snouts can be lured away from the trough.
Special interest groups
So fantastically niche specific, other than being a person that shares these specific tastes, chances are you’ll go to the grave not ever knowing about them. Their stat counters only go up to number ten.
The food allergy-malady
Mind numbingly hard reading with exhaustive research on why they suffer from excessive wind because of high fructose, gluten, msg, dust mites, pollen or whatever the latest public enemy number one additive is in food.
The back to earthers
This lot seem to be stuck in a fantasy-land construct of pre-industrial revolution agrarian nirvana in which time has apparently stood still. Totally determined to do things the hard way and conveniently ignoring the fact that they use technology to capture every soil-turning Kodak moment
Sustainable ethicurean locavores
Militant conscience prickers whom were perhaps school prefects in another life. Ready to pounce and tut-tut just as your fork reaches your lips with: “Is that Local. Once-happy-animal. organic, sustainable and ethical Spag-Bol you’re about to scoff?”
Can be exhausting reading and you leave never feeling good enough.
Anyway I’ve had fun and perhaps you could add a few of your own. Who said bloggers can’t have a laugh at our own expense? For the record, I ‘m in at least three of those categories-just getting in first!
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Friday, June 24, 2011
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Pop up Toilets-are they taking the piss?
The Pop-Up phenomenon took a new twist today when noted performance artist Milo Stoolanovic erected a temporary pop-up toilet/slash/bar in downtown Cygnet. much to the bemusment of local residents.
Local wag, Clancy St Hubbins quipped 'When will this dreary trend come to an end, its so 2010'
A new Bar
a new bar sprouted in on of Cygnets many laneways, form an orderly queue, it only accommodates one punter at a time, such is its exclusivity-UBER COOLTuesday, June 21, 2011
TT Line exporting live sheep to the Mainland!
The first of the sheep laden Spirits, perhaps steaming into the uncharted waters of the juncture where the realities of consuming meat may collide with the ethics of rearing it for the tableIn breaking news:
The two Spirits of Tasmania have been urgently retro-fitted to accommodate the growing numbers of sheep destined for halal tables on mainland Australia.
This enterprise was done in consultation with Animals Welfare group, Animals first, People third. Spokesperson, Clancy St Hub bins said form Devonport. ‘We’ve made some inroads definitely and we’re happy with the way in which The TT board have heeded our call but we’ve some way to go yet’.
From this point forward no more than four sheep are permitted in each cabin and one bunk per sheep is the minimum requirement as well as fresh towels and flannels per sheep. The usual refreshments will be made available but the TT Board ruled out the mini-bar option.
The two Spirits of Tasmania have been urgently retro-fitted to accommodate the growing numbers of sheep destined for halal tables on mainland Australia.
This enterprise was done in consultation with Animals Welfare group, Animals first, People third. Spokesperson, Clancy St Hub bins said form Devonport. ‘We’ve made some inroads definitely and we’re happy with the way in which The TT board have heeded our call but we’ve some way to go yet’.
From this point forward no more than four sheep are permitted in each cabin and one bunk per sheep is the minimum requirement as well as fresh towels and flannels per sheep. The usual refreshments will be made available but the TT Board ruled out the mini-bar option.
‘We didn’t see this as a necessity’ said TT Line Director Basil Van den Donger from his office in Jakarta, ‘but we’re not ruling it our for future crossings but in the meantime a recreational paddock has been erected where the cinema once was.’
Either way, this whole notion of live-trade is an issue that refuses to be ignored and as I watch the first of the ships sail, laden with bleating sheep destined for mainland Australia the words of halal butcher Asif al Yamani, are ringing in my ears, ‘This is my culture, not for you to judge, you are a nation of indiscriminate meat consumers’.
Signing off from Devonport, Shelby Cruikshank
Monday, June 20, 2011
My Dog wrote this
Well it seems the ruse is up. I have been formally outed or at least my cover has been blown. I can no longer claim credit or scorn for what appears on this blog.You see our family dog Nelly has been writing this blog for years. I couldn’t believe how accurate this article was in the Weekend Australian magazine, if fact I thought it was if it was telling our story when I came across the passage: ‘my dog can write a blog’. Wow that makes at least two of us!
