The view from my porch

Unsolicited email from a friend

2012-01-29T20:46:00.002+14:00

Hello friend,
My name is Cecil St Hubbins. I am a 45 YO white male from a privileged background and I am seeking your donations and assistance to help me reach my goal.
When I reached my mid-forties, I felt that I’ve still got my joie de vivre and needed to find a way to demonstrate this, you know, to show that I have still my Mojo, however I don’t want to simply prove my physical prowess by doing a marathon, trek or a mountain climb. I will take the path less travelled and methodically work my way toward achieving my aspiration.
Initially, as a sort of training run, I intend to eat and drink in all the two to three hatted restaurants in Australia and stay in five-star accommodation along the way. I know it’s ambitious, a little bit whacky and has never been attempted before but I have got this urge to do something that really matters.
‘Cecil you are a NUT! And you are CRAZY to try this’ I hear you say and yes it’s been the story of my life, always challenging the status quo. Like when I was in Primary School, I lobbied our Council to sponsor my family and I on a fact-finding trip to Switzerland to study children’s playgrounds. Or the time in year ten when I received a grant to visit a string of top flight Tennis Acadamy's on America’s East Coast. These experiences forged a conviction in me, a principle that has burned intensely throughout my life and that belief was if I wanted something so badly, someone else would always have to pay for it.
So as you can imagine I’ll need lots of cash. These kinds of undertaking aren’t cheap and I know you have got to dig deep. I know you can do it though, I have faith so here’s some helpful ways to get you started to help you save for me:

Instead of getting those lamb chops for dinner try onions instead
Walk instead of buying petrol
Sell off useless old family jewellery
Take up sewing instead of purchasing new clothes
Cut down on unnecessary personal hygiene products
Trim the kids’ school lunches

You get the picture.
Look there’s no denying it’ll be tough but remember when you’re at a really low ebb, spare a thought for me, attempting my Herculean challenge and it’ll put everything you’ve sacrificed into perspective, You’ll be making one man very, very happy.
Thanks so much
Cecil
BSB 123-456
Acc No-789 456 123

An idle moment on Twitter

2012-01-25T17:08:00.004+14:00

Mr Sta-Puft says: Nice list Steve

#foodhorrormovies Groat Busters
#foodhorrormovies The lair of the White Wormwood
#foodhorrormovies Vegeta, Mistress of the Dark
#foodhorrormovies Julia Childs-Play
#foodhorrormovies Jello Grave
#foodhorrormovies Salads Lot
#foodhorrormovies The Off Spring-Lamb
#foodhorrormovies Herbraiser
#foodhorrormovies or Invasion of the Bodum Snatchers?
#foodhorrormovies Whatever happened to Baby jam?
#foodhorrormovies the Floating-Island of Dr Moreau
#foodhorrormovies or Rosemarys babycorn?
#foodhorrormovies Fear no Edam
#foodhorrormovies Dr Jeckyll and Mr Hydrolized vegetable protein
#foodhorrormovies Resident Edam
#foodhorrormovies Dawn of the Dhaal
#foodhorrormovies Motel Gel
#foodhorrormovies Children of the Cornjack
#foodhorrormovies The Hills have Pink-Eyes
#foodhorrormovies Crepe Show
#foodhorrormovies Next of Kimchi
#foodhorrormovies Frittata the 13th
#foodhorrormovies The Edam Dead
#foodhorrormovies Dead and Burritoed
#foodhorrormovies Pomme Night
#foodhorrormovies Munster-House
#foodhorrormovies Nightmare on Elk meat
#foodhorrormovies The Ramen
#foodhorrormovies Little shop of Hors d' oeuvres
#foodhorrormovies The return of the Liverwurst Dead
#foodhorrormovies An American weisswurst in London
@Commonerfitzroy Poultry-geist

What IS authentic anyway?

2012-01-24T15:03:00.005+14:00

Hey look, that Asian bloke CAN make pasta!

Hey do you ever peer into the kitchen or the dining room of an ethnic restaurant and wonder if the staff originate from the same country as the cuisine they serve? You often see the signs boasting ‘Authentic Thai’ or ‘Genuine Japanese’ but are likely to encounter some industrious people of Chinese or other Asian ethnicity predominating. I’ve heard first hand that many people are disparagingly dismissive of such eateries, deeming them not worthy because they do not apparently have the Bona fides to cook the food of their namesake cuisine because they are not from that country. Curiously, these same people usually won’t bat an eyelid though when they are not knee deep in Giuseppe’s or Pierres when they visit the posh new Italian or the hip French themed bistro and, but instead are served predominantly by Anglo’s. To me this is an ignorant view and inherently racist at its core.
You see there’s a kind of reverse cultural snobbism at play here. Take a white boy cooking sexy Thai or a Frenchman doing up to the minute Sth American and we all go, yea I geddit, ahead of the curve, they’ve funked it up, cherry picked the best bits and re-imagined the cuisine to make it more contemporary.
Conversely get some hard working Vietnamese people who decide to open a Tapas bar because it’s the food that they love and we collectively screw our faces up, thinking and in my opinion quite patronisingly, ‘What do they know about Tapas? And that they should ‘stick to what they know best’.
Equally how many ‘Modern Australian’ restaurants where black-Ninja clad Anglo chefs toss out Viet rice paper rolls that are as authentically Vietnamese as Wagyu beef is to a Subway roll.
I’ve written before about my theory on the diaspora of ethnic cuisines and their relationship with their adopted nation who were once their conquerors or colonists and the at times superior relationship we have over them. This often manifests in how little or how much we expect to pay for their food.
However this whole notion of Authenticity is really very problematic. Firstly, who or what determines the Real McCoy? Secondly there is no room for the notion that cuisines develop over time to embrace new foods and techniques. Thirdly and this might be the most contentious, is a cuisine stagnant or dead because it has not evolved? Look around the world to see how 1950’s Naples has influenced the notion of Italian eateries and then look how out of touch it is when compared to the modern Italian restaurants today. Of course there are some traditions that cling after all good dishes eventually come to their conclusion having been whittled over generations to arrive at their identifiable terminus.
Immigrants have always made use of what’s around them to try and replicate flavours from the old country and if this goes on long enough, eventually these modifications ‘become’ the cuisine. Just look at Malaysia as a perfect example where a style of cookery has embraced other influences and morphed into its own identity. So what would we consider the truly authentic tastes of say, Penang, Pre-Indian and pre Chinese? I’m not so sure.
Cuisine is always changing, like language and I think it’s becoming more difficult as the world shrinks to find anything really authentic, so anyone should be able to cook it.

Chefs working in the country

2012-01-18T14:35:00.001+14:00

I love looking at chefs ads in the various papers. Between, them and sales reps, they’ve always been great source of information to the state of play within the hospitality industry.
It’s interesting to read the hooks used to try and lure people to that place of employ. ‘A surfers paradise’, ‘Sea-tree Change’ and ‘No weekends’ often cited as bait. It makes me giggle as elements of the job and its responsibilities are often way down on the list, it’s as if they’re targeting only the positives aspects of such a position and not examine what they’ll be expecting from the successful applicant. In fact many ads are actually repentant in their tone, making apologies for their trading hours, conditions of employment and location. I don’t understand this tact, I mean primarily the business want a worker not someone who expects to be enjoying life as a tourist in Club Med. There’s no denying the fact that it’s a challenge to lure people to a job but emphasising these facets only leads to both parties not being entirely clear as to what expectations each has of the other.
I read some of these ads and expect that between bouts of surfing, bushwalking, kayaking, diving, hobby farming, playing sport, following ones hobby and generally enjoying a carefree life, one is ‘fitting-in’ the demands of the kitchen and one employment obligations.
Anyone who knows kitchen, the kitchens that make most of their food that is, will attest that there’s very little time for other pursuits and days off are often spend recovering from long bouts of work. In fact, I don’t know of any kitchen staff working in busy environments who have time for that work-life balance that we hear so often recited.
The reality is that in rural locations, if you have a job in a restaurant or café it means that the place is one of the rare businesses that is busy. This remarkable in its own right, that a country business is defying national trends and managing to swim against the tide that many regional areas are suffering. The irony then is that you’ll be working very hard and often harder than your city cousins because the business cannot afford to hire as many staff. This then has a knock-on effect on your time off, meaning you’ll more than likely be doing extra shifts when it gets busier or if someone is sick or on holidays.
So, although working in the country definitely has its benefits (after all its what I have chosen to do so I’m speaking from experience here) it’s not all meandering down country lanes foraging for Death-Caps you know!

Profit-why is it a dirty word in Hospitality?

2012-01-13T00:01:00.001+14:00

Interesting post from Rita today prompted me to bring up a matter that many restaurateurs and café owners consider to be a taboo issue, not so much for them but for some members of the general public. This topic is rarely ever acknowledged yet alone talked about and for many people the mere mention of it causes them great distaste and in some cases revulsion. Banished to the darkest corners, its revered and guiding flame reduced to a faint flicker of an ancient candle eternally at risk of being snuffed out by critical exhalations. Tis the Mercantile Love that dare not speak its name and thy name is ‘Profit’.
For reasons unclear to me, some people seem decidedly uncomfortable with hospitality businesses not only aiming to make a profit but also declaring it with verve and gusto. It just isn’t the done thing apparently, well at least for some in this country, perplexing really! It seems that to celebrate one’s raison d’etre is definitely on the nose. Does this have anything to do with the thought of others perhaps perceived to be doing better than ourselves? Is it too simple to suggest the Tall Poppy syndrome at play? Or do we project a false sort of altruism onto all hospitality businesses, deluding ourselves that they are doing it ‘For the Love’ and thus making excess money off us is somehow not in the spirit of generosity? Adding to this is a greater awareness these days of how much food costs so when we see something sold at a much higher price in a restaurant, a familiar item that we can purchase for the home, we rightly question its value but then I think we got a step further and we fall into the old ‘They’re making a killing’ kind of mentality. The next step down on this dreary ladder is the notion that ‘well if they’re busy then they must be only appealing to the masses’. This mind-set never fails to make me giggle. Firstly: if lots of people like something, it does not automatically mean that they are not providing something worthy or of note. Secondly: Isn’t it a moment to celebrate that a business is doing well rather than seeking a reason to fault it on shaky, less than egalitarian grounds?
Augmenting this attitude as we submit ourselves to a ‘service’ of sorts in an eatery or bar, it might be hard to shake off the reality that we are not in fact the Dukes and Duchesses, recipients of this attention but merely paying customers, forfeiting money in exchange to feel so for a moment. The cold reality is that someone is profiting from our inability to find peace, contentment or escape in its ingestible forms and this ruins the intoxicating charade.
Not wanting to end on a sour note nor make myself a large target for the suggestion that profit is all I’m interested in, which those who know me will attest is not my only passion I will just say that it should not be deemed a dirty word.

Vicki Pollard on the ethics of blogging

2012-01-10T16:04:00.001+14:00

The straight-talking Vicky Pollard on: the ethics of blogging, crowd-turfing, cash-for-comment, positive restaurant reviewing and credibility. Just substitute the Barristers questions for your own, the answers will magically be the same.

A message from the Porch

2011-12-30T20:03:00.002+14:00

To my beautiful kids,
My Mum enjoying a Champers in Heaven
My dear ol’ Da,
Pockets of family, dotted around the country
Old friends across the seas and across the road,
New friends, in-between friends and those malnourished by friendships lost
Those bereaved and burying and those expecting and delivering
Bertie and Nellie who have learned to begrudgingly accept one another.
The stoic bloke who slashes our paddocks
All the many people who have ever made me laugh out loud
Those inspiring makers, growers, farmers and real food people
Writers whom leave me bedazzled
The patient, the forgiving and the accepting
Even the grudge-holders
The people I’ve upset over the years: I’m sorry-I know I can be difficult
the haters, the judgementalists and the intolerant
Small-minded people, the people who are cruel to animals
the people who are just plain cruel.
To optimists, dreamers, schemers and rascals.
Of course to everyone else I've neglected to mention.

But most of all, to my beautiful, loyal and supportive wife, Cate

Happy New Year

Love Steve
x

A Christmas remembrance of times past

2011-12-22T17:52:00.001+14:00

It was a London Christmas for me in 1987. I spied from the Hotels larder kitchen windows, piles of grey wet melting sludge on the footpath of Vine Street below, which you’ll know, is famous for its Police Station in Monopoly. It was a shocking realisation that snow does not always arrive and settle in fluffy white puffs like it did in all the movies and postcards I had seen as a kid. Prior to my trip abroad and imagining a bucolic England gripped by a good-natured frostiness, I’d naively pictured crisp white icing that coated everything and scores of ruddy faced, mitten clad and jolly people darting everywhere with large ribboned boxes destined for the tree. For someone who had never seen snow in real life, these melting grey stains accompanied by the grim faces of puffa-jacketed chavs darting through the bleak chill was a major letdown for me in my first Northern hemisphere winter. I felt very lonely and homesick for the warm glow of the Wilson’s Prom Summer I’d left behind.
As I had no family in which to enjoy Christmas and that I lived in a hostel which reeked so much of melancholy that even limiting my time there just to sleep was almost too much to bear I put my hand up to work at the Hotel. This meant the staff ‘with family’ could have Christmas off whilst us ‘orphans’ had to work. This didn’t bother me at all for the reasons I stated above however it did mean that I got New Years Eve and day off, which to a young unattached working tourist in a foreign land with a leave pass, was almost like winning the lottery.
On duty that night from the top down went like this: Senior deputy General manager, Assistant housekeeper, Front desk personnel(a few) Executive Sous chef, Assistant F & B manager, Deputy Floor manager, Chef de Rang(one step below Head waiter) Sous Chef pastry, Head kitchen Porter, Chef de Partie, 1st commis chef, 2nd commis chef(me) and two kitchen Porters.
In the bowels of the kitchen with just a few festive sounds from the street outside slipping in as the heavy back door opened and closed to exhale jubilant staff on their way to festivities, the above staff were invisible, except inevitably for the kitchen team whom unlike senior management, have nowhere to hide.
After a while the Exec sous chef disappeared, presumably to shag one of the Front desk girls in one of the numerous dark banqueting rooms. The Nigerian Head kitchen porter, Pastry Sous Chef and the Chef de Partie were in the wash-up area deep into a game of poker.
This left me and Snorky, the 1st commis chef, so named because of his likeness to the long nosed and floppy-eared character on the Banana Splits to our own devices whilst the two kitchen porters wafted around like spirits cleaning this and that, communicating in their mother tongue and occasionally shooting an envious glance over to our white uniformed and ethnically sanctioned idleness.
As the night progressed my colleague Snorky became increasingly drunk on the alcoholic flavourings nicked from the pastry chef’s cupboard and I marvelled at how quickly hazelnut, walnut and almond essence could get one inebriated.
Unluckily for me some hotel guests ordered food from the Room Service menu.
Snorky, quickly but unsteadily dispatched himself to the butchery to cut some Porterhouse for the steak sandwiches which had been requested. Gathering and combining all the other ingredients I waited for him to appear with the two portions of steak. As I turned the corner into the butchery to find out what the delay was, it became apparent that Snorky was otherwise engaged to a higher calling.
On the industrial sized wooden butchers block lay a beautifully trimmed whole aged sirloin. Along its length were vicious and random slash marks inflicted by a heavy but dull edged instrument and my eyes settled on the weapon in question, a huge cast iron cleaver buried in the crimson meat to the rivet on the handle.
Snorky however, was standing on the workbench forcing burger mince into the wire mesh grill of the speaker in the in house Tannoy communication system.
‘Oui Chef’ he kept saying sarcastically to the speaker all the while the mince muffled the incoming words and orders.
Sensing trouble I did my best to volley back all the incoming Room service orders on my own as Snorky did his best to decorate the Butchery walls with Poussin, Woodcock and Grouse.
As these things happen and right at the parabola of service the assistant F & B manager decide to make his rounds. I knew this by the flurry of activity over at the pot wash area around the corner as the impromptu card table was melded back into the conformity of the kitchen. I had to act quickly, if the manager was Snorky in this state, he’d be fired on the spot.
Somehow and in the nick of time I managed to convince Snorky that the main Banquet kitchen was in need of mince in the Tannoy system and he eagerly shuffled off, both hands cupping clods of red beef mince just as the Cuban heels of the manager clicked into the Larder kitchen. His wispy moustache and thin angular features unkindly reminded me of a rat peering through a toilet brush as his eyes darted around my work area, keen to settle on some perceived slovenliness. Finding none he minced off down the hall toward the service elevators and the main kitchen below.
Picking my moment, I jumped into the other lift, jabbed my finger on the button to the banquet kitchen and the old lift groaned into action after I slid the metal cage door shut with a clatter. It shuddered and moved upward past exposed and ancient pipes and conduits slick with years of grime captured by staccato shafts of flickering light.
Before I arrived at my intended floor I could hear the evidence growing louder of what I assumed to be Snorky’s snoring.
The gate crashed open to reveal him lying on his back, mouth opened in a trembling yawn, hands smeared with mince beef and the most unpleasant snore emitting from his gob.
Let’s just say it took an age to steal him down through the kitchens, past the sous chef and duty manager unhindered and into the awaiting clutches of the idling cab at the back door. The Pound notes pressed into the cabbies hands did nothing to soften the arched eyebrows which seemed to convey ‘I’ve seen it all before matey’
I finally relaxed and watched the red tail lights of the cab merge in the distance with all the other Christmas decorations along Vine St and took a swig of my bottle of Porter, ‘Merry Christmas Snorky’ I said to myself and went back inside.

A Christmas recipe-Turkey Pie

2011-12-22T14:08:00.005+14:00

Still life with ingredients

List of ingredients AKA-why I'm not a signwriter

Le methode but minus the finished pie, sorry, the mix is still marinating!

Chef Ad in todays Mercury

2011-12-17T12:46:00.002+14:00

$50,000 PA is the salary for a head chef in todays Mercury employment section. Seriously, a Head Chef! WTF!

13 Questions for Huon sur la Mer's own celebrity chef

2011-12-09T17:23:00.006+14:00

Chad St Hubbins, sorry ladies, he's accounted for.

Every week the Huon sur la Mer Chronicle asks prominent townsfolk a few questions. This week its Chad St Hubbins, Chief Cookie and Bottle washer at the Huon sur la Mer RSL and great Grandson of one of the founding fathers of this thriving village, Huxtable St Hubbins.

Favourite ingredient
Easy, bread crumbs, or Cotton-seed oil, it’s a toss-up

Most embarrassing pantry item
I once had a supplier drop me off a fresh free-range chicken for my own use. I was incredulous. Finally I had to say something.
“What will I do with this that the Coles or Woollies Chicken –bar could not do better!” I get so fatigued by ‘opening-the-eyes’ to these suppliers. It’s a thankless task much of the time and the words of my mentor Reuben Stanislavski ring in my ears to this day: “Chad! This fresh food thing will blow over. Let’s sit tight and wait till the packet and convenience foods take over.” God bless him.

Who would you invite to dinner?
A toughie. Boonie MUST is there as he’s teetotal now so there’ll be more piss to sink. Next it would be Lara Bingle, she’s a lot smarter than most people think, just check out Celebrity Apprentice if you don’t believe me. If I could resurrect the dead, Big Kev would have to get a Guernsey, what he did for Aussie cleaning products is inspirational, what a Patriot! Well if I have mastered the art of raising the dead I couldn't’t leave Brocky out could I? I would be a total hypocrite to the $1500 Brock sticker across the rear window of my VH SS Brock Commodore.
This might be controversial but Kyle Sandilands because he’s not afraid to say what he thinks or ask the big questions like: Who would win in a bitch-fight? Nicky Webster Vs Deni Hines
Finally my last guest would be my year eight Home Ec teacher Beryl Von Stoole to whom I would say: ‘How do you like THAT lasagne!

Your greatest culinary influence
Tearfully I recall meals that my grandma used to make us as kids. She would hunt, gather, glean, distill, ferment, preserve, hang, age and smoke. These are crafts that are not known by the generation of today. Little wonder! Everything took so freakin’ long to cook we were always starving so that bloke who invented Maggie Two Minute noodles was a life saver and a legend!

The next big thing
Without a doubt-Pizza in a can-Franchises are available

What are you reading right now?
The latest Loyalty Rewards Program catalogue from the Dry-goods multinational- Can you believe for ordering seven tonnes of Patagonian Tooth fish in batter over the year, I can get two years worth of personalised Tooth-picks AND their Caddies!?

Your favourite film
I love documentaries and it has to be the documentary made about a documentary team following The Swansea Hotels kitchen hand, Brad Caruthers, ‘The making of, THE MAKING OF A KITCHENHAND, currently screening on the West Coast community network 2AM TO 3AM every third Sunday morning in the month.

Your favourite TV Show
It’s a toss up between Worlds Funniest Famines or Sundays with Laurie Oakes.

Biggest celebrity you’ve cooked for
That’s easy. Shane Warne’s official Toupee Mechanic’s personal assistant from Advanced Hair Studios-it was thrilling! I still recall his gererous tip of a couple of vouchers to 'Celebrity Midget-Lookalikes on Ice" at the Derwent Entertainment Centre and his parting words: "Three Crownies to-go, tops-off like the Gridlock-Girls at the Surfers GP!"

Foodie cause you get behind.
These days when our food security is becoming a hot topic, I’m not scared to ask the difficult questions like: “Does pre-prepared batter HAVE to have that yellow colouring, it looks TOO fake?” Or “What’ the difference if I cook the lamb Shanks or we buy ‘em in already cooked?” and finally: “The fish is FRESHLY-FROZEN mate not Frozen, there’s a difference!

Most embarrassing kitchen disaster
I pride myself on my professionalism so when the day arrived that we mixed up the pre-prepared Steak Jus, with the Chicken gravy and the Fruity Game sauce I was very upset as we make about 30 other sauces from these three derivatives. Happily for us the punters seemed not to notice even though we have 279 different meals on the menu. Disaster averted, thank you Maggie.

Your greatest achievement
I know it’s a cliché but I believe children are the future. My seven legitimate kids and their cousins all understand good food. In fact they all know only to order the wings on a certain day at the local Chicken-Shop as that’s the last day that they are OK. Having inside knowledge here really helps.

What would you like to be remembered for?
The fact that I always offered crumbed or battered options on my home menu for the family on a menu even though it’s a path less trod.

Footnote-Sadly Chad has left the Huon sur la Mer RSL and is now in Geraldton WA working as a 'Crumbing-Technician' for All-Kitchens=Low-Com, a subsidiary of Mining Technologies Inc.

This restaurant is seriously taking the piss!

2011-12-02T10:55:00.003+14:00

It was time to leave

2011-11-28T13:43:00.001+14:00

We’d decided to leave. Yes it’s true. After all those dinner parties, red wine fuelled expansions and hand wringing misgivings about living cheek by jowl in a suburban enclave we’ve actually decided to put our money where our mouth is.
‘But you’ll never be able to buy back here again’
‘What’s so special about over there?’
‘It’s such a great community here It’ll be hard to find it over there’
‘This is your home your family is here, why do you want to leave?’
‘I won’t be around much longer, please stay’
‘What have we done wrong to make you want to leave?’
‘Just when we get to know you, you up and leave!’
‘Life’s an adventure. We love you, cherish you and hope you find happiness’
That last statement has resonated with me ever since we decided to take the plunge and leave our cosy idyllic, inner city, pre-gentrified suburb of Melbourne for the great unknown of Southern Tasmania, circa 2003.
It was difficult to move after having made a comfortable life in Melbourne amongst our families and friends. Sadly some of our friends viewed or move as a rejection of sorts which was never the intention, however one can’t discount peoples’ feelings at the time and as they say, time eventually heals and life always goes on.
When we arrived in Cygnet, the Red Velvet Lounge loomed large as a hub for many people and we were duly welcomed to join the red round table in the window. We met many new people over coffee in those first few months, easing us into the rhythms of the little town we had chosen as our new home.
In fact it was over a bowl delicious soup and great coffee at the RVL that sealed it for us, as we rationalised that a little town this south of Hobart that has such a great café must be a sign. Sitting in that room, the ink drying on the contract for the cottage we now live in, I was not to know that a few years later I would eventually become its current custodian.
They say if you’re still here after three years, you’ll stay, now having passed that mythical three-year mark a few years ago I feel it’s safe to suggest we’re here for the long haul, this is our home. I’m a Tasmanian now. The word sounds like a soothing lozenge in my mouth, familiar, restorative and at the same time redolent with a meaning that I am gently awakening to.
My infrequent visits to the big Island have left me longing for the currency of space, the pure air and the crispness of my tank water that I enjoy at home. I’ve learnt not to say ‘never’ over my years but I can’t see us living anywhere else, funny how life works out innit?

How NOT to respond to a blogpost-a primer for young players

2011-11-23T13:26:00.004+14:00

So let’s just say you’re one of these hospitality people or organisations that say they never read the foodie blogs. This is, as we know, like saying you, as a woman, don’t enjoy, to quote that most learned of wordsmiths, Roger Mellie, the occasional ‘Kit –Kat Shuffle’ in the bath or if you’re a bloke, a sneaky ‘Uncle-Doug’ in the shower.
Like other Onanistic releases, everyone does it but very few admit to doing it.
Anyway, once in a while one might chance upon an opinion on a blog that really niggles no wait actually angers you and prompts a frantic two-fingered stabbing of the keyboard in a response to set the author and subsequent comments on the straight and narrow.
This is where many people/organizations make a mistake.
Firstly, if you intend to contact the blogger, check your facts and in the very least, get the name of their blog correct-in my opinion, this really helps.
Then, you need to understand that first and foremost it’s only an opinion expressed from the bloggers point of view.
Finally if you are motivated to respond make sure you get your points across clearly, rambling and banging on just makes you sound incoherent and shrill.
Remember, you might be angry but you might want to let the blood recede before you press ‘send’ only to discover to your horror that you quite possibly have broken the law because of the content and tone of your email might be demanding a retraction or else you’ll initiate some sort of retribution. Threats of this nature are a serious matter.
Advice that I have received suggests that this type of response could easily be interpreted as blackmail or bullying. In the very least it’s never a good look, but it does reveal a few things about its author.
Most bloggers, (myself included if the comment related to a current post) would accept and respect your right of reply and perhaps a better way to get your message across is to comment on the blog and put your version of events across and then let the readers decide for themselves what version they gravitate toward.
Bombastic and aggressive messages just indicate that the original issues raised touched a nerve and demonstrates your uneasiness with a free-discussion or at worst, a differing opinion to yours.
The important thing here to remember here is that a blog is a medium and a prompt for discussion promoting an interaction with the readers who all share a similar interest. It’s unrealistic to think one might be able to control what people are saying on the blogs even if, again, their opinions are different to yours so you might as well just accept this and move on.
If you find the subject matter intolerable however then might I suggest taking a leaf out of the TV handbook and simply not tune in or change the channels?
Another way to look at it is to simply ignore the post entirely. In reality, most blogs have a miniscule readership and with a few exceptions don’t really influence or determine outcomes so in the scheme of things, they don’t hold much sway, so why get all worked up? If you respond angrily you might just attract anonymous trolls eager to antagonise you further, so it’s better just to retain a dignified silence. Today’s news is tomorrows’ fish and chips wrapper.
Hope my top tips are helpful and feel free to join the discussion!

Si Si and the Sonics

2011-11-16T14:15:00.001+14:00

Caberet, pizza and cider on tap Oh Yeah!

Lambs brains are off the menu!

2011-11-15T12:11:00.003+14:00

We’re about to change our menu and I wanted to put lambs brains on. Lambs brains have been enjoyed by generations of people but sadly this will no longer be likely. I am told apparently that they are near impossible to get. Why? Well new laws have been put in place that make it very difficult and costly to retrieve them from the sheep’s skulls so meat processors are simply not doing them.
So yet another ridiculous layer of red tape has tightened the noose on our food choices? So now I assume they go to waste? What a shame.

I took one for the team

2011-11-14T12:32:00.004+14:00

If you squint, it could be Katy Perry's Grandma?

On the outskirts of a town in the Huon is a take away that apparently stays open all night. It is a favourite of truckies and shift workers and pretty well anybody who needs to eat after everything else has shut up shop for the night.
Inside and through the glare and haze of the heat lamps, like a mirage, various items materialise into focus. Most items have the lick of the fryer but others are tightly and neatly wrapped in cling film awaiting purchase. They all emerge from behind a screen for where the dark shadow of the fryer cook plies his dark arts before topping up a sea of golden batter in the baine marie.
Amongst the various shapes and sizes jostling in the tray I saw a familiar shape from my youth. I looked up at the walls and of course the faded poster featuring a fifties looking saucy model coquettishly straddling a vintage motorcycle that vaguely looked like Katy Perry. In her hand and rather suggestively was a Chiko roll. In that instant I was transported back to the seventies in my stripy Crystal Cylinders T shirt, my try-hard flares and my Chuck Taylors. The atmosphere was alive to the bells and pinging’s of the pinball machine and the air was thick with the smell of rendered beef tallow as I stood and waited for my chips to cook at the local chippie.
I had to try one again.
I sniffed it first to see if it had that tell-tale stale cabbage whiff not unlike a fried Dimmy but different. Sadly it didn’t and for a moment I blinked at the disappointment. The outer crust was thick as I remembered but also has a kind of pock-marked surface similar to bad acne scarring. I gently squeezed an end hoping as you did, that the round bit of pastry at the end of the cylinder would pop open, its fused edges relinquishing the molten tumble of its innards. Instead, it merely accommodated my probing’s and remained steadfastly unbreached. So I bit into the recalcitrant end and to my horror my teeth could barely cut through the leathery skin of its outer crust. At the same time, the filling under pressure, began to ooze out where the fused batter was at its weakest. It was then that I inhaled its putrid stench for the first time. The filling, a congealed mash of grey matter could not demonstrate one particular ingredient over another save for a small fleck of cabbage whose brave remaining crunch gave it away. I tried to remember if Chiko Rolls contained meat and my mind wandered uneasily into picturing yellow toothed and gnarled mutton braying like donkeys at the abattoir forcing me to squint the image away.
Chewing carefully, my tongue doing a dance as touch the contents of my mouth as little as possible I studied the roll in my hand. The filling, held up to the light was entombed in a batter so thick, so unyeilding that it was indeed very hard to bite through cleanly without squashing the contents. Bringing myself to swallow the cud in my gob I put the thing down on the seat of the Ute which had by now been filled to the brim with its fetid aroma causing me to wind all the windows down. I prayed that no one I knew took that moment to come up to my Ute window to say g’day as they would have immediately assumed I had in the very least just soiled my pants such was the reek.
‘Well that’s one memory I’ll happily consign to old times’ sake’ I thought as I slam-dunked the foul comestible into the bin knowing I’ll never need to eat one again.

Aginares me Koukia-a taste of late Spring

2011-11-13T14:32:00.008+14:00

My introduction to the humble broad bean came when living in the Barossa Valley. Prior to this I hadn’t really eaten them before and looked upon them suspiciously as a vegetable that made itself very difficult to eat. I mean they have to be podded, cooked and then in most cases podded again. Often they are relegated to play a supporting role but I find them more versatile and lend themselves to leading-man status every once and a while.

Naturally they have much in common with the globe artichoke as this vegetable also sits in the ‘makes itself dammed hard to eat’ category, I’ll go one step further and say that whomever actually discovered that a plant from the Thistle family could be rendered palatable must have been mighty hungry. Again I owe it to South Australia to have initiated me to the glories of cooking and eating globe artichokes. However, it was not the globe artichoke that was my first taste but the more thornier and prickly Wild artichoke that grows in the Adelaide Hills.