Now those fortunate enough to be acquainted with our Nelly will know this not to be true. It has to be said that many, many dogs cannot read or write yet alone be as erudite as our Nell. She is unique in so many ways but it’s in front of her keyboard where her talents really shine. She’s also very humble and wouldn’t approve of me letting the cat out of the bag-so to speak. However, last night after dinner, we took Brandy and cigars on the veranda and she turned to me pensively and said: ‘Steve, this article offended me. Not for my own feelings but for you, it’s insulting and it pains me that someone could be so..well so dismissive of the efforts and passions of others’ She was getting quite agitated now and moved to loosen her tie under the constraints of her dinner Tux.
‘To suggest that food bloggers will eat anything including packet stock cubes, to get a freebie or an invite to a product launch in order to validate themselves misses the point entirely imo.’
We both returned our gaze to the moonlit valley expanse before us to ruminate and she polished off her brandy with a gulp.
‘Now quick let’s get back inside, Dr Harrys on the tellie’
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Never the twain shall meet
I find it curious how many chefs feel that they are somehow ‘above’ many in the industry simply because the place, in which they work, is loved by the some in the media. Recently I chatted to a mate who had returned from his second tour of Afghanistan where he (a former soldier) had run several very large military kitchens in the field. He was now working in WA at a mine where he does three meals a day plus morning/ afternoon tea and supper for a camp of thirteen hundred people. Of course he has help but it’s a mind numbingly huge operation to get ones head around.
I dare say that foams, gel and smears are not high on his priority list! It’s incredible to imagine that over a course of a few weeks how many dishes have left his kitchens and how much his food has sustained so many people. Is he any 'less' of a chef because he caters for people en masse?
Of course not but he is part of the largely ignored majority of kitchen workers that never get any exposure on the basis of where they work simply isn'y 'sexy' enough.
This brings me to my point. Last week I enjoyed what I reckon might have been one of the finest steaks I had ever eaten. It was perfectly cooked, rested, served hot and had an excellent amount of chips and a dressed salad on the side. In all, a perfect example of a pub classic. It was exactly as I’d anticipated but it exceeded my expectations because of the care that had gone into it.
So when some high falutin’ restaurants have a crack at a pub classic why do so many get it so wrong? Sweet potato chips, hand cut neatly arranged chips amounting to exactly nine or beetroot chips or a steak that has been sliced into paper thin wisps and fanned over the plate? I think many chefs see these simple dishes as stuff they could do with their eyes closed or they ‘interpret’ the idea which manifests as something that many people wouldn’t recognize. Reminds me of some sage words from an old chef I once worked with, ‘Don’t fuck with the classics’. Nuff said.
If I’m at a noted restaurant I’d expect to have a high table food experience not some David Hamilton-esque Vaseline smeared-lens-homage to comfort food. Quite frankly I’m a bit over spending large on corned beef and mustard sauce at a restaurant of note. To me it’s much like Hollywoods re-imagining old TV sitcoms. Yes we loved them then and still do no but please don’t mess with our memories! Please stop trawling for menu ideas in territory that you should leave well enough alone.
Also, take this current fixation for Dude Food. It’s mostly perpetuated by some gen y’s chefs who apparently associate fast food with comfort food, having apparently never enjoyed a stroganoff or lasagne. Combine this with the associated munchies experienced after copious marijuana consumption and you have a powerful push of menu creativity borne of a hunger for big flavours that pack a punch. The savvier chefs have given it a name and are getting media traction and the others? Well they're just Stoners. Dude food is a broad church and can include: southern fried chicken, burgers, dogs, ribs, sliders, springies, wontons, tacos, burritos, you get the picture. Like all fads though, by the time you read this it’s already over. In fact many of the world’s food trend spotters have declared it ‘so yesterday’ already.
So restaurants please leave your menu dalliances, peccadillos and blowsy floozies at the boudoir, go back to your betrothed and stop pretending that you are a Trousers-man. And dear pubs come on, it’s OK to be reliable, workmanlike and dependable, we love you for it. In fact after the initial seductive burst of hormonal fission and release, that the restaurant will enamour us with, it’s you many of us will choose to go home with at the end of the dance.