Adeladians have long been exposed to the sight of people foraging in the parks, beaches and foothills for gleaned foods way before it became fashionable. In fact for many migrants it was the only way they could collect ingredients that might approximate flavours from the old country as our mostly Anglo diet didn’t reflect the range of foods available today. Thankfully, some traditions still survive and whilst working in a small café in Adelaide my boss’s old man spent his weekends foraging for olives, wild artichokes and ‘Horta’ or edible greens. He would return every Monday during the season, his hands red with scores of cuts and abrasions and often remarked that I had the easiest of jobs because all I had to do was simply cook them.
In the times since I’ve cooked globe artichokes in all manner of forms from confit, to cooked long and slow in olive oil through to the traditional French way in an acidulated Blanquette.
However on of the most enjoyable ways I reckon is to combine them with broad beans in a dish the Greeks call: Aginares me koukia. This method partners the shelled but unpeeled broadies with the ‘choke’ or inner core of the artichoke removed and cooked in a pot with lemon , olive oil, garlic, dill and mint seasoned heavily with salt and pepper. It can be eaten warm or at room temp as a salad. At the café though, I cook the artichokes and broadies separately as I like to keep the colour as green as possible whereas the original recipe tend to make the dish a bit grey looking.

My own peculiar quirk is to leave the stalks, if they’re not woody, attached to the artichoke cause I like the shape. Finally I like to add a bit of ‘taramasalata’ spirit to the dish by daubing it with a few salty blobs of Sea-urchin roe mayonnaise and serve it with some crusty bread, it’s a great taste of late spring.

The finished dish

Not all producers are Foodies you know

2011-11-11T19:32:00.002+14:00

I’ve been ruminating over writing this post for some time now. The thought first struck me a few years ago when eating a meal at the house of a friend who works in the alcoholic beverage industry. This person produces very unique and revered beverages and I assumed quite reasonably I thought, that the passion and dedication required to achieve these outcomes would also be extended to their love and appreciation of food. It turns out I should never assume.
I’m a fan of simple understatement when it comes to my dinner. A clever and confident cook knows instinctively when to pull back on the throttle, how much shade must balance the light and at what time to pull the punch. Simple food is a very deceptive term. At once it assumes (here I go again) that we all share the same aesthetic and all simple foods are born equal. Sliced deli-chicken loaf on commercial white bread with ETA mayonnaise, flaccid iceberg and rock hard tasteless tomatoes might share the same ingredients as one made with poached free-range and seasoned chicken, real mayo, crunchy cos and ripe tomatoes on fresh tangy sourdough but they are worlds apart in so many ways.
If you ever get into the situation where you have to explain this difference to someone you know that they are not from your tribe. So imagine my dismay when confronted by this prosaic at best meal from such a dynamic and inspired beverage craftsperson.
It dawned on me that not all producers, even those who fashion produce for the highest of shelves, are foodies.
How can this be? I mean think about it. Someone for instance decides one day after eating an olive: ‘I can do better than this’ and precedes to fashion the most delicious and sought after olives in the land only to accompany them with some watery cucumber, commercial, fetta and those ubiquitous under ripe tomatoes at their own table? I just don’t get it? Why bother? They’re sullying all their hard work.
I wrongly understood that one must have the fire in one’s belly for the glory of food in general in order to have the enthusiasm to create something of note but this isn’t the case sadly and it leaves me a bit deflated quite frankly.
There are exceptions though, thankfully, who redeem my faith in taking the long path.
One such person, a farmer, once handed me a sliver of home-cured ham on a torn piece of home-made bread with a dollop of salted freshly churned butter and I realized again, that I should never assume.

Beware Celebrity Products!

2011-11-08T12:46:00.003+14:00

With thanks to AOF for the germ of an idea for this post

Just got back from shopping at the newest Gourmet Food store to grace Hobart’s blue chip real estate strip. Called Enoteca Celebrita which translates roughly as: ‘Place of overpriced food’ in Italian one can marvel at and perhaps even purchase comestibles from a range of A list celebrities right through to those on a Warwick Capper budget.

‘Some Geoffrey Rush sausages thanks’
‘Would you like some Cate Blanchett Houmous?’
‘Half a kilo of Eric Bana feta please’
‘I just can’t stop at one David Wenham dolmades you know’
‘What to do with these heirloom Eddy Maguire tomatoes?’

Just a few exchanges overheard the other day. It seems that everybody who’s anybody is growing, making, endorsing a food product these days. No longer is it simply OK to have eggplant’ they must now be anointed with the name of a celeb in order to attract market share. I spose we could blame the grand daddy of them all Paul Newman, for starting this thirty years ago but at least his has some altruistic cred.
Chefs on the other hand have been selling out for years. Most notably Mr cravat himself, the claret dribbling dandy that was Keith Floyd who spent years extolling the virtues of the rich heritage that is English cookery, way before anyone else did mind you, only to undo it all by singing to the Piper’s tune of Maggie.
Where will it end? Will the next 11 year old contestant from Junior Masterchef bring out a range of bespoke hundreds and thousands?
Don’t get me started on celebrity cook books either. Lisa Mcune, love your work but a cookbook? Palease! That’s goes for you too Sophie Dhal, Gwinny, Eva Longoria, Coolio, Star Trek and Sopranos Family cookbooks.
Please celebrities; if you are considering adding some cred to your profiles, this is not the way to go, I beg of you!

The pesimissm salve

2011-11-05T11:00:00.003+14:00

Daily we’re being bombarded with bad news stories from throughout the world.
Turn on the tellie and it all becomes a bit overwhelming at times. Tune in to the radio and immerse yourself in a pool of aural stress. Flick through the papers and feel your stomach tighten with anxiety. Cock an ear to conversations fizzing all around you, each a fetid tribulation to a bubbling and noxious ferment of brewing distress.
I don’t know about you but I’ve lost a bit of skin lately in this high stakes game.
Constant negativism is grinding me down.
I’ve always been an optimistic person but issues of late are testing my resolve.
A wise person once said to me: ‘Steve stop reading the bloody papers, are they enriching your life or are they chipping away at it?’
Hmmm, that one came from left field!
I have a theory that negativism begets negativism. So, today as the sun awashes our beautiful valley in glorious rays, causing it to sparkle at its verdant edges, it’s difficult to remain downbeat whilst basking in such a gift, an unsullied start to a new day.
All bets are off, as I take my first baby steps towards shaking off this heavy coat of pessimism. Enjoy the day.

Is it becoming too hard to eat at restaurants?

2011-11-01T15:00:00.004+14:00

A few years ago I started noticing new restaurants, cafes and bars popping up that had no signage. This apparently denoted ‘cool’. The premise was, if you needed to know its name and therefore its address, then you were decidedly out of the loop and deemed ‘uncool’. Hence the numerous cluster of people wandering the streets and lanes at night on the hunt for the latest place that they’d heard about, the increasingly loud grumblings of their stomachs, indicating that they had not yet stumbled upon their chosen destination. Urban legend has it that there is a group still wondering the streets of Melbourne looking for a particular hot spot.
Some places simply became known by their address whilst others appropriated esoteric and in-on-the-joke names that bore little if any indication to what the business actually was. Hence ‘Saliva-City’ might not be the haunt for swingers as imagined but in fact a new Macaron bar, go figure?
Then this notion of two or three dining ‘window’s emerged. No longer able to book a table for the whole evening, one must submit to the 6pm to 8pm, the 8pm to 10pm or the 10pm to midnight time slots allocated.
“But I would like a long leisurely dinner” you say
“We only have the 6pm to 8pm sir and you must vacate your table within this time frame” came the mantra from the host
“But I’m here for the 10 course Dego with matching wines?” says you, exasperated
“That’s OK sir we bring out each course every 18 minutes” cheerily says the host
“But what if we haven’t finished the course by then?”
“Doggie bags are available” he says dryly.
You get the picture.
In recent times the proprietors of these venues have also ratcheted up a notch the discomfort many diners were now experiencing. No longer was it enough not to have signage, an address or a phone number but all of a sudden we were being herded into communal seating bringing with it the discomfort that might for instance, have one sitting next to one’s Proctologist. Adding insult to injury we were also precluded from making a booking, overnight it seemed nobody was taking reservations?
We are now made to wait, sometimes for hours, in the corridors or outside in the elements for a table. This is of course if you don’t want to eat at 5.30pm and scramble for a table through the melee of Zimmer frames with the rest of the geriatrics.
And some places actively discriminate. No Bloggers, no photographs, no children, no lactose intolerances, no other food allergies and no breastfeeding mothers-whats next, no Low-talkers?
Oh and forget about using your credit or debit card. Cash ONLY! screams an unwavering rigidness from a comprehensive list of do's and don'ts at some particular venues.
Now the latest trend is to only take reservations online. Simple enough you say despite not everyone having access to the web. Wrong.
Now you must create an account, divest yourself of some personal information and finally you must prove you are not a Spambot by entering a code. Once you press ‘send’ you sit and wait.
There is a scene in the movie LA story which foresaw the future of making what is a relatively simple restaurant booking. In it Steve martins character is ‘interviewed’ by the Maitre’d and the Chef de cuisine. He is interrogated as to his profession and income and then firmly informed what he is able to order before being dismissed with a wave of their hands. Is this the future?
Is it just me or are restaurants making it more and more difficult for their customers?

The Fourth Wave of coffee has arrived!

2011-10-26T21:46:00.010+14:00

Some time ago I took the mickey out of the notion of these, so-called third wave of coffee shops by comparing them to the humble chippie in this post.

I love my coffee, don’t get me wrong and I drink enough of the stuff to perhaps label myself a ‘heavy-user’ but on occasion I’ve found myself rolling my eyes at the earnestness and well quite frankly, the absurdity of some of the nuances of this new coffee mania.
So imagine my surprise when I ambled into the local servo to see a shelf stocked with these newfangled ‘Hot-Cans’ of coffee featuring Cafe latte, Mocha and Chocolate.

It appears that the Fourth Wave of coffee has arrived.

‘What are these?’ I enquired of the sales person behind the bullet-proof glass.
‘You shake ‘em, they get hot and you neck ‘em after that’
‘How do they work?’ I ask
This is met with the internationally recognised gesture of a shrug of the shoulders which translates roughly as ‘Fuck Knows?’

I study the can and am intrigued with its magical promise. It reminds me immediately of that patented grommet in the imported cans of Guinness which work by releasing gas which then froths the beer when you agitate the can but in this case, the contents gets hot.
Hot-Can has developed a special double chambered aluminium can which contains the beverage in the outer chamber and holds water and calcium oxide (quick lime) separately in the inner chamber. When the button at the bottom of the can is pressed, the water mixes with the quicklime, starting an exothermic reaction that heats the contents of the outer chamber in less the 3 minutes by 50-55°C to give you a piping hot drink.

Eager to see and taste for myself this wonder of modern science I followed the instructions for one of the few times in my life. Amazingly, the can warms up considerably as it promises, I was amazed but my suspicions of its taste were yet to be convinced otherwise.

I poured the contents into a cup and saucer and puckered my lips for the initial sip. The verdict?
Cafes of the world breathe easy! This Fourth Wave of coffee is a fizzer. It tasted like very sweet instant coffee made with condensed milk and was, in my opinion quite awful.

Drinking this has made me already start anticipating my first real coffee tomorrow morning, real espresso and quality beans-I’ll stick to the second wave.

A cautionary tale for bloggers

2011-10-22T19:54:00.001+14:00

One day a plucky observer decided to put his thoughts into words.
“I’ll write a blog!” he said!
He began that very night and typed and typed and typed.
Pretty soon, a body of work emerged
“No one is reading!” he cried into his pillow
He asked around and yes, everyone was just too busy to read his blog
But one day, after a particular post, a comment appeared.
Eagerly he read it.
“Oh, No it’s nasty!” he said, before deleting it
“I don’t want nasty comments thankyou very much Mr Internet!” he said
But then a few similar comments started appearing like these:
“I’m disappointed that you don’t like me” said one
“I don’t read your blog but what you’re saying upsets me” came another
“I don’t like what you are suggesting” opined yet one more.
He felt like he was being muzzled by an audience who apparently were not reading?
How curious.
He thought and thought and thought about it.
Then the light globe over his head combusted with energy and a single word morphed into shape
‘Wankers!’ he thought
The end.

Has this ever happened?

2011-10-20T10:06:00.001+14:00

A hypothetical situation.

I’m a prominent restaurateur who has traded for years before I decide to expand my business and open another restaurant. Investors get involved to help with the capital needed for the growth and everything seems to be going swimmingly.
Without apparent notice and due to what I explain away as a downturn, an unforseen circumstance or a leasing disagreement-or whatever, the new restaurant closes its doors and is liquidated.

In this process, the investors and suppliers lose the monies owed to them and staff now unemployed, lose all their entitlements

The next day I dust myself off and continue trading in the original restaurant despite the unpaid investors, the suppliers being left high and dry and the jobless staff as if nothing had happened.

Could this transpire?

Kitchen Envy

2011-10-18T10:50:00.001+14:00

What is it about kitchens that make some of us filled with equal parts of lust and insecurity? Does a great kitchen replete with a bristling armoury of shiny appliances and gadgets actually improve one’s cooking ability? Do you ever notice the fancier the kitchen is often correlates to how shite the cook is that owns it? Some of the best meals I’ve enjoyed in people’s homes have emerged from the most humble of kitchens; the opposite could be said from the most luxe of kitchens.
In what seems a lifetime ago, we did a massive reno on our house complete with the kind of kitchen I deluded myself into thinking I needed. Let’s just say that my love affair with stainless steel was ground out of me by three pairs of perpetually grubby toddler’s hands. I also learned that despite the deafening noise from the shiny exhaust canopy it’s sucking power was questionable at best and that the expensive European oven was like having a twelve string guitar, Its spends half its time out of tune and you spend the other half trying to tune it. Lying exhausted on the couch every evening, my hands swollen from hours of polishing the surfaces of the kitchen I sombrely resolved never to get sucked in again.
Fast forward to the present day we had decided to renovate our kitchen and bathrooms. Browsing through what I like to call an ‘Unobtainable lifestyle magazine’ I was astonished by intoxicating page after page of alluring kitchen hardware. Powder coated baby blue Aga’s, Moss green Smegs, burnished tap-wear, frosted glass cabinets and my bottom lip quivered…Butler Sinks!
My wife recognised that look on my face and snatched the mag from my hand, threw some salt over my left shoulder, did three hail Mary’s and burnt that unholy magazine at the stake. It was a close call.
Months later we had decided on a modest makeover of sorts. Work began quickly and before we knew it the kitchen was a shell. Though we were aware of what was about to take place the reality of having no oven, work benches and the usual accoutrements of the kitchen momentarily left us a tad underprepared.
Once we jettisoned the mind-set that we were missing these things we found our cooking shaped by the sandwich press, the microwave and the kettle very liberating. In fact the ease and speed that our reduced repertoire was able to be conjured was such a revelation that I briefly imagined our new kitchen with only these three items in it.
Cooking with these basics is a lot like being in a caravan or tent on holidays with all that breezy nonchalance that being on leave can permeate.
It’s this feeling I try to recall when I get home stressing about what I’ll end up cooking for my family and their particular and peculiar tastes, rules and cant-eats.

The Lingua Franca of the auteur and the critic

2011-10-15T20:41:00.003+14:00

In Graeme Blundell’s column today I was transfixed by the notion of the Lingua Franca of film critics toward auteurs and that space-in-between, that chasm between the G.P. and the High Artz. That Space-in-between really intrigues me.

“Films do reflect the society in which they are made.” David Stratton, ABC Film Critic

“Don’t take away our critics! We filmmakers need them as a bridge. The critic is the link between us and the audience.” Filmmaker Bernardo Bertolucci

“In the Arts, the reviewer is the only source of information, the rest is advertising.” Guardian Film critic Derek Malcolm

“The only thing we can do is bring attention to lesser publicised films that are worth watching; we have little to say against the might of the Hollywood publicity machine.” Margaret Pomeranz, ABC Film Critic

“Today everyone’s a critic; you see them in cinemas writing their own little reviews to their friends before the credits have finished rolling, if not during the film.” David Stratton, ABC Film Critic

“I would like to think that the serious critic, and we still have some in Australia, brings an informed background, an intellectual history, to their discussion of films.” David Stratton, ABC Film Critic

“It’s really easy to substitute filmmaking for cookery and realise that not only is the world changing in terms of critiquing but also this is a universal tone that could be bolted onto all artistic endeavours and the language would still be the same.” Steve Cumper, Indoor Soccer player

Is Tassie a premium food producer?

2011-10-14T18:43:00.001+14:00

It’s an interesting conundrum and one I think might not be limited to Tassie. It’s the issue where a supplier of a product is unable to keep up with the requirement of said product as demand continues to outstrip supply.
It’s that double edges sword that many small artisan producers feel when word starts spreading about their product. They go from wondering when the next sale will be made to stressing if they’ll be able to keep up.
Many producers start out idealistically wanting to combine a passion for food with the lifestyle they have chosen and many decide from the outset to remain small.
This poses a problem for those wanting to use the product because of the difficulties in obtaining it so often they look elsewhere for more regular supplies and eventually the original Tasmanian producer gets overlooked.
These producers face a choice: invest heavily in plant and equipment and often going into major debt to do so or risk being ignored in the wider marketplace.
Some producers are content in supplying an enthusiastic local market which is a boon for businesses like mine but long term their sustainability is questionable without some sort of growth. Another factor in gearing up supply is that more money is needed for distribution and costs rise incrementally often making the product simply too expensive for the domestic market. This in turn leads to a backlash of sorts and the ironic situation where the locals who initially supported and spruiked the product end up being priced out of buying it.
In a report I read a few years ago about the mainland public’s perception of the food stuff from Tasmania two key points struck me. I was surprised to learn that many people do not necessarily equate food from this state with the clean and green image. In fact, salmon, oysters, lobster, apples and cheese were the primary associations people made. Whilst these usual suspects might not be so illuminating it was a surprise to me that this clean and green image was not the main link to perceptions of food from Tasmania, so where did this come from? Was it just an assumption?
The other point was that Tasmanian food was not being appreciated in the market place as being a ‘superior product’ which really shocked me.
In the media much is made of the superior currency of Tasmanian foods yet the ‘usual suspects’ that I mentioned earlier, having been sold en masse have done a bit of a disservice to this image. Salmon, apples, oysters and cheese have all been commoditised and sold in supermarkets all over the country, diminishing their status as premium and perhaps validating the state as a budget supplier of comestibles.
I think this is a grave mistake.
In my opinion, Tasmania should be marketing itself as a super-premium supplier of produce of the highest order. In order to meet the demand for our produce perhaps we need a re-think about how we can support, sustain and grow these markets with the help of a clued-in government department?

Poaching staff is pinching staff

2011-10-13T00:43:00.001+14:00

Like many industries, attracting, training and retaining staff in the hospitality industry is an ongoing challenge. This is a field known for its peculiarly high turnover of staff to other establishments and also those who exit the industry altogether for a variety of reasons, the unsociable hours being a major factor.
One of the unwritten laws is that it’s very bad form to poach staff from other businesses.
Sure, no-one leaves a job because they are happy with it and some people might even seem ripe to approach but I reckon actively luring staff away from a rival business is a double edged sword.
In the corporate world it’s called head-hunting and it might be very flattering for the intended candidate which is completely understandable. However I don’t know of any operator who’s been on the receiving end of losing a vital staff member to wish it on another business person.
It takes much energy, time and money to shape your team into the kind of unit that you can rely on so it can be quite demoralising to lose such a vital staff member especially to what might be called ‘the opposition’.
‘Well what can you do, if they want to go and the offers suits them better then really you just have to suck it up’ I hear you say. I agree, but what goes around tends to come around.
Firstly as the poacher, you are pitching to a prospective candidate so remember that you are virtually ‘selling’ the position to that person translating as they have the ‘power’ over you and you need tem more than they need you. This can be advantageous in the short term to a degree for the incumbent candidate but that honeymoon period soon lapses and can become tiresome after a while.
For the poached, you might find yourself ostracised from your former place of employ and your relationships tested as now you work for the opposition. Formerly easily shared confidences might now be replaced by an uncomfortable and awkward uncertainty as mutual business issues arise. Also you might even be regarded as a kind of mercenary without any perceived loyalties, your duties sold to the highest bidder.
This reality has two sides as your new employer might have tucked away in the back of their minds that one day you could go somewhere else if a better offer came your way. This can influence and colour your relationship, each party not quite sure if the other is looking to move or be moved on. Either way much energy is taken up with this superfluous speculation and guess what? This focus takes you away from your core business.
In my opinion it’s never a good idea to poach staff. Wait till they leave and are free agents then all bets are off.

Fruit that is ready to drop is always sweeter than that which is plucked prematurely.

I'm having trouble commenting on other sites

2011-10-10T23:55:00.002+14:00

Hello everyone, this is a cry for help. Everytime I go to post a thoughtful, erudite or mostly lame comment on someone elses blog it ends up being:

a) re-directed
or
b)it just vanishes!

I'm starting to feel very left out of the conversation!
Can some tekky person please explain!

Eating meat

2011-10-06T13:36:00.001+14:00

For those of you pondering why we eat meat here's a poem from Jane Legge

Dogs & cats & goats & cows,
Ducks & chickens, sheep & sows.
Woven into tails for tots,
Pictured on their walls & pots.
Time for dinner, come & eat
All your lovely juicy meat.
One day ham from Percy Porker
(In the comics, he’s a corker)
Then the breast from Mrs. Cluck,
Or the wing from Donald Duck.
Liver next from Clara Cow
(No it doesn’t hurt her now).
Yes, that’s legs from Peter Rabbit
Chew it well, make that a habit.
Eat the creatures killed for sale,
But never pull that pussy’s tail’
Eat the flesh from ‘filthy hogs’
But never be unkind to dogs.
Grow up into double-think-
Kiss the hamster; Skin the mink.
Never think of slaughter dear,
That’s why animals are here.
They only come on earth to die,
So eat your meat & don’t ask why.

Eating Meat and Eating people, Jane Legge

Shanks but No Shanks

2011-10-03T13:57:00.001+14:00

It went like this:

‘You be surprised how many place use ‘em’ said the cheeky sales rep with a smirk.
‘Really?!’ I asked incredulously
‘Yea not just the little places short on space, but places that have got larger kitchens’.
I shake my head in wonderment.
He continues: ‘They come in at under six bucks a pair and some places sell ‘em for $28 to $30, bitta mash on the side, some frozen peas and carrots and Bingo!’ he laughs.
I shake my head, ‘Why do they buy them, I mean how hard are they to cook?’ I ask rhetorically.
‘Convenience I reckon, just nuke ‘em for 15 mins or so, cut the bag and serve,’ he says cheerfully.
‘Well sorry mate’ I say, ‘I’ll always cook my lamb shanks from scratch thanks’.

Driving your PR dollar further

2011-09-29T15:35:00.003+14:00

These days, restaurants and chefs no longer rely on just word of mouth and a few good reviews in the guidebooks. Whilst these things are helpful, they’re simply not enough to get yourself and your business some valuable exposure in what is increasingly becoming a sea of information overload. That is of course, if these criteria are important to you.
It’s now de rigueur to have a PR company handling one’s brand, restaurant profile and the associated spin offs that they can generate (KFC, Vegeta, Mil Lel and Spudbar anyone?). I’ve noticed that when a new place opens you’ll often hear about it constantly in everything from the glossies to the broadsheets, from the free-press to the blogs. Inevitably though, when the PR budget dries up so does that exposure. This is exactly the case with one very large business launched last year. For a while it was everywhere and now, curiously no one talks about it, in fact you’ll be hard pressed to find any media about it al all. Hopefully they’re just getting on serving their punters but I fear that the PR dollar has dried up.
Many businesses, in my opinion, fall into the trap of courting this attention at the risk of overlooking what it is they actually set out to do, cook and serve food.
Some businesses which seem immune to the charms of the media make a dignified retreat to the exit, at stage left and here they can go about their duties unhindered by the glare of the media searchlight and its expectations.
A few of these places seem not only to survive but flourish under the radar predominatly reserved for the usual suspects, blossoming in the rays of an alterative sun. Sadly though, they’ll eventually get discovered by a media driven by an insatiable appetite for the new, even if ironically they have been operating for years.
For every big name operator basking in these media rays, there are many unknown people quietly getting on with the business of running a successful venture-trouble is you just don’t hear much about them and perhaps when you do chance upon them, you keep it to yourself and their currency doubles!
Recently I was struck that I’m constantly hearing about the same people when it comes to chefs and restaurants when a friend of mine asked for a recommendation for a night out in Melbourne. Initially I was drawn to spruik one of the new places but then a thought about a very good chef I knew of, popped into my head and I suggested that they go to his place instead. What I find remarkable is that if one was to take at face value what and whom the food media and the blogs recommend, we must only have about 10 places to go to?! When did this happen? Why are we overlooking established players in favour of these new arrivistes? When did Joe Blows down the road become on the nose?
Perhaps this is the problem:
Overheard in a bustling bar
‘What about that new buzzy Thai place mate, it’s freaken flat out!’
‘Yea I’ve heard, but what about to Longrain or even Cookie for that matter?’
‘Never heard of ‘em mate can’t be that good’

The question that needed to be asked

2011-09-23T21:29:00.001+14:00

Dear Steve,
I’m an informed person who really makes an effort to grow my own food or at the very least buy from like minded suppliers. I am on the local soccer club committee and our job amongst other things is to procure snags or burgers for the fundraisers.
We have asked local butchers to donate and they do but I feel compromised because I know the meat they offer, though free, is not ethically raised nor is it made into the type of snags I would feed my family.
Am I being precious?
Signed
Worrying from Huon sur la Mer

I'm a chef now-sung in the tune of 'Good Day Sunshine'

2011-09-22T11:51:00.007+14:00

I'm in a pernickerty mood and penned this ditty which goes out to all the armchair-experts. Sung to the tune of the Beatles 'Good Day Sunshine' with apologies to Mr Lennon and Mr McCartney.

I’m a chef now,
I’m a chef now,
I’m..a..chef..now
I did a class, I boned a trout
Now I know what this cheffing's-all about
Some sour dough, some Ike jime fish
Now everything I cook will be de-lish
I’m a chef now,
I’m a chef now,
I’m..a..chef..now
You’ll see my face in all the trendy places
Kissing arse with in-dus-try faces
I read the blogs, in order to keep abreast
But lack the courage to professionally road test
I’m a chef now,
I’m a chef now,
I’m..a..chef..now
Some people could say, I’m just a kitchen pedant
With el-e-ments of the syc-o-phant
Look closer though and then you’ll see
I’m just a try-hard, wann-a-be
I’m a chef now,
I’m a chef now,
I’m..a..chef..now

Whats goin on? Apologies to Marvin Gaye

2011-09-19T20:37:00.003+14:00

I think there is an exciting and significant push from a few restaurateurs and chefs in Australia that bring a very fresh and perhaps even unique aesthetic to the sourcing, cooking and presentation of food. It seems that the conditions have been just right for a new school of cookery to emerge from what has been to date, the conventionally accepted hierarchy and status quo of hatted establishments ruling the roost.
This has had some of our traditionally recognized arbiters of restaurant criticism scrambling to bone-up on the current state of play and many of them are not happy campers, in fact some our downright hostile to this apparent changing of the guard. The fact is, while they were dozing, fretting about next year’s contract and dishing out praise on the anointed, the language of food, ever evolving, has once again morphed into something else entirely.
These days it’s not uncommon to find some of the most exciting cooking and ideas coming from what would have been previously thought of as the most incongruous of places. Adding to this confusion, many exponents are not coming from the established kitchens of the greats, instead many are self-taught, confident and sure footed which confounds the logic of the ‘everyone must do their time and pay their dues’ school of thought. Like music, the classics remain but the pop music of the day reflects the people it is made by and listened to. Where rules were rigidly adhered to and boundaries were set have given way to a breezy embrace of whatever works and tastes good, go onto the plate. Of course some advocates of this route don’t always get it right but those that do are game-changers of sorts and to deride them because they are ahead of a curve is to air one’s ignorant laundry in public.
In an attempt to remain topical and hang onto what remains of their relevance, many critics feel the need to put these young Turks in their place and remind them of the generally accepted state of play by typing some sense into them via an ambivalent review or worse, an unsympathetic one. One could argue that in order to keep a vice-like grip on the King-maker status bestowed upon some reviewers, it might be necessary to slay a few industry icons so as to, you know, keep everyone on their toes. In fact, I believe that this very action occurred this year when several of our most venerable restaurants were given a shellacking all in the name of what? Was it to get them to reclaim their esteemed status? Was it a tap on the shoulder of sorts? I believe it was a mechanism to re-calibrate the perception that the reviewers in question could still influence and determine. All it achieved though, in my opinion, was to expose what we might have suspected all along: the death rattle of the broadsheet reviewer as we know it. These places were easy targets. They’re like some doddering uncle in a threadbare cardigan, blissfully unaware that he’s not a cavalry officer in the last days of the Raj. He’s not hurting anyone, he’s entertaining, people love his stories so leave him be.
Emboldened, fresh from the kill and with a developing appetite as an iconoclast, some set their course to collide with this new push only to find themselves out of touch and as a tragic lone voice of misplaced dissent.
Instead of pointing out what these places are not perhaps a more constructive pursuit might be to highlight what they are, exuberant, optimistic and uncompromising, surely that’s more of a legacy to leave than one of bitterness, resentment and retrospection?

If ordering at a cafe was like the service at a Telstra Shop

2011-09-16T21:44:00.001+14:00

The first thing you notice when you walk into the café is the large number of staff milling around. All are replete with the khaki chinos or skirts and blue shirts and seem intent on ignoring any person who enters not wearing this ensemble.
There is a bar where three smiling young people are waiting behind it so it seems like a logical place to attempt a transaction of sorts. I negotiate through the number of fumbling and confused older people who seem not to find anyone to help them with their queries and make my way to the bar.
In the queue I patiently wait my turn until I find myself asking a polite person behind the bar where I can find a seat and get a menu. I am told that I must speak to the supervisor on the floor behind me; they’re the one with the clipboard.
‘Oh’ I say, ‘cant you just direct me to the table?’
‘The supervisor will look after you’.
I walk over to the supervisor who is already deep in conversation with another client. Again I wait patiently and by now other people are surrounding the supervisor also waiting to get a table.
‘Hi’, I say, ‘Can I please have a table for two?’
‘Hmmm’, she says looking at her checklist. ‘For two?...Hmm…. I’ll just get someone to handle this for you in just a mo’, she says beaming taking my name on her list and turning to another person. I stand rooted to the spot waiting for her to pass this on to another staff member but instead she talks to another customer. Meanwhile, the tables in the corner are filling up and I sense that I will miss out so I interrupt.
‘Look, I’m sorry about this but all I want is a table and I didn’t see you communicate this to another staff member so I’m just wondering how long it will be?’
I am met with an icy stare.
‘I have taken your details sir and if you will please be patient I will assign your table after I have attended to the other waiting customers’ before returning her attention to yet another waiting customer.
I feel like a goose but catch the eye of a bloke about my age that has also been given the same info. We exchange wry smiles to each other and I roll my eyes skyward to accentuate our shared plight to which he says, ‘This is the worst system I’ve ever encountered!’ and I nod in agreement.
Finally a very young man in an ill fitting uniform approaches me and says that he will show me my table now and leads me to one of the last remaining seats. Sensing that he was about to disappear I hastily ask for the menu and drinks list.
‘Oh I’ll have to get the supervisor for that’, and he gestures to another person with a clipboard on the floor and my heart sinks.