I dare say that foams, gel and smears are not high on his priority list! It’s incredible to imagine that over a course of a few weeks how many dishes have left his kitchens and how much his food has sustained so many people. Is he any 'less' of a chef because he caters for people en masse?
Of course not but he is part of the largely ignored majority of kitchen workers that never get any exposure on the basis of where they work simply isn'y 'sexy' enough.
This brings me to my point. Last week I enjoyed what I reckon might have been one of the finest steaks I had ever eaten. It was perfectly cooked, rested, served hot and had an excellent amount of chips and a dressed salad on the side. In all, a perfect example of a pub classic. It was exactly as I’d anticipated but it exceeded my expectations because of the care that had gone into it.
So when some high falutin’ restaurants have a crack at a pub classic why do so many get it so wrong? Sweet potato chips, hand cut neatly arranged chips amounting to exactly nine or beetroot chips or a steak that has been sliced into paper thin wisps and fanned over the plate? I think many chefs see these simple dishes as stuff they could do with their eyes closed or they ‘interpret’ the idea which manifests as something that many people wouldn’t recognize. Reminds me of some sage words from an old chef I once worked with, ‘Don’t fuck with the classics’. Nuff said.
If I’m at a noted restaurant I’d expect to have a high table food experience not some David Hamilton-esque Vaseline smeared-lens-homage to comfort food. Quite frankly I’m a bit over spending large on corned beef and mustard sauce at a restaurant of note. To me it’s much like Hollywoods re-imagining old TV sitcoms. Yes we loved them then and still do no but please don’t mess with our memories! Please stop trawling for menu ideas in territory that you should leave well enough alone.
Also, take this current fixation for Dude Food. It’s mostly perpetuated by some gen y’s chefs who apparently associate fast food with comfort food, having apparently never enjoyed a stroganoff or lasagne. Combine this with the associated munchies experienced after copious marijuana consumption and you have a powerful push of menu creativity borne of a hunger for big flavours that pack a punch. The savvier chefs have given it a name and are getting media traction and the others? Well they're just Stoners. Dude food is a broad church and can include: southern fried chicken, burgers, dogs, ribs, sliders, springies, wontons, tacos, burritos, you get the picture. Like all fads though, by the time you read this it’s already over. In fact many of the world’s food trend spotters have declared it ‘so yesterday’ already.
So restaurants please leave your menu dalliances, peccadillos and blowsy floozies at the boudoir, go back to your betrothed and stop pretending that you are a Trousers-man. And dear pubs come on, it’s OK to be reliable, workmanlike and dependable, we love you for it. In fact after the initial seductive burst of hormonal fission and release, that the restaurant will enamour us with, it’s you many of us will choose to go home with at the end of the dance.
Thursday, June 09, 2011
Do you want to buy an abattoir?
Special notice to the Red Velvet Lounge customers, Cygnet residents and concerned people beyond
Sadly, Cygnet faces the imminent closure of its only working commercial abattoir on Cradoc Hill.
Dave and Rita are retiring and after many years of service to the community and though we wish them a well deserved rest and a very happy future, the abattoir will close permanently if a buyer cannot be found. This will have a huge impact on the local community.
The idea has been flagged that a consortium of interested parties might pool resources together to buy the freehold and business and run it as a going concern, already a few people have registered interest. The selling agent is Robert Drummond 0418 132 763 or alternatively call Jenny Chambers-Smith 03 6266 4612 or 0419 403 467
Sadly, Cygnet faces the imminent closure of its only working commercial abattoir on Cradoc Hill.
Dave and Rita are retiring and after many years of service to the community and though we wish them a well deserved rest and a very happy future, the abattoir will close permanently if a buyer cannot be found. This will have a huge impact on the local community.
The idea has been flagged that a consortium of interested parties might pool resources together to buy the freehold and business and run it as a going concern, already a few people have registered interest. The selling agent is Robert Drummond 0418 132 763 or alternatively call Jenny Chambers-Smith 03 6266 4612 or 0419 403 467
Tuesday, June 07, 2011
Wait, a Rant
Are you like me? Do you sometimes find yourself in company and when the topic of conversation turns to food, you clam up, unable to contribute for fear that you’ll alienate yourself?