The medicalization of your food choices

2011-09-07T19:48:00.002+14:00

Meat and three vege
Emotionally stunted

Fast food-eccentric
Instant gratification syndrome

High fibre diet
Mortality concerns

Deep fried everything
Body image issues

Cherry picking cuisines
Commitment phobic

Sweet tooth
Regressive childhood condition

Food Intolerances
Control issues

Organic/Biodynamic only
Conspiracy theorist

Won’t deviate from diet
Rejection fears

Only eat the same meal over and over
Post-traumatic stress syndrome

Won’t eat brightly coloured or tasty foods
ADHD

Changing your favourite foods without warning
Multiple personality disorder

Being phobic about food
Munchausen syndrome

Obsessive about Pork crackling
Dermatillomania

Over eating
Menu fixation compulsion

Under eating
Mealtime ambivalence

What came first? The chicken or the person

2011-08-29T13:39:00.001+14:00

The subject that is never far away from my thoughts and one that I’m sure many people will also have given some serious consideration is the notion that we in our privileged society are putting the welfare of animals above those of people.
It’s a question that is positively bursting with zealous responses.
Now just to put the brakes on here a bit, I’m not suggesting that I’m apologising for the abhorrent practices meted out on the poor animals we have deemed fit for human consumption. Nor am I arguing that dollars must come before animal welfare but I do eat meat and I take full responsibility for consuming it.
Recently watching the news I was moved by the images coming out of Somalia where the population is facing starvation on an unprecedented scale. It was one of those moments where the message really hit home. I pulled my gaze away from the tellie and visited it on my own children who looked on, their faces awash with the cathode-ray staccato images of famine. For a moment I tried to imagine my kids similarly exposed to this devastating reality but the thought of it was just too unbearable to contemplate. I retreated from this realism back into my cosy middle class living room, with our mugs of half-drunk tea and the gold wrappers of some chocolate on the coffee table. It hit me again that perhaps; just perhaps we’re putting the cart before the horse.
Its old news that we, in our fortunate society, are immune to the realities of how many people in the developing world are living. Perhaps this is such an insurmountable problem and one that we have been exposed to for so long that we have become insulated to its cries. In fact, due to this, are we seeking problems that we think we can tackle and have a positive outcome maybe even in our lifetimes? That would be great wouldn’t it? Imagine the comfort of being able to choose what problem we decide to take on board as our cause celebre? Well I don’t think it’s a comfort, in fact I think it’s a bit of a cop out. Now before you think I’m being more sanctimonious than usual, I put myself in this camp as well. I’ve copped out too.
“Well Steve, who are the arbiters of what cause we should get behind and what causes should take priority?”
I don’t know and I’m not sure.
It might make us all feel good for a while to know that we are buying ethical meat, that the mouse on Animal Rescue made a speedy recovery and ‘Mr Bigglesworth’ the kitten, was rescued from being stuck in a tree by the fireman. These are quick fixes, a Band-Aid on a gaping wound and one that will never heal just as long as we have inequality between people on our planet.
Now I’ve reconciled that this has been the way since the year dot and will probably be thus forevermore but I also reckon that in the scheme of things surely putting humans first should be a priority?
You could argue that by being human and being humane might mean we do not put ourselves first. That’s an argument that I would have trouble reconciling as the logic makes sense.
However if I were to boil this down to its essence I would say that the furthest thing on the minds of those poor people suffering in Somalia would be tussling in the supermarket aisle deliberating between choosing a free-range chook and a conventional bird.
It’s this ‘choice’ that I grapple with and because we are lucky, maybe this blindsides us to what the real issues are.

PIg Day Out 2011, the post game analysis

2011-08-27T21:10:00.004+14:00

A big thankyou to all of our customers, familiar and new, local and interstate, who supported us and made the Pig Day Out the great success that it was. The Cider flowed, the pig crackled and the music trivia tested our memories. Big respect goes out to the staff: Ben, Shell, Jenna, Ben, Kate, Tanya, Glen, Emma, Lewis, Nina, Kelly, James and Kathryn.
Hope to see you all again soon.
Cheers Steve
PS Check out some photos here courtesy of Nick Osborne

It's Time!

2011-08-23T18:43:00.010+14:00

It’s time.
For some time now the groundswell of interest in the provenance of our food has been steadily building. We’ve come a long way and many people are actively seeking information about their food purchases which I believe is a great thing and I suspect many of you reading this blog will concur.
Inevitably though, there are already opportunists amongst us who seek to profit from this relatively recent circumstance and by doing so, threaten the currency of people legitimately making the extra effort to provide food not found in the mainstream.
With alarming regularity it seems that not a day goes by where the ethics of some operators is under scrutiny. For instance, if all the so-called free range eggs alleged to be used were actually accounted for, I for one would be surprised if our current National free-range chicken census would be anywhere near large enough to have laid all those cackleberries.
For years, the true names of scale fish have routinely been misused by unscrupulous fisherfolk in order to shift their catch. This led the CSIRO to initiate a book a few years ago to once and for all confirm the correct species. It’s called ‘The Australian Seafood handbook’ and I recommend it highly.
Years ago, one very cold Melbourne morning I was at the Footscray wholesale fruit and vegie market inspecting a possible supplier. I asked what that fruit was over there in the corner, which seemed to me, past its prime and looking a bit worse for wear. With a wink and a cheeky grin, the bloke said to me, “Oh that, we’ll flog that as Organic and twice as much!” I was stunned.
More recently, menus are being peppered with references to certain butchers, fisherman and growers which is fine but how truthful is it to the punter when that business might have only ever made one purchase from said supplier but continue to attract kudos from the name of the supplier appearing?
Then you get the innocent mistakes and misunderstanding occurring. A few posts ago I discussed a trail of intrigue uncovered by a fairly innocuous question whilst dining at a high table restaurant of note. The answer given to me at the restaurant didn’t sound Kosher and curious, I made many phone calls, each one frustratingly, leading me to another. Finally when I did get to the bottom of the riddle it seems misinformation and ignorance were the culprits rather than what I had initially thought, which was sheer deception. Either way, as a customer I made my menu choice under a false pretext.
Let’s now turn our attention to the phenomenon of Wagyu Beef. Many people are still confused about what constitutes Wagyu and for some the only way to discern if it’s the real McCoy is in its hefty price. Well that would be a wrong assumption. I have seen beef advertised as Wagyu commanding a King’s ransom but later discovered that the cattle in question only had a one night stand with a Wagyu Bull at the Bovine Club Med. Conversely for a product so associated with luxury, how did it ever get on the menu on one of the Subway chains sandwiches? Little wonder we are left scratching our heads.
Then there was another time at another noted restaurant I was informed that the clams that were served came from a particular part of Tasmania. Knowing the area quite well I contacted every person related to the commercial supply of these and not one of them claimed responsibility. Yes it could have been a snarky chef responding to the waiters query flippantly however for a place whose stock in trade is the provenance of their produce, it left me a little disappointed quite frankly.
It's my belief that its time for restaurants, cafes, producers and suppliers to fess up and state exactly what products they are using especially if they are leveraging off them. Those that don't comply and continue to be conveniently ambiguous I fear will damage the efforts on many people with much integrity who make the effort to source products of merit for the benefit of their customers.

an afternoon sketch, the cusp of spring

2011-08-20T21:48:00.002+14:00

end of a school week

some warm weather

icy poles

jetty diving

shivering in the shadows

blue toes and chattering teeth

mates

and memories

Cygnet Market

2011-08-18T18:06:00.001+14:00

And dont forget

Whatever happened to Mr Manners?

2011-08-16T15:20:00.000+14:00

When working with French chefs over the years, what united them and impressed upon me the most was their sense of camaraderie and hospitality.
From the Chef du cuisine to the plongeur, everyone said good morning and shook hands upon arriving at work, such a simple set of gestures but so shockingly foreign to what I was used to. Of course there were exceptions but it was mainly the older staff members that always found time to say good morning and goodbye to their workmates. I concluded that it might be the malady of a young person.
In some kitchens I have worked it was not uncommon for some staff not to communicate to each other until orders were barked during service. It always intrigued me at how someone could work with another person for so long and not acknowledge them upon arrival or departure?
Maybe one of the reasons for this situation is that many of the chefs were perpetually hung-over or coming down which is quite plausible if you knew whom I worked with. Another reason and I think the most credible is that these people simply have not been taught these basic manners at home.
I always make a point when employing new staff of making sure they say G’day to all their workmates and you’d be surprised at how many people think this is some sort of archaic ritual rather than just showing some reverence to ones colleagues.
Popular culture has been a ripe ferment for the cult of the ‘me’ where the individual is showered with opportunities to validate their sense of entitlement, because as the ad says: ‘You’re worth it’. Whilst this might be empowering I reckon its also whittling away at our sense of community and with it our sense of responsibility that being part of such a community means. Listening to an interview with the young rioters in London I was shocked to hear that they could not make any connection between their stealing and the people whom they robbed. It was akin to the way people talk about ‘the government’ in a way that removes them from any kind of connection or obligation.
I reckon this disconnect is responsible for people to conveniently forget or overlook their responsibilities toward the greater good and it often presents initially as a lack of respect for our fellow human beings. Saying hello in the morning costs you nothing but its value is priceless.

the sad story of a well intentioned product

2011-08-12T17:03:00.003+14:00

You’ve probably heard this familiar story before.
In a bustling little village somewhere, some folks eager to find an option to mass produced food decide to start their own small business providing an alternative. After much research they kit out their premises, get all the appropriate authorities and start making their local and seasonal product and selling it at farmers markets and such.
The product attracts the attention of some foodies and before long interest picks up. In next to no time the product is regularly appearing on local menus and demand increases significantly.
Calls from mainland grocers and A list chefs have increased the burden on the producers now who have employed some staff and begin to get approached by distribution companies who are eager to represent their product in their portfolio.
Then the days arrives and like the deep timbre of a church bell sounding in a Gothic novel heralds a fork in the road, where demand completely outstrips the capacity for the fledgling producers to keep up and choices have to be made.
In order to meet this growing demand the producers are forced to consider ‘tooling-up’ to increase production and distribution. This will mean a hefty injection of capital investment on the existing infrastructure and perhaps call into question whether the current premises are suitable for expansion.
To justify the expenditure, forecasts are initiated on future growth of the product which means new markets will have to be tapped into. This brings marketing into the equation and its subsequent costs. By now, the product has attracted the attention of investors who are eager to ‘get in on the ground floor’ to park some money in the product for a while.
Soon, the bullet has been bitten, monies are borrowed, and capital partners are taken on. The day-to-day manufacture of the product is now overseen by many staff and in-roads into suitable markets are now being explored. The small village in which the business started now employs most of the townsfolk and as a result other businesses have closed unable to hold onto staff.
Production ramps up. Money is coming in, smiles all round and everyone’s happy.
Then another one of those ominous Bell rings occurs, more change to come.
It seems the investors keen to see more margins squeezed from production costs enquire if the product could be, you know, made with cheaper or alternative ingredients? The rationale is if production costs are hacked into, it would make the product a very attractive acquirement to a big food player’s group.
The decision to cut costs is made after lengthy and impassioned negotiations.
Some of the staff are made redundant as a result, the product now has a list of ingredients that are no longer recognisable and some of them are shipped in from other parts of the world. The village contracts and goes on with unsteady but stoic steps. The desired outcome has been achieved, profits increase and investors are happy.
Finally the day dawns when an offer by a large multi-national to buy-out the product sits on the table.
After much hand wringing, and soul searching, the resolution is made to sell.
The original producers move on with fuller pockets to greener pastures.
Meanwhile, some signs of anti-consumer sentiment come to the attention of the multi. It seems that the product has lost some of its lustre since the merger and subsequent acquisition by a major food player.
Despite the rosy image of the countryside on the packaging and all of the spin at their disposal the company takes a few too many hits and decides to cut cost further by out sourcing more of the ingredients for the product and using offshore labour.
The factory in the village is closed and all its remaining workers are sacked. The prodcut now has no link to its origins nor its heritage, it has finally become a brand only.
With few prospects left in the area, most people move on. The village suffers years of neglect and economic depression until tree/sea changers eager to get way from the big cities, start buying properties in the area. Pretty soon the village is alive with people and hope. Then one day a couple decide to start a small artisan food business...

London Riots- exclusive first hand account of foodie caught up in the action!

2011-08-09T19:47:00.003+14:00

Incredible first hand account from the perspective of a punter at London’s two Michelin starred restaurant ‘The Lead Balloon’

“We were onto the second meat course when we heard all this commotion outside, banging and shouting. The Maitre’d assured us everything was alright but anxiously swiped our credit cards anyway, even though we hadn’t finished our meal yet. All of a sudden there was a huge commotion and the front door literally exploded showering glass and debris everywhere. Straight after that, a posse of hooded and masked people stormed into the restaurant. My first thought were: I didn’t think people from the council estates could afford to dine here but then again they could be CHAVS? Pretty quickly bedlam ensued and we were being threatened by these hooligans to divest ourselves of any jewellery, cash and other personal items of worth. I was so excited I couldn’t contain myself! I mean, dining here has always been so predictable but this was something entirely different, this was exciting!
I eagerly got into the spirit of things and tossed my wristwatch into the bag outstretched before me. I then looked up to see the Maitre ‘d being king-hit from behind by a muscular yob in a Kappa t-shirt and hoodie, it all looked so realistic.
The noise was reaching fever pitch by now as many people in the process of being robbed were screaming and crying and the cacophony was punctuated by a few heavy blows to wobbly, over indulged flesh. It was exhilarating when one of the brave kitchen brigade went at one of the assailants with very heavy and no doubt expensive copper pan and the clang as it hit the cranium of the Yoik elicited a round of brief applause from some of us before he was set upon by the rabid mob.
What struck me though was the head chef, a former bad ass Ramsay acolyte known for his fisticuffs and hot temper, was curled up in a ball weeping and inconsolable! This was extraordinary! Bravo, what a show!
The melee ended all too abruptly in my opinion and we were left there, amongst the glass and rubble whilst the staff, whom provided very convincing job of looking like they were ‘in shock’ gathered themselves together.
I said to the wife as we left, bathed in the strobe like blue lights of the local plod car, we simply MUST do this again”

Cookbooks: the new headstones? Redux

2011-08-05T15:36:00.005+14:00

Today on twitter there was a comment that said maybe Andy Warhol should have included 'bringing out a cookbook' with his famous quote ''everyone has 15 mins of fame". It made me think of a post I had written back in 2007. Back then I thought that cookbooks were a way for restaurants to live on in the memories of their customers.

In a post a while back I discussed the many names that were prevalent in the Melbourne restaurant scene two decades ago. It made me think about how many hours these people would have worked and how many meals they would have served.
It is interesting to note that every generation of people will have their favourite places and on how they imprint themselves on our memories. They can stir some pretty big emotions. Memory is such an unreliable and subjective thing.
Look at how Guy Grossi and Iain Hewitson tussled over the rights to Tolarno in St Kilda. Guy’s lineage could be traced through its kitchens and Iain owned it for years. Both covet its special place in Melbourne’s restaurant history and both sought to gain leverage from its colourful past as a legitimate link to a world most of us never knew.
There are very few connections these days to the kitchen of yesterday. Many chefs are now retired, burnt out or have simply dropped out of the industry.
It is interesting that whilst there are many memories of restaurants, front of house staff and chefs that linger, it is not a history that has been well documented.
The Tasmanian book, ‘Before we eat’ (cheers Paul for correcting me!) is a notable exception. I was amazed reading this book that there was not a similar one for each State. It is a very readable and informative account of the history of Tasmanian dining, food culture and the colourful characters that inhabited it. Interestingly it was Tasmania that produced the nation’s first cookbook, ‘The Colonial Cookbook’ by ‘an Australian Aristologist’, Edward Abbot.
It is surprising that there is so little information around on our food culture and history. Of course Michael Symons books, ‘One continuous picnic’ and ‘The Shared table’ set the standard. Barbara Santich, Gay Bilson, Cherry Ripe, Marion Halligan all have contributed to an overall picture of the historical State of play. However there is not much around on say Sydney or Melbourne’s restaurant scene through history.
Speaking with older waiters and chefs who were working way back when, one can begin to join the dots and colour in the detail of what was a very interesting time.
So many people are drawn to this industry and so many have contributed. It’s as though it has always been there that we have ignored its additions and influence on our cultural landscape. This is intriguing when so many of us are eating out, blogging, comparing and gossiping about restaurants and cafes.
Perhaps it’s because restaurants are so much ‘of their time’ that we don’t see them out of their context until we move on, they close or they change. In this light we can see that they are to a degree part of the fashion industry. One can observe cycles returning, re-invention and retrospection and sometimes in a post modern kind of way, all three at once! Knowing that there is generally a limited life cycle for restaurants, perhaps this is why some take a stab at immortality to stave off the inevitable.
Cook books, it could be argued, have become the new epitaph or headstone, validating that a particular restaurant or cafe existed and will outlive them in the long run, long after the last meal was served. In another way they are also about branding as they seek to capture the athstetic and the spirit of a place. It is interesting that both Grossi and Hewitson have released cook books borrowing heavily on the art and influence of Mirka Mora who is their conduit to the glories of the past. It is as if they have set each book into the arena to do battle over which has the most legitimate link to past. Both obviously feel the need to map their own place in the restaurant family tree of Melbourne and as we all get older, that tree gets just a little bigger.
Is it about knowing where we fit in? Where we come from and what legacy we’ll leave? The contributions of Hewitson and the Grossi family to the Melbourne scene cannot be overstated and I believe history will demonstrate that their influence will be felt for a long time to come, book or no book, Mirka or no Mirka.