How many times have you been at a barbeque and just as someone is about to put their steak on, do you say to them; ’Wait, the snags need a little more grilling if you want the steak to be ready at the same time’ and the crowd parts a la Moses?
When the salads are passively un-cling-filmed at said barbie to reveal numerous bowls of pasta or potato salad and you have to own up to the ‘sprouted quinoa, heirloom Pumpkin Japonaise, blow-torched Wakame and white balsamic dressed number served in a bespoke hand crafted bowl’?
Back to that barbeque, as the dads line up (and let’s be frank, it’s usually the dads) to dutifully grill the mid loin lamb chops bought on special at the supermarket you rock up with some premium, hand ground organic Belted Galloway burgers for the Billy-lids and some Free-range chicken skewers for you and the missus. All the while, suspicious eyes surround you.
Your family enjoys a budget holiday and you find yourself sharing communal kitchen facilities. Everyone pleasantly goes about their business. You notice that most people are heating up meals in a can whilst your family rolls out leavened pizza dough, adds a few toppings, bashes a salad together and sits down to an impromptu freestyle dinner. Those eyes visit you again.
At a school function, whilst you welcome the contributions of the local businesses, you’re apparently Bolshie bringing up of the topic of the provenance of the donated sausages for said sizzle are met with death stares. Those bloody eyes again.
You decide to catch up with old friends for a fun evening. They decide on a place where you know you won’t be happy with the food or service, it’s just not your type of place, but you go because that’s the right thing to do. Everyone else seems satiated and excited by the mound of congealed matter on their plates that masquerades as good food. You however have become dulled by the conversation and can only fixate on the singular pre-crumbed prawn cutlet remaining defiantly on the plate, the lone metaphoric index finger raised to you and your elitist beliefs. You promise to keep in touch but you know you won’t.
You’re chuffed to be invited to a highbrow dinner party, you’ve practiced your snappy repartee, in the morning mirror over the week, much to the chagrin of your partner, although she’s smugly self-satisfied that you will both sparkle and you won’t let the side down. The night arrives; each guest’s beverage offering outshines the previous. Like racehorses, everyone’s jittery, we all know what a stake is as far as the social order is concerned. This pressure dissipates however and the social order reaffirms when the first course is served, Cabana ’n Coon with Jatz Crackers. Nothing to worry about here, despite the address and the impressive digs.
I know this might sound so snobbish but you know what? I don’t care especially if this means speaking out against the homogeny of food available.. Why do I have to suffer other people’s life choices just to grease the wheels of being sociable? Is it my fault that I hate instant coffee, despise tea bags and don’t marvel at the wonder of UHT milk? I’m not bagging those that think sweet’n sour is the High point of the broad church that is Chinese cookery but don’t be down on my ass if I choose another dish.
Hey, whilst I’m on it, please don’t get tetchy if I don’t eat your margarine slathered white bread slices and instead bring my own. I don’t bag you if your idea of catering for a family do is two jumbo buckets of original recipe KFC and mine might take the best part of a day to prepare, even if you can’t see the point.
I don’t value judge you, nor you should me. Don’t call me elitist, yuppie or whatever just because I am different to you.
Finally to that huge audience out there that consumes those popularist cooking-competition shows. If you think watching a thinly veiled advertising platform for a large supermarket is going to teach you anything about real cooking, sadly I think you are deluded.
Better spend your time listening to your Mum, Dad, Auntie, Grandmother or any old fogey still alive with a rusted-on knowledge of good sensible food.
This didn’t start out as a rant actually but I’m sort of glad it ended as one.
How many times have you been at a barbeque and just as someone is about to put their steak on, do you say to them; ’Wait, the snags need a little more grilling if you want the steak to be ready at the same time’ and the crowd parts a la Moses?
When the salads are passively un-cling-filmed at said barbie to reveal numerous bowls of pasta or potato salad and you have to own up to the ‘sprouted quinoa, heirloom Pumpkin Japonaise, blow-torched Wakame and white balsamic dressed number served in a bespoke hand crafted bowl’?
Back to that barbeque, as the dads line up (and let’s be frank, it’s usually the dads) to dutifully grill the mid loin lamb chops bought on special at the supermarket you rock up with some premium, hand ground organic Belted Galloway burgers for the Billy-lids and some Free-range chicken skewers for you and the missus. All the while, suspicious eyes surround you.
Your family enjoys a budget holiday and you find yourself sharing communal kitchen facilities. Everyone pleasantly goes about their business. You notice that most people are heating up meals in a can whilst your family rolls out leavened pizza dough, adds a few toppings, bashes a salad together and sits down to an impromptu freestyle dinner. Those eyes visit you again.
At a school function, whilst you welcome the contributions of the local businesses, you’re apparently Bolshie bringing up of the topic of the provenance of the donated sausages for said sizzle are met with death stares. Those bloody eyes again.
You decide to catch up with old friends for a fun evening. They decide on a place where you know you won’t be happy with the food or service, it’s just not your type of place, but you go because that’s the right thing to do. Everyone else seems satiated and excited by the mound of congealed matter on their plates that masquerades as good food. You however have become dulled by the conversation and can only fixate on the singular pre-crumbed prawn cutlet remaining defiantly on the plate, the lone metaphoric index finger raised to you and your elitist beliefs. You promise to keep in touch but you know you won’t.
You’re chuffed to be invited to a highbrow dinner party, you’ve practiced your snappy repartee, in the morning mirror over the week, much to the chagrin of your partner, although she’s smugly self-satisfied that you will both sparkle and you won’t let the side down. The night arrives; each guest’s beverage offering outshines the previous. Like racehorses, everyone’s jittery, we all know what a stake is as far as the social order is concerned. This pressure dissipates however and the social order reaffirms when the first course is served, Cabana ’n Coon with Jatz Crackers. Nothing to worry about here, despite the address and the impressive digs.
I know this might sound so snobbish but you know what? I don’t care especially if this means speaking out against the homogeny of food available.. Why do I have to suffer other people’s life choices just to grease the wheels of being sociable? Is it my fault that I hate instant coffee, despise tea bags and don’t marvel at the wonder of UHT milk? I’m not bagging those that think sweet’n sour is the High point of the broad church that is Chinese cookery but don’t be down on my ass if I choose another dish.
Hey, whilst I’m on it, please don’t get tetchy if I don’t eat your margarine slathered white bread slices and instead bring my own. I don’t bag you if your idea of catering for a family do is two jumbo buckets of original recipe KFC and mine might take the best part of a day to prepare, even if you can’t see the point.
I don’t value judge you, nor you should me. Don’t call me elitist, yuppie or whatever just because I am different to you.
Finally to that huge audience out there that consumes those popularist cooking-competition shows. If you think watching a thinly veiled advertising platform for a large supermarket is going to teach you anything about real cooking, sadly I think you are deluded.
Better spend your time listening to your Mum, Dad, Auntie, Grandmother or any old fogey still alive with a rusted-on knowledge of good sensible food.
This didn’t start out as a rant actually but I’m sort of glad it ended as one.
Friday, June 03, 2011
The curious case of the provenance of the pork
It’s an interesting conundrum and one I had been ruminating over for quite some time. However today after a short conversation today with Jackie Middleton of Earl Canteen fame, it finally took shape.
It’s very difficult to do fast food and keep one’s ethics in check. If you commit to a particular dish on a menu and rely on say free-range pork it becomes pretty obvious very quickly that a supply of said pork will be at best, sporadic. Why?
Because, quite frankly there isn’t enough free-range pork being farmed in Australia to keep up with its growing demand. The same has already been said about free-range eggs.
Recently I ate a lovely pork dish at a noted Sydney restaurant. I asked if the pork was free-range and without hesitation I was told it was. I felt that the waiters’ response was conditioned to say so as many people I’d assume would have enquired similarly.
Now I’m not saying the pork wasn’t free-range but there is an assumption these days that all pork sold in restaurants will be. This leaves traditional pork farmers scratching their heads wondering when they suddenly became public enemy number one.