When a blog post is an Ad

2011-08-04T17:09:00.002+14:00

Recently we went bushwalking in the Hartz Mountains. Upon returning though I discovered that my feet were very sore and I had developed a bunion or two!
What to do? I couldn’t get any relief then my wife suggested Dr Scholl's Bunion Pads! Why hadn’t I thought of that!
I have been using them for a few weeks now and the effect is amazing! Say goodbye to Bunion discomfort forever with the help of Dr Scholl's!
Thankyou Dr Scholls for getting me back on my feet!

El Bulli-the wines gone AWOL!

2011-08-03T19:58:00.002+14:00

As those whom prophesized that life as we knew it would end with the last meal served at El Bulli came out of their panic rooms, emaciated and blinking into the flashes of the paparazzi-sunlight, understood that life, does indeed, go on.
So many hand wringing and woe-is-me obituaries have flooded the papers, mags and blogs lamenting the closure of what was arguably the world’s best restaurant, whatever that means. Well, worlds best according to a mineral water company anyway. I wonder which restaurant would be crowned best in the world if the major sponsor was a hamburger-pattie manufacturer; my guess is that it wouldn’t be Noma. However, I’m not going to demean this passing by calling into question the legacy that Ferran Adria has left the cooking universe but I think it fitting that a company peddling beverages can neatly fill a segue into the topic I intend to discuss here. That topic is of the alcoholic beverage variety.
You see, in all of the panting reportage of meals enjoyed at the Pantheon of world dining colossus’s I have found it difficult to find any mention of…err…wine?
Maybe I’m not looking hard enough; I am a bloke after all. But I even had a Mum-Look and have come up with sweet Fanny Adams on the subject of wine and particularly, wine matching with this type of food delivery. If someone can show me evidence to the contrary, I’ll happily eat my Kangol.
As we are all generally aware, wine and food are mostly meant to be enjoyed together so the notion that worlds most celebrated restaurants whose stock in trade is the multi-course degustation seem to ignore this most basic of fact seems like a massive grey elephant in the room, why has such an obvious transgression gone mostly unnoticed, or worse, why have we failed to question it?
Disclaimer: I have never been to any of these restaurants however their dedication, zeal for the craft and uncompromising standards are inspiring.
But in the pursuit of culinary envelope pushing maybe someone just assumed that the wine would just tag along for the ride? I know this might sound a tad trite but seriously how does one match a wine with a Dego whose courses stretch into infinity?
Maybe we should ask: ‘The Wine Guy’? Whomever that apron emblazoned vinous Yoda might be.
As a friend said to me recently, ‘some of the courses are but a tiny spoonful of something’. My question is this then: Do you sign up for the Full Monty, multi course extravaganza and prey that the two or three bottles you choose will match the high notes of the menu?
I’ll go further her to provoke and ask: does wine ultimately know its place on the dais of magnitude when it comes to the sport of eating and drinking and does it accept that it will always be a silver medallist?

Generation Food

2011-07-28T18:03:00.003+14:00

The old restaurant group that I worked for in Melbourne ticked all the boxes when it came to appealing the generation it targeted. From the fit out to the menu to the ‘feel’ of the place, no stone was left unturned in our quest to extract as much spend as we could from our specified demographic.
Whilst I worked within the organization, I often marvelled at how the boss managed to effectively ‘nail-it’ so decisively yet at the same time I had an uneasy feeling that sooner or later our punters would be dying off and with them our offering will seem decidedly old hat.

When it comes to food, I have often wrestled with the notion of what constitutes a ‘timeless’ dish, a dish that transcends fashion and one that always seems to be popular, the dishes that everybody says, ‘Oh that’s a classic, everyone loves this dish’ etc.
I am beginning to believe that this is particularly true of the older generation especially when you consider say: corned beef, or lambs fry etc. These are dishes that are not so commonly eaten these days and it’s not a long bow to suggest that as a result of this they might even be considered passé. Or one could argue that for many of us they are not passé but have been given a modern spin and have morphed into that most ubiquitous of terms used to describe dishes of yesteryear, ‘Comfort food’.

But for the younger generations what are their ‘comfort foods’ as such? Is the food at restaurants these days the ‘classic dishes’ of tomorrow? Will the funky recycled 6 Degrees ‘look’ so common in Melbourne these days be the ‘laced curtain and doily-esque travesty’ of the future? Some people have suggested that fast food is the comfort food of the younger generations and hence many menus where the burger, slider, springy, wonton, dog and taco appear as a homage or also under the moiker of 'Dude Food'.

I know that many people and not just older diners struggle with the splodges, foams, gels, soils, dehydrations and skid marks that make a modern plate these days because to many its nothing they can recognize and to borrow a phrase from AA Gill, ‘It might be something but its certainly not dinner’. Food fashions come and go however some dishes which have been around for Donkeys have stubbornly endured, but why?

If you read the glossy food mags or eat out a bit you’ll be noticing a seismic shift in the way food is cooked and presented. In fact there is definitely a new aesthestic being practiced in kitchen throughout this country and it in essence eschews the notion that what you get put in front of you should be instantly recognisable.

What I also find particularly intriguing is that many of our most lauded hatted restaurants whose stock in trade to date has been premium ingredients with expert technique, are starting to look ‘old hat’ when compared to this new way of cooking and presenting food. As an example, a dish of lamb at one of our celebrated places might have the lamb as the ‘hero’ accompanied by several bit-players, each recognizable and in a way obviously complementary to the lamb. Conversely, the in this new way, the lamb might appear as a repeating motif on the plate, as an essence, a dehydrated soil or maybe as a bit of jelly. The resulting dish is not often something that the diner can identify and say, ‘Oh there’s the lamb bit’.

So when did this happen?

Well it may have had its germination when we started using rectangular, triangular and ovoid plates. The Molecular Posse who disbanded then reformed as ‘Tecno-mocion Cuisine’ have had a lasting impact but when they hooked up with the ‘Foragers’ and ‘Time and Place’ practitioners could have been the moment when food started not to look like dinner as we once knew it.
Having said all this, I am clearly seeing things through the myopia of my own prejudices and culinary influences so I simply might not be capable of understanding this new aesthetic. This doesn’t mean though, that I don’t appreciate it nor ignore its importance in the scheme of our culinary journey.

However the lingering question for me remains: From this bubbling new ferment will there be some long lasting and enduring food combinations that will stand the test of time and will they be the dishes people seek out when needing to be comforted by food?

Love letter to the Huon Valley

2011-07-22T15:01:00.001+14:00

To my dearest Huon Valley,

I confess I’d only heard of you once or twice before, in snatches of text or the spoken word and usually in some context with apples. I imagined old trucks and apple boxes, woollen jumpers and men with pipes and hats, flannel shirts and rough hands blistered by splinters. Of woman, steeled by hard work, of sweet pies and spiced apple sauce to accompany the Sunday roast. Of orchard tending, raking carpets of russet Sturmers for the cider presses, the cool stores humming with the cloying aroma of crushed juice.
But I’ve come to learn you are much more than this. My thoughts of you are just reverberations of a time when you were alive with the industry of apples, sadly a time no more.
Yet I find your orchards of old, neglected and gnarled apple trees beautiful in a macabre sort of way. Twisting as if in anguish toward yet another season of torment where fruit will disgorge from limbs and hang, unpicked, inviting an aching mastitis of the branch and frozen in an agonising wait for the relief of Autumn.
Where the apple is your enduring spirit, the many waterways, tributaries creeks, streams and of course your mighty river are your arteries and veins and with each throb, a valley moment sharply focuses but for a second.
I close my eyes and following your coastline and verdant hills in my minds eyes is like languidly running my hands over your waist, little by little over your hips and coming to rest, cupping your glorious curves, your arcs and crevices familiar and yet alluring, promising much to the desirous, inquisitive and persistent enquirer.
Sheds of wood, sheds of iron, bleached or rusting, sentinels standing guard, sprout from you like points on a weathered map or like ancient runes.
White capped mountains, those dark glacial curtains in the distance, in one direction, separating you from the city beyond and in the other direction, a wild untameable landscape threatens to reclaim the hard fought order of your paddocks, fields and orchards.
You have left an indelible mark on me now, how could I ever go back to the linear boundaries of the quarter acre metropolitan confine? You have shown me that life is too short to live somewhere ugly and I’m glad I listened to my instincts when I flew here all those years ago and something stirred inside me as I drove over Vince’s Saddle and descended into your embrace. Something felt right about being here, being with you.
I remind myself of this when in moments that I’m distracted or when I’m mired in small mindedness, a soothing salve for me is to drive and drive I do.
I’ll self medicate with what ends up as an overdose of aural and visual stimulation as I take in aspects of your splendour and I usually end up at the same spot, almost spent, in a post coital flush of sorts.
From the crest of Silverhill, near where I live, I gaze across the river as the cold blue chill of early evening descends on the Huon River, a chorus of smoke plumes, curling skyward from the hearths of many homes all singing from the same Winter songbook. I take a huge lungful of air and regard the expanse before me.
I feel lucky, my glass is half full, the quietness around me like a coat but my heart is making a racket in my chest that I’m sure everyone can hear.
I’m still in love with you, Huon Valley.

Yours always
Steve

The Trip-A review of sorts

2011-07-18T20:03:00.006+14:00

Finally saw a fillum that I’d wanted to see for a while now. It’s called ‘The Trip’ and stars Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon. I’ve been quietly watching the career of Steve Coogan for some time now but have to confess I’d not heard of Rob Brydon before. It turns out they’ve worked before on two other Michael Winterbottom films, ‘24 Hour Party people’ (a fave of mine) and ‘Tristram Shandy, a cock and bull story’.

Apparently the movie is based on the TV series of the same name though I’m not sure if Winterbottom directed it and it did seem like a series of skits knitted together with some truly beautiful Northern English scenery used as segues into each. I got past the obvious cliché of the countryside slowing a person down in order to reflect and enjoyed the landscape and the meditative mood it set, especially with the beautiful music accompanying it.

Coogans character, playing himself, has been assigned to review some posh restaurants in the North of the country for a weekend newspaper. His girlfriend was due to come with him but they’re going through some personal boundary adjustments and he finds himself companionless for the trip.

He calls an old friend whom he has obviously not seen much of to accompany him after confessing that he had invited several other people to come however all had declined. What could have been an incredibly awkward moment is saved by the enthusiasm of Brydons character and hints at his optimistic and good if eccentric nature.

Coogan the character seems mired in the shallow pool obsessed with fame and celebrity and constantly bemoaning that he’s been overlooked for roles he feels he’s deserved. To me there are comparisons to be made with Ricky Gervais’s character in Extras who finds commercial success only to sabotage it for the allure of auteur status. His companion, a very gifted mimic and comedian though not of the star status that Coogan enjoys, seems to not let Coogans sniping and one upmanship get the better of him. It’s a great foil to see Coogans dispassionate and casual bed hopping with the Hotel receptionist and Spanish photographer and Brydons blissful life at home with his loving wife and new baby daughter. How does one measure success? Brydon by comparison, seems content, sensible and though prone to frequent hilarious comedic outbursts, is actually acting his age.

Over ten meals they discuss various aspects of their careers, friendship, and comedy and of course amazing impressions of Michael Caine, Woody Allen, Al Pacino and a few more I can’t recall. Trivia: I think Brydon orders scallops in some form or another for every starter at each restaurant-hows that for food nerdism by me?

There are several shots of food being prepared in the restaurants they visit and of the plated dishes as they arrive at the table. What struck me though was how unmoved they were by it all. It was also interesting to me that for all the trouble, blood sweat and tears the chefs poured into the meals, little was spoken about them much at all apart from a few funny quips here and there.

I found this very illuminating from the point of view of a chef. I’m sure many chefs watching this movie would be distressed that their plated constructions were not being fawned over like they imagined they might be, as if this, surely is the only reason to visit a restaurant? This point resonated with me, not because I am unable to see that not everything is about food, even if this film kind of is about food but more that people go out for different reasons not just what’s on the plate. I found the scene where both characters were the most animated and enthusiastic was when they sat down to a Full English breakfast outside in the glorious morning sun, all that posh eating apparently behind them.

I imagine the restaurants were real places so this might explain why there were no concrete criticisms levelled, though the way a very formal waiter explained some of the more Avant garde meals at one establishment had me giggling at the absurdity of it all. Coogans girlfriend , a foodie, had apparently picked the restaurants and I took his almost ambivalent approach to them as a way of coming to terms with his confusion at where he wanted to be in his life and where, in reality, he was. Safely back at home, Brydon and his wife share a humble bowl of something together and to me at least, this looked like the meal he most enjoyed.
As a food movie it’s OK, well it’s actually not a food movie per se, however it’s refreshing to see a movie that takes its time to reveal itself and rewards the patient.

Cradoc Abattoir saved!

2011-07-15T12:50:00.001+14:00

Great news as I heard first hand that the Cradoc Abattoir has a new buyer who intends to re-open and start processing again for the region. Fastastic!

The way we were

2011-07-08T21:02:00.001+14:00

Below is a breakdown of the hierarchy of a kitchen of yesteryear (thanks to Wikipedia). Bear in mind that many of the positions may have numbered many people. Large hotels commonly had this type if brigade as the norm. Restaurants traditionally had less but still their brigades were legion in number compared to these days.
This was a time where demarcation ruled, the chain of command was observed vigilantly and kitchens were rife with bastardry.

Chef de cuisine (kitchen chef; literally "chief of kitchen")
is responsible for overall management of kitchen; supervises staff, creates menus and new recipes with the assistance of the restaurant manager, makes purchases of raw food items, trains apprentices, and maintains a sanitary and hygienic environment for the preparation of food.

Sous-chef de cuisine (deputy kitchen chef; literally "sub-chief")
receives orders directly from the chef de cuisine for the management of the kitchen, and often serves as the representative when the chef de cuisine is not present.

Chef de partie (senior chef; literally "chief of party")
party used here as a group, in the sense of a military detail) – is responsible for managing a given station in the kitchen, specializing in preparing particular dishes there. Those who work in a lesser station are commonly referred to as a demi-chef.

Cuisinier (cook)
is an independent position, usually preparing specific dishes in a station; may also be referred to as a cuisinier de partie.

Commis (junior cook)
also works in a specific station, but reports directly to the chef de partie and takes care of the tools for the station.

Apprenti(e) (apprentice)
are often students gaining theoretical and practical training in school and work experience in the kitchen. They perform preparatory work and/or cleaning work.

Plongeur (dishwasher)
cleans dishes and utensils, and may be entrusted with basic preparatory jobs.

Marmiton (pot and pan washer)
in larger restaurants, takes care of all the pots and pans instead of the plongeur.

Saucier (saucemaker/sauté cook)
prepares sauces and warm hors d'oeuvres, completes meat dishes, and in smaller restaurants, may work on fish dishes and prepare sautéed items. This is one of the most respected positions in the kitchen brigade, usually ranking just below the chef and sous-chef.

Rôtisseur (roast cook)
manages a team of cooks that roasts, broils, and deep fries dishes.

Grillardin (grill cook)
in larger kitchens, prepares grilled foods instead of the rôtisseur.

Friturier (fry cook)
in larger kitchens, prepares fried foods instead of the rôtisseur.

Poissonnier (fish cook)
prepares fish and seafood dishes.

Entremetier (entrée preparer)
prepares soups and other dishes not involving meat or fish, including vegetable dishes and egg dishes.

Potager (soup cook)
in larger kitchens, reports to the entremetier and prepares the soups

Legumier (vegetable cook)
in larger kitchen, also reports to the entremetier and prepares the vegetable dishes.

Garde manger (pantry supervisor; literally "food keeper")
is responsible for preparation of cold hors d'oeuvres, prepares salads, organizes large buffet displays, and prepares charcuterie items

Tournant (spare hand/roundsman)
moves throughout the kitchen, assisting other positions in kitchen.

Pâtissier (pastry cook)
prepares desserts and other meal-end sweets, and for locations without a boulanger, also prepares breads and other baked items; may also prepare pasta for the restaurant

Confiseur
in larger restaurants, prepares candies and petits fours instead of the pâtissier.

Glacier
in larger restaurants, prepares frozen and cold desserts instead of the pâtissier.

Décorateur
in larger restaurants, prepares show pieces and specialty cakes instead of the pâtissier.

Boulanger (baker)
in larger restaurants, prepares bread, cakes, and breakfast pastries instead of the pâtissier.

Boucher (butcher)
butchers meats, poultry, and sometimes fish; may also be in charge of breading meat and fish items.

Aboyeur (announcer/expediter)
takes orders from the dining room and distributes them to the various stations; may also be performed by the sous-chef de partie.

Communard
prepares the meal served to the restaurant staff.

Garçon de cuisine (literally "kitchen boy")
in larger restaurants, performs preparatory and auxiliary work for support.

These days, modern kitchens rarely have such layered structures. In most cases a head chef will lead a small team that almost always includes a second chef, a qualified chef or two and maybe some apprentices. Even in my day, apprentices padded out the brigades as they were cheap and were afforded the luxury of being taught without the monetary constraints so often pressing on modern kitchens.

Head chef
Sous chef
Qualified chef
Apprentice
Kitchen hand

All of the tasks once performed by the army of cooks are now done by a small unit of people

The Lovely Bones

2011-07-07T15:50:00.005+14:00

I was born on a cattle station in far North Queensland. It was a dry spring but water soon became plentiful and the pastures were soon sprouting.

The months flew by and I grew. When I was big enough, myself and many of my brothers and sisters travelled some distance, before we arrived at another station. Here we jostled for space with many more of my kind, there was no grass though, just grain. This place smelled different, it made us uneasy.

The day came when we walked single file into the building not to come out the other side. Though I sensed what was about to happen, the end came quickly.

I watched myself, upside down with the men clawing at my throat and belly. My innards gushed onto the concrete floor and next to me, my brothers and sisters, hung lifeless.

Moved by conveyor my body was quickly dissected by an army of bloodied workers.
My parts were quickly broken down, smaller and smaller.

Into the machine I went, shredded and mulched. Bits of others joined me. And still more pieces of others, into a mass of minced redness.

Another machine stamped out shapes of me and my kin, which were then wrapped and blast frozen, boxed and refrigerated.

The next day a large truck collected us and we travelled some distance before finally arriving.
Pieces of me soon found their way onto a hot grill then removed and placed with other food, wrapped and sold to the two people.

Who walked to a park, sat on a bench in the sun and consumed me and the fragments of others.

The hours killed me

2011-07-05T02:16:00.001+14:00

When people choose to leave this industry they often cite the long and unsociable hours as the main reason. The reality is, and perhaps those considering taking this career path should take note, the basic premise is that when everyone else is off, you are on. It really is as simple as that.

Chefs in particular spend much of their time working horrendous hours for years gaining experience in kitchens of note in order to collect the skills and it has to be said, kudos, in order to open their own place and hopefully take their seat at the long table of culinary identities. The great irony though is: as their lives move along and relationships morph into families the pressure to ‘cut back’ begins to bite.

Thank goodness for the White Knight that is the CBD, which conveniently provides a luring alternative to those long days and nights. This is of course if you live within a train, bus or tram ride of a CBD and too bad if you live rurally. Like a Sirens call or a flourescent light to a moth, the simple words ‘Monday to Friday, days only’ are like a mythical fix for a junkie. ‘What, you mean I can still cook but only have to do days?’ they say incredulously at the interview, those lips parched from years of toil finding those soft words as lovely and restorative to say, like the juicy plop of a grape in a thirsty mouth.

Well there is a catch, there always is isn’t there?

Sadly the main conundrum facing these highly skilled chefs whom for the sake of simplification we shall deem ‘In-transition’ is that in many cases they will inevitably have to ‘dumb down’ their offerings. Well in the very least they might have to ‘down play their CV’ in order to get the gig that ticks the lifestyle boxes.

“Hmm, it says here that you were the head chef of a two hatted restaurant in Sydney, you were Skye Gygnell’s head chef at Petersham and you won an Electrolux award as emerging new talent so I have to ask: Why do you want to work in the head office staff canteen at Harvey Norman?”
The lure of the Mon to Frid gig is all powerful, especially if one is ‘In the family way’.

What does this reality point to? Is it a young person’s game? I’ve begun to think so. Does one have to sacrifice their hard earned integrity in order to appease lifestyle aspirations? Perhaps? Maybe by crossing that self-imposed line and giving up the currency that pushing oneself and ones boundaries seems to have afforded a particular suffering-identity of sorts, one has to acclimatise to the reality of nailing ones colours to the mast. That mast is the Middle: appeasing everyone, in order to make a dollar

And yet, so may game changers appear irrespective of age and un-mauled by the long talons of the status quo which suggests to me that we are in a remarkable state where the ferment is regularly disgorging talent and innovative gains that no committee, think tank or focus group could conjour.

It makes me smile and confirm my long held beliefs that this game can never be a finite science.
It’s funny though that in this article I started talking about the notion of the ‘hours people work’ yet has taken a different heading because the notion of ‘appeal’ is one that I ruminate over often.
I have come to learn that no matter what you might start out as in this game or whatever aspirations you might foster, ultimately your customers will define you. This can be a cause of great consternation for so many idealistic and innately stylistic operators. Why? Well when most of ‘em set up shop which holds up a mirror to their own personal tastes and validates their stylistic cred, so it’s pretty hard to swallow if punters don’t get where you are coming from and it resonates most loudly in the till, where ultimately it hurts the most.

It can also have such long reaching effects if you end up paying years later for that oversight. Licking your wounds and retreating into the bitterness that you were ‘too ahead of the curve’.
I can fully understand why this notion terrifies and hamstrings would-be operators into providing what they perceive as a ‘safe option.’

However, to me, the venues that radiate a uniqueness, an eccentricity, an owner-operator on the floor or in the kitchen will always attract my business and as the wonderful Merguez sausage-roll at Sweet Envy will attest, will also keep me coming back

What type of food blogger are you?

2011-06-28T15:25:00.001+14:00

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!

The Pig Day Out (actually its a night!)

2011-06-24T18:51:00.003+14:00

Pop up Toilets-are they taking the piss?

2011-06-23T19:34:00.003+14:00

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

2011-06-23T18:34:00.003+14:00

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 COOL

TT Line exporting live sheep to the Mainland!

2011-06-21T14:37:00.004+14:00

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 table

In 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.

‘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

My Dog wrote this

2011-06-20T13:26:00.006+14:00

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’

Never the twain shall meet

2011-06-16T14:19:00.003+14:00

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.

Do you want to buy an abattoir?

2011-06-09T14:59:00.001+14:00

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

Wait, a Rant

2011-06-07T02:32:00.003+14:00

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.

The curious case of the provenance of the pork

2011-06-03T18:34:00.002+14:00

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.

Sydney sojourn-A sketch

2011-06-01T16:01:00.003+14:00

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.

Don McLeans classic: 'Abats for a pie'

2011-05-26T14:13:00.010+14:00

“Buy buy some abats for a pie
Drove my car to the abattoir but the sign said goodbye
And just when I needed some juicy lambs fry,

And Huon boys just don't care to ask why,
Singing, it’so sad to see this place die,
It’s just so sad to see this place..die”

Oh I should probably explain this post and risk sounding didactic however this great article by Elaine Reeves might explicate a bit better.

The Resume

2011-05-25T02:08:00.006+14:00

Menu

Canapes
1982 First year apprentice at the Fox and Top Hat, carvery pub, Warburton, Vic
1986 Completed apprenticeship at Gunther Schnellings, Olinda, Vic

Amuse buche
1987-1990 Commis chef, Ratfinks Pool and Larger Bar, St Kilda
1990-92-Commis chef, The slug and Thimble, Lower Snugly, Shropshire

Entrée
1992-1997 Demi chef de partie, Spreadeagles Hotel, Troon, South Ayrshire, Scotland
1997-2000-Jnr Sous chef, Ciabatta & Sons, Thames wharf, London
2000-2002- Sous chef, Mr Dickies members Club, Soho, London

Main Course
2002-2004 Head chef, Ego Brasserie, (part if the Sir Branston Pickle group) Clerkenwell, Greater London

Palate cleanser
2004-2007 Executive Chef, The Meat Locker, Smithfield, Greater London

Cheese course
2007-2009 Executive Chef, The Chophouse at Crown, Southbank, Melbourne
Regular co-judge of reality TV cooking Show, ‘Cry baby cooks’

Dessert

2009 Consultant at large, various venues, the Anos Group, Melbourne
Petit Fours
2009 to present, co-owner and chef patron of Locale, Red Hill, Victoria

AA Gill does a Lars Von Trier at Sydney Writers festival 2011

2011-05-22T15:11:00.010+14:00

Yesterday on Radio National their was a coverage of a panel discussion at the Sydney Writers Festival featuring AA Gill, Anthony Bourdain and was convened by Tony Bilson.

Whist most of it was hilarious, mostly due in part to Tony Bilson not being able to keep up with the rapid fire deliveries of his guests, it strayed momentarily into revealing a shocking truth from Gill.

"I also don't really care if animals suffer, If I'm being perfectly honest, I don't give a shit". "You know, once you've heard one pig scream, the second one's easier".
I was stunned for a moment. Could this be true? Since then the twitterz have confirmed that he did utter this sentiment but I can't confirm the exact words. Here's the original session, Food fighters.

It makes his clever and outrageous observations now take on a sinister sheen. Perhaps he was just doing a Lars Von Trier but sadly I suspect not.

Planktoning-the new craze for whales

2011-05-19T16:39:00.008+14:00

Just in: the new craze confounding marine scientists.

These are some incredible images of the latest craze amongst the whale population of 'Planktoning'.

Apparently whales swim with their mouths gaping open to collect as much plankton as possible whilst another whale takes a photo and uploads it to Youtube and Facebook.

We live in strange and interesting times.

Next week: Why we love soup

Here's why chefs are portrayed as tantrum throwers

2011-05-12T14:46:00.000+14:00

I watched that Matt Moran clip that went viral the other night. We watch as Matt is seen filming a cooking segment and after the take, a stylists helper clears the scene and disposes of some food which, as far as Matt is concerned was still perfectly good to consume. He then berates the person in front of all the crew and then when someone tries to deflect this tirade, he then rounds on them before storming off set.
We later learn that this was a set up. The message in fact was not to waste food. We had all been Punk’d apparently. This situation was a tad embarrassing for the Sydney Morning Herald who later changed their story when details emerged that the ‘on set meltdown’ was actually a rehearsed play.
Now Mr Moran I believe in his early TV career, think; the Chopping Block, had been spruiked as our very own version of Ramsay. Now this latest outburst, though scripted seems to underpin this comparison. I don’t think this is wise especially for someone who is intent on making in-roads from kitchens to mainstream television.
As clever as this ersatz clip may be, it highlights some ingrained misconceptions about acceptable kitchen behaviour that are very anachronistic in this day and age.
In fact it unwittingly paints Moran as a bit out of step with the times which I'm sure was not its intention.
I recently viewed a few Ramsay clips end to end and was struck at how out of control he was. A few years back his tirades seemed to come from a passionate frustration but with the benefit of a few years they now just look like tantrums. And they are embarrassing to watch, a throwback and hopefully a thing of the past.
Now I’m not suggesting Matt Moran is in danger of any Ramsayesque tragedy but it did strike me as a bit ill advised and potentially damaging to his profile to appear like this.
Having said all this, I think it’s unreasonable to expect people who are angry not to appear angry. People show their emotions, it’s what we do, we are human. I am not excusing bullying or threatening behaviour for a minute but the fact is we are uncomfortable with any displays of anger. Instinctively we are uncomfortable by it even if we are not directly or obviously threatened and I believe not able to cope with its display. Most of us just shut down and retreat into ourselves which does nothing to negate the reason why someone is angry in the first place.
Conversely, in my opinion there’s something coldly and oddly calculating in someone’s ability to remain unmoved by obvious anger, it seems unnatural to me, like an automaton’s response. Give me real emotion every time over some eerie stifling response devoid of any sentiment.
In fact I will go so far as to say that in our quest to shuffle ones true and immediate emotional responses in the workplace under the proverbial carpet we have not addressed the fact that someone has not done their job properly. It has now been replaced by ‘How it was conveyed’. This strategy might fit neatly into the no-threatening patois of workplace relations but it also denudes the gravitas and repercussions of the actual event that started the whole thing. It also makes the person at the centre of the issue not take any responsibility for the situation, kind of like a no fault divorce and this poses the biggest problem for me and strikes at the core of this problem. It would be a whole lot easier if people realise that if they make a mistake, to just own up, take stock and move on.
In a recent blog post, a person tells why they left professional kitchens for good. This person said ‘if I’m doing a good job, praise me and if I’m doing a bad job, get rid of me’. What struck me was that there was no middle ground as far as this person was concerned. The realities are that not all jobs people do are praiseworthy but that doesn't mean they should be sacked.
Just turning up and mashing some potatoes does not in my opinion attract praise. Nor making just OK mashed potatoes is not a sack able offence.
I think the expectations of many people coming into kitchens need to be calibrated. Remember, the demands of meeting repetitive and urgent deadlines have their own peculiar stresses and this is not for everyone. It’s naïve to seek to apportion blame for the pressure exerted upon workers in a busy kitchen environment. Customers order food; they expect to get it reasonably quickly, all of their meal together, cooked as specified on the menu, hot or cold as described and served as cheerily and as professionally as possible. Sure, no lives hang in the balance however keep stuffing this scenario up enough times and stand back and see the repercussions in immediate loss of trade.
The systems in place to ensure this outcome is consistent are there to provide assurances not only to the customer but also for the staff who have to prepare it.
This system isn’t wrong just because one person might not be able to cope with it, in fact it suggests that that person must reconcile that they mist fit into the system or find another vocation. Whoa, I’m not saying all systems are perfect, nor all workplaces effective but those that do demonstrate that their procedures works effectively need not be tarred and feathered by the ones that don’t.
Just because the job was not for you does not always mean the system failed you.

Jamie Oliver-Stone-walled by apathy

2011-05-08T23:14:00.003+14:00

I watched Jamie’s Food Revolution for the first time. He was in America and was questioning the amount of flavoured milk that the children in Californian schools were drinking as part of their school meals program. He also demonstrated to a small audience where the meat came from and how it was procured for the same school lunch program. The meat demo and the subsequent sugar content in the milk demo were truly shocking and had the small group aghast, some even in tears.

It seemed to this observer that many consumers are not only living in the dark as to the calorific intake of their foodstuffs and its provenance but the powers that be have made information gathering extremely difficult, as Jamie finds out first hand.

What I found though remarkable was the bit when Jamie finds an independent fast food operator, who agrees to let Jamie go ‘all healthy’ on the menu.

When it becomes apparent that Jamie intends to alter the flavour profile of the dishes the owner steps in and says enough is enough. In my opinion, the owner was very firm in his resolve but not at all unreasonable or rude but Jamie was completely flummoxed. He could not grasp that by altering the content of the meals he might be jeopardising the livelihood of the operator and his family.