The pork farmers I’ve spoken to feel that the general publics awareness of good pork production is severely ignorant and only informed by the shock tactics of mainstream media. To a person they all have said that they rear their animals humanely and this includes, wait for it, the use of sow stalls. Sow stalls, they say, are there for the protection of the piglets and have been developed out of need, not to be cruel.
I’m not going into this territory to argue for or against but I do find it remarkable that this particular issue has been embraced as a cause celebre yet the same sort of analysis has not been applied to the milk industry.
Think about it, millions of dairy cows are perpetually kept lactating artificially to keep our society in milk. Is this not also questionable?
It appears that Australia imports between twenty to thirty thousand tonnes of frozen pork every week.
The federal government is being pressured by big business to relax the laws on the importation of frozen pork to include fresh pork products. New Zealand is already examining the possibility of this and if history is anything to go by, we end up following suite on these issues.
Should this be the case, what will happen to the domestic pork market here? Will there be the same level of scrutiny applied to the ethical treatment of the imported pork as there is to the domestic market. What safeguards will be in place to ensure imported pork will be humanely reared and produced?
Anyway after ringing the restaurant I was helpfully told that the pork is bought through Vics Meats, whom in turn get it from Bangalow Pork.
This is where it gets confusing. Sweet Pork, from Bangalow has been operating for many years and was one of the first companies to market their range of pork under this moniker. Often it was known as ‘Bangalow Pork’ or ‘Bangalow Sweet Pork’ but the company has always referred to themselves as ‘Sweet Pork’. A few years later, another operator called themselves ‘Original Bangalow Pork’ which is also called ‘Pork master’. There is yet another Pork producer, John Singh from Byron Bay pork who also produces pork and he supplies meat to Vics Meats. None of these Bangalow or Byron Bay pork producers run free-range pigs. The sows at John Singh’s Byron Bay Pork farm are free-range apparently but the piglets are not. Does this make them bred free-range?
When I rang Sweet Pork to see if they supplied Vics Meats they said they used to but didn’t anymore and added that perhaps the other mob Bangalow Pork may be supplying them. They also confirmed that they do not produce ‘free-range’ pork at all.
The person I spoke to at Vics Meats said that they didn’t supply the restaurant in question with pork which left me a little confused? So where did it come from?
Perhaps it was from John Singh’s Byron Bay Pork farm as they told me they supply Vics meats or perhaps it was from Security foods?
Vics Meats have a connection with Mr Gerry Harvey, he of Harvey Norman fame who also has an interest in Security Foods; a company that rears Wagyu beef cattle and Kurobuta Pork (Berkshire) A call to Security Foods confirmed that their Kurobuta pork is in fact free-range.
What I am trying to demonstrate here is how confusing it is to determine the provenance of your pork and the baffling and sometimes contradictory information given by some suppliers, little wonder punters are left dazed and confused.
It’s very difficult to do fast food and keep one’s ethics in check. If you commit to a particular dish on a menu and rely on say free-range pork it becomes pretty obvious very quickly that a supply of said pork will be at best, sporadic. Why?
Because, quite frankly there isn’t enough free-range pork being farmed in Australia to keep up with its growing demand. The same has already been said about free-range eggs.
Recently I ate a lovely pork dish at a noted Sydney restaurant. I asked if the pork was free-range and without hesitation I was told it was. I felt that the waiters’ response was conditioned to say so as many people I’d assume would have enquired similarly.
Now I’m not saying the pork wasn’t free-range but there is an assumption these days that all pork sold in restaurants will be. This leaves traditional pork farmers scratching their heads wondering when they suddenly became public enemy number one.
The pork farmers I’ve spoken to feel that the general publics awareness of good pork production is severely ignorant and only informed by the shock tactics of mainstream media. To a person they all have said that they rear their animals humanely and this includes, wait for it, the use of sow stalls. Sow stalls, they say, are there for the protection of the piglets and have been developed out of need, not to be cruel.
I’m not going into this territory to argue for or against but I do find it remarkable that this particular issue has been embraced as a cause celebre yet the same sort of analysis has not been applied to the milk industry.
Think about it, millions of dairy cows are perpetually kept lactating artificially to keep our society in milk. Is this not also questionable?
It appears that Australia imports between twenty to thirty thousand tonnes of frozen pork every week.
The federal government is being pressured by big business to relax the laws on the importation of frozen pork to include fresh pork products. New Zealand is already examining the possibility of this and if history is anything to go by, we end up following suite on these issues.
Should this be the case, what will happen to the domestic pork market here? Will there be the same level of scrutiny applied to the ethical treatment of the imported pork as there is to the domestic market. What safeguards will be in place to ensure imported pork will be humanely reared and produced?
Anyway after ringing the restaurant I was helpfully told that the pork is bought through Vics Meats, whom in turn get it from Bangalow Pork.
This is where it gets confusing. Sweet Pork, from Bangalow has been operating for many years and was one of the first companies to market their range of pork under this moniker. Often it was known as ‘Bangalow Pork’ or ‘Bangalow Sweet Pork’ but the company has always referred to themselves as ‘Sweet Pork’. A few years later, another operator called themselves ‘Original Bangalow Pork’ which is also called ‘Pork master’. There is yet another Pork producer, John Singh from Byron Bay pork who also produces pork and he supplies meat to Vics Meats. None of these Bangalow or Byron Bay pork producers run free-range pigs. The sows at John Singh’s Byron Bay Pork farm are free-range apparently but the piglets are not. Does this make them bred free-range?
When I rang Sweet Pork to see if they supplied Vics Meats they said they used to but didn’t anymore and added that perhaps the other mob Bangalow Pork may be supplying them. They also confirmed that they do not produce ‘free-range’ pork at all.
The person I spoke to at Vics Meats said that they didn’t supply the restaurant in question with pork which left me a little confused? So where did it come from?
Perhaps it was from John Singh’s Byron Bay Pork farm as they told me they supply Vics meats or perhaps it was from Security foods?
Vics Meats have a connection with Mr Gerry Harvey, he of Harvey Norman fame who also has an interest in Security Foods; a company that rears Wagyu beef cattle and Kurobuta Pork (Berkshire) A call to Security Foods confirmed that their Kurobuta pork is in fact free-range.
What I am trying to demonstrate here is how confusing it is to determine the provenance of your pork and the baffling and sometimes contradictory information given by some suppliers, little wonder punters are left dazed and confused.
Wednesday, June 01, 2011
Sydney sojourn-A sketch
Threatening clouds that promised and delivered in spades.
The shock immersion into a bubbling cauldron of so many people
Zigzagging down George St. luggage in tow.
Past the polished shopfronts and white teeth and into the bowels of Haymarket.
Dodging the exhaled ciggie smoke plumes and the grime.
An oasis of calm in our hotel room, a respite from the drama of the street.
Then, pressing the flesh at Paddy’s Market, feeling overwhelmed.
Deliberating if 500g of school prawns will satiate my hunger at Golden Century?
More chilli uncerimoniously dumped in front of this enquiring Gwai lo.
Lucked-out at IMAX, seated third row from the front.
Geoffery Rush's makeup looked very scary this close.
Gelati under the awnings, huddled against the pelting rain.
Took turns counting the rats on the way home from Darling Harbour. We saw seven.
Bed, half page of novel for me and one page for my wife. Lights out.
Next morn, queueing for the shower with one's family brings out the best and worst in us.
An average brekkie next morn made up by charming service.
Very engaging walking tour of The Rocks. Well and truly feeling like a tourist.
Spied a fashion shoot in the dining room at Quay.
Feeling like an ant as we headed over the Harbour Bridge on foot.
Luna Park, deserted, creepy. The echoes of generations of carny folk reverberate.
Thrust back into the melee of humankind.
Tumble drying sodden clothes at the hotel whilst perusing the Rugby League papers.
Up and down all the little streets, tiny cafes and eateries everywhere I look.
A long walk full of anticipation through the night toward Felix.
Baguette, oysters, soufflé, rabbit, pork, mousse, espresso.
Faux French but still glam space, shining service, bustling atmos, glad we came.
Circular Quay bathed in colourful projected light, Vivid festival.
The Opera House, a moving hallucinogenic collage.
Bumpy bus ride home. Bed, exhausted. No reading tonight.