For instance, in his attempts to lower the calorific content of in this case a milkshake by substituting ice cream for yoghurt the operator told him it was a delicious ‘Smoothie’ but a milkshake it was not. Oliver, piqued, countered with: as a chef he ‘interpreted’ the milkshake and made it healthier in the process. I found this very illuminating. It’s how a chef, not just Oliver, but any chef is often blinded by their own artistic licence, self-belief and ultimately, it must be said, ego.

I know I’m concentrating on the smaller picture here but I think it helps explain the larger one. If everyone in the world agrees that a milkshake has ice cream and orders it knowingly, then aren’t they making an informed choice? They are responsible for that choice in the same way I think smokers continue to puff away despite the warnings. Pressing further, Jamie asked the operator if he would feed his own family the highly fatty, highly salty food and the reply stunned him momentarily.

Of course I wouldn’t, came the reply.

Jamie looked incredulous that someone could knowingly sell a food product that he knew would, if eaten regularly, contribute to the global epidemic of obesity in the Western world.
In other words, how could someone put their morals on hold for profit?

Welcome to the big bad world.
That operator is not alone in the world of food yet alone zillions of other questionable businesses. I learned a long time ago that most, yes most food businesses take the same approach all under the guise of ‘giving the customer what they want’. Translated: this just means ‘making it as cheap as possible’. However it would be easy to assume this cheapening exercise is all about maximising profits for the business until you understand that the consumer is demanding cheapness, the business is responding to this demand-the profits aren’t necessarily increasing. In fact more upward pressure is mounting on that operator in terms of wages, utilities etc. so in fact their margins are contracting.

Ultimately I think it’s a shocking realisation for any craftsperson/artist/passionate advocate of any discipline to be exposed to the reality that some of their number, their creed can put their morals aside in the quest for money. Whilst I put myself in this category, others might call me naive if I didn’t, if offered a princely sum, start spruiking some ‘Magic Sauce’ or another. Oliver, despite having lucrative contracts with numerous entities somehow has his credibility intact. This might go some way in explaining his energetically zealous crusades to make us look at what we eat. He must really believe that he hasn’t sold out.

Now back to that fast food operator and before you lock your ire on him, think about the response of his customer on camera when Jamie presents a ‘Jamie Burger’ v’s a burger on the usual menu. The punter loves the ‘Jamie Burger’ it’s a no contest and for a moment Oliver allows himself a smug grin. Then the canny operator tells the punter, that the ‘Jamie Burger’ will be twice the price and the patron immediately says he prefers the regular burger. There you have it. That sequence explained to me in twenty seconds why this whole dynamic was so fraught and Jamie was getting very despondent.

I really admire his chutzpah and here’s a bloke using his fame for what I actually believe is the greater good, a rare thing these days. By trying to change the content of fast food he is realizing that people won’t stop eating it so he’ll try to make it healthier. That’s noble, but like all choices in life people will continue to make the wrong ones if they are ill-informed and more sadly, when they are aware of the detrimental health effects.

Goldie-John and the three bears

2011-05-07T19:29:00.002+14:00

One upon a time there were three bears. A little bear called Armando, a middle sized bear called Guy and a great big bear called Cheong. All were very busy bears and one morning they decided to leave their gilded cottage whilst their porridge cooled on the window sill. The little bear didn’t wander faraway but the middle bear and the great big bear wandered far afield as their porridge cooled.
The smell of the porridge finally reached the nostrils of Goldie-John and he thought it didn’t smell quite right so he decided to investigate.
Reaching the golden cottage he made his way in and gazed at the three bowls of porridge. He tasted all three and decided that they were not all quite right at all. In fact he was very disappointed. Feeling disgruntled he needed to sit down.
The great big chair felt as though it was very out of place in the cottage. The middle sized chair felt as though no-one had sat in it for quite some time and the little chair, though small, felt over-stuffed. More annoyed, he got up and looked for a place to snooze.
The three bedrooms in the golden cottage looked promising enough but trying all the beds Goldie-John determined that each seemed past its prime and could not find a comfortable place to nap.
So he conveyed his displeasure in a note to the occupants and he left.
The three bears eventually made their way back to their cottage and noticed immediately that someone had been there. They then read the note left behind and each flew into a terrible rage, porridge flew and chairs were broken but eventually calm once again returned to the gilded cottage and life as the bears knew it, returned as normal.
The End

Mr Smelly-Not a Roger Heargreaves character

2011-05-07T00:28:00.007+14:00

When I worked in a restaurant that made its money selling fish dinners I would regularly come home smelling like I’d been doused in a fetid bottle of squid sauce that had been left out in the sun. No amount of scrubbing could wrestle the combined odours of cooked seafood from my hands, the hot soapy water lacquering the pong like a putrid decoupage. My nightly fumigations were epic. This was until an old Greek bloke told me to rub my hands with lemon juice, grab a fist full of sugar and start scrubbing. It really works

When you are around food all day it tends to get under your skin. Slice just one onion finely and your hands will be impregnated with its aroma all day.
Some people tend to attract some aromas more than others. I knew a bloke who if ever he touched ground cumin would reek for days of that old stale sweat stench that one can associate with the spice or a locker room at half time.
If I’m spending the day making sweeties in the bakery, my whole body feels like its been coated in a very fine mist of sugar that threatens to crack like cooling caramel if I stand still for too long. I leave the bakery gasping for the chill promise of clean sugarless air and also hoping to stave off type two diabetes.

Conversely, after a full day of slow cooking meats, letting them rest suitably before denuding the flesh from the bones, my hands and arms are regularly slick with the lubricants of collagen and connective tissue. Of course these unique whiffs cling to my body also: The Sweet hay, barn-yardy-ness of pork. The faint Mutton notes in a slow cooked Wether to the funkiness of a young Goat. They all leave the same meaty calling card that has our dog Nelly going ape-shit when I arrive home from work, her olfactory sense in hyper-drive. Reminds me of the joke about the friendless little boy whose Mum ties a chop round his neck just so the dog would play with him. For the record, I have friends!
But as yet I have not been guided by the wisdom of any more elderly Aroma-Shamans out there as to ridding myself of this particular fleshy haze so if you’re out there please make yourselves known.

Whilst I'm on restaurant smells, that old chestnut ‘If the smells coming out of the kitchen are good, grab a table’ ring very true nearly all of the time. There’s nothing worse that smelling the rancid oil from the deepfryer before you’ve stepped into the establishment. Once I was served some steamed wontons which I could detect before they left the kitchen and I preyed they weren’t intended for me. Before I knew it they were plonked in front of me and the bamboo basket lid was removed with an expanding cloud of noxious steam hitting me like a full jar of Vicks VaporRub in a hot water bowl with a tea towel over my head-except this almost made me chunder.

There was this one time I had all the kitchen staff beg me to say something to the kitchen hand whose BO was so bad no one would go near him, including me. It was a delicate situation that called for the most polished of diplomatic skills. As I neared him though my resolve crumbled as quickly as my oxygen dissipated and desperate for air I just blurted out, 'It's Tuesday mate, change clothes and wash day', before I staggered outside.

In my opinion all these smells, though overwhelming at times, are nothing compared to the stench of cigarette smoke that kitchen staff leave in their foul wake after inhaling a coffin nail in a desperate break amongst the grandeur of the restaurant bin area. What might be even more un pleasurable though, is being served by a waiter who has just jettisoned a ciggie into the outside gutter before grabbing your intended entrees and serving your table. Is there a worse clutching reek than ciggies?

Enough of me sounding like an insufferable ex-smoker, what about garlic breath? That’s a toughie because garlic is so damn tasty but eating too much of it can make you as lonely as a halitosis sufferer at a speed dating event. Actually that’s unfair, they have more luck than the garlic afflicted. Ok, on breath. Have you ever walked past a group of people gorging on fried or steamed dim sims? I have. It’s gag-worthy, especially if you have the misfortune to direct a question to the group and they all answer at the same time. Hello overcooked cabbage.
Anyways until NASA or someone in a suburban shed invents a gum or lolly that vaporizes unwanted mouth stench, it’s up those trusty XXXX mints and before I take my garlic and sausage laden pizza home I always make sure I’ve got a pack handy next to the sauce bottle in the glove box of the Ute.

What it takes to win

2011-05-02T12:45:00.001+14:00

She podded the peas she had just picked. In a heavy pan, she bought a knob of butter to foaming before tossing in some crushed garlic and some fine slices of home cured bacon from her larder. The peas were then blanched in a pot of boiling salted water before being drained and added to the sizzling bacon. Deftly, she cracked two fresh eggs into the pan and gathered the mix together gently with a gnarled wooded spoon. She then added a handful of roughly chopped parsley, stirred in a crunch of fresh black pepper and carefully spooned the just set mix over some buttered sourdough bread.

She was eliminated.

He started the first layer of his twenty layer chocolate cake when in the queue at the specialty provedore waiting to purchase an allocation of the most expensive chocolate on the planet. Each layer was unique and took all day to make, assemble and decorate. One completed it was mounted on a small box with pyrotechnic facilities that would issue a burst of flames as each portion is sliced. Meanwhile a mechanised pulled-sugar angel on a swing will gently sway to and fro as the cake is portioned. Finally, as the cake is served, a small holographic projector illuminates the wall with a home-movie of the cake maker, as a toddler, mucking about in the home kitchen to the delight of his parents.

The judges were in tears.

He got through to the next round.

Please show me some discipline

2011-04-25T12:39:00.003+14:00

To observe a discipline means to make sacrifices. One becomes a disciple, sounds kinds quasi-religious doesn’t it? In some ways it is, all things considered.
You see conventional wisdom has decided that it takes ten years or 10,000 hours devoted to a particular task or vocation before one attains a level of an authority in that field.
That’s a long time in anyone’s language. Getting back to the sacrifices bit though, I don’t believe that lessons learned easily resonate as absolutely as lessons hard fought or studied. A little bit of oneself is always deposited into attaining this wisdom, like that old adage of ‘skin in the game’ which usually means having a monetary investment in an endeavour of sorts but it also means to me at least that one has ‘suffered’ a bit to reach this point. Now I’m not talking about any kind of bastardization in the workplace but I am saying that being at or near the top of one’s game doesn’t just happen by osmosis.
In my own circumstances I have made many mistakes in kitchens over the years and these mistakes have held me in good stead and I have learned from (most) of them. Failing is OK and natural. But in today’s reality the common mantra seems to be: failure is not an option.
How do you think that this reiteration affects the majority of people out there who inevitably fail? I would suggest that many don’t handle it very well having not been sufficiently equipped to deal adequately with this situation. I have been noticing for some time that there is a workplace mind-set gathering momentum in which some people are expecting rewards for ‘just doing something’ rather than doing something really well. It’s simple just to wave this away as a generational change but I believe that it’s not just limited to the whipping-boys of disaffected Boomers and X-ers, the gen Y’s.
I think this is an unreal situation to find oneself in, I mean just because one is trying does not mean we have reached a state of excellence. Too often though in many cases, this seems enough for some people. When did this start to go so wrong? Was I asleep or just getting old?
As skilled workers are becoming scarcer in some fields, training requirements have become more lax to ‘speed things up’ to meet demand. Couple this with the misguided and blatantly false advertising to entice would-be trainees into a life of perceived celebrity and you have a recipe for the wrong people with the wrong attitudes for a life in kitchens.
When I am met by the blank unresponsive gaze of people who I am trying to make realize that their efforts on this or that particular occasion was not up to scratch, it is not an attack on them personally but an opportunity where I am trying to convey that doing anything with a degree of excellence is never an easy thing.
I have also begun to notice and lament that much of what motivates some people to start a career in the kitchen is the lure of celebrity above all else. This is depicted very well in the ABC TV show ‘Whites’ where the new chef ‘Scoose’ arrives fully focused on achieving stardom to the detriment of actually acquiring any tangible skills besides looking good on camera.
However, it’s not just kitchens that are experiencing this malady. Recently I’ve heard of writing competitions being swamped with entries from many people who clearly have lots to say but don’t go about it very well. In fact it’s very obvious that they don’t read. So if this is the case, who are they writing for? A generation that won’t read their books? A similar scenario is playing out in the art world and I’m sure in many more fields of endeavour.
So on this day when we remember the greatest sacrifices some people have made for the greater good, the fripperies, earnestness and posturing’s of the table seem like a trivial distraction.

When 'artisan' is code for inconsistency

2011-04-20T21:22:00.002+14:00

Here’s a quandary for you to mull over.

Many chefs often cite creative freedom as a major incentive for them to keep turning up for work the next day.
Many of them go on to do exactly that, create.
Many less though become successful. In fact many end up going broke or sending their restaurant broke in the process. So knowing the odds, why is it still such a powerfully seductive force that draws many chefs into its orbit?
Take this year’s world’s best restaurant, Noma in Copenhagen. On paper, serving indigenous Scandinavian foods might hardly seem to be a failsafe business plan however this restaurant, any a few more like it, defies the trend toward the homogenisation of restaurant food. Apparently bookings have skyrocketed since it won the award in 2010 and now again in 2011, I also hope they’re making money in the process.
My point is that to do this kind of food and make a successful living from it relies on a certain amount of sophistication from the diner. I mean, they have to ‘get it’ don’t they?
Now I’m certain that restaurants of this ilk have had to put up with in some cases years of people ‘not getting it’ and I suspect that there might have been many times where they’ve thought about changing direction back toward the safety of the middle.
We’re fortunate that they didn’t. Tastes can and do change and I suppose making the decision to ‘stick to ones guns’ is a test of tenacity, money and self belief that only a crash or crash-through outcome is the end game.
To be clear, plenty of people push themselves without the lure of fiscal reward alone. Being busy and appealing to the mass market is not everyone’s cup of tea, for sure,
When it comes to other artisan produce where does one draw the line though?
Let’s say as a craftsperson you have your eyes on some very high minded ideals and are striving for a remarkable and unique product yet you are regularly coming up against some consumer disquiet that seem not to engage with your products distinctive charms.
Too many artisans recoil and strike like a cobra when their product is questioned, often with the most respectful of approaches. ‘No batch is ever the same’. ‘It changes from season to season’ and my favourite; ‘You’re probably just too used to the commercial stuff’. Boy and I thought chefs were precious!
A chef friend of mine once dared to ask a local artisan about their product as it wasn’t really ‘working for them’. The chef thought it best to talk directly to them to give some feedback which he had taken on board from his customers. The supplier huffily instructed them on the proper handling and storage procedures of said product before continuing to lecture them about how the product was unlike any they’ve probably used and that they were probably not able to appreciate said products amazing properties. Not once did the supplier concede that perhaps there may have been a problem with the product. Over the next week or so as the complaints built up from customers, my friend just stopped ordering the product and joined a growing band of people with a similar experience of that product.
Are these the people un-sophisticated? Are they Ill-informed? Should they be ignored because they just don’t ‘get' your product?
What do you do?
Do you change your product to meet the needs of the majority? Perhaps there is a middle ground? Or do you continue on your trajectory safe in the knowledge that yours might always appeal to a niche market?

Its a strange time when...

2011-04-17T21:34:00.000+14:00

We’ve all heard of that famous Chinese quote which curiously cannot be attributed to anyone that goes ‘may you live in interesting times’ right? Well what about living in strange times? A woman, a lone diner, finds herself breakfasting in her local café which is filled with breastfeeding mothers. After an awkward exchange of stares and comments made behind hands, the manager sidles up and asks the woman if she’s mind eating her breakfast in the toilet as it is making the other patrons uncomfortable! It’s a strange time when you can buy milk cheaper than it costs to produce It’s a strange time when the local fish you hope to buy is way more expensive than the same fish freighted from the Melbourne or Sydney fish markets? It’s a strange time when the rabbits, deer, pheasant you shoot on your property cannot be sold to restaurants for other people to enjoy. It’s a strange time when the big supermarket which is situated in a major apple growing area has no local apples, or honey or jam on its shelves? It’s a strange