Bathroom routine sorted.
Decided on French bakery close to digs for brekkie. Mistake.
Wresting against the wind with umbrellas. Futile.
Through the park under a canopy of twisted Moreton Bay Figs to:
The Archibald!
Shared the gallery space with a legion of little uniformed schoolgirls.
And wondered which one was Madeline?
Our nostrils tingling with the fecund aroma of the Botanical gardens after yet another downpour as we made our way toward the water.
The Opera House appearing again and dominating.
Looking up to see if we could spot Matt Moran as we passed Aria? Nuh.
And just make the Manly Ferry.
The boat lurched and people screamed as we passed the heads.
Were told it was ‘Rough’ today. Really?
We gulp some lunch and offer the remaining detritus to the hovering homeless man.
Stood at the bow of the Ferry, arms outstretched a la Titanic, into the quay
My children shrink away embarrassed
Collect our luggage and make our way to the airport for a 6.10 flight.
One delay and one connection later we arrive back in Hobart at 9.25
Our faint porch light materializes in the distance after an hours’ dark drive south.
We couldn't’t be further from George St. right now.
The children, asleep, carried to bed like overgrown Teddy's.
Home at last.
The shock immersion into a bubbling cauldron of so many people
Zigzagging down George St. luggage in tow.
Past the polished shopfronts and white teeth and into the bowels of Haymarket.
Dodging the exhaled ciggie smoke plumes and the grime.
An oasis of calm in our hotel room, a respite from the drama of the street.
Then, pressing the flesh at Paddy’s Market, feeling overwhelmed.
Deliberating if 500g of school prawns will satiate my hunger at Golden Century?
More chilli uncerimoniously dumped in front of this enquiring Gwai lo.
Lucked-out at IMAX, seated third row from the front.
Geoffery Rush's makeup looked very scary this close.
Gelati under the awnings, huddled against the pelting rain.
Took turns counting the rats on the way home from Darling Harbour. We saw seven.
Bed, half page of novel for me and one page for my wife. Lights out.
Next morn, queueing for the shower with one's family brings out the best and worst in us.
An average brekkie next morn made up by charming service.
Very engaging walking tour of The Rocks. Well and truly feeling like a tourist.
Spied a fashion shoot in the dining room at Quay.
Feeling like an ant as we headed over the Harbour Bridge on foot.
Luna Park, deserted, creepy. The echoes of generations of carny folk reverberate.
Thrust back into the melee of humankind.
Tumble drying sodden clothes at the hotel whilst perusing the Rugby League papers.
Up and down all the little streets, tiny cafes and eateries everywhere I look.
A long walk full of anticipation through the night toward Felix.
Baguette, oysters, soufflé, rabbit, pork, mousse, espresso.
Faux French but still glam space, shining service, bustling atmos, glad we came.
Circular Quay bathed in colourful projected light, Vivid festival.
The Opera House, a moving hallucinogenic collage.
Bumpy bus ride home. Bed, exhausted. No reading tonight.
Bathroom routine sorted.
Decided on French bakery close to digs for brekkie. Mistake.
Wresting against the wind with umbrellas. Futile.
Through the park under a canopy of twisted Moreton Bay Figs to:
The Archibald!
Shared the gallery space with a legion of little uniformed schoolgirls.
And wondered which one was Madeline?
Our nostrils tingling with the fecund aroma of the Botanical gardens after yet another downpour as we made our way toward the water.
The Opera House appearing again and dominating.
Looking up to see if we could spot Matt Moran as we passed Aria? Nuh.
And just make the Manly Ferry.
The boat lurched and people screamed as we passed the heads.
Were told it was ‘Rough’ today. Really?
We gulp some lunch and offer the remaining detritus to the hovering homeless man.
Stood at the bow of the Ferry, arms outstretched a la Titanic, into the quay
My children shrink away embarrassed
Collect our luggage and make our way to the airport for a 6.10 flight.
One delay and one connection later we arrive back in Hobart at 9.25
Our faint porch light materializes in the distance after an hours’ dark drive south.
We couldn't’t be further from George St. right now.
The children, asleep, carried to bed like overgrown Teddy's.
Home at last.
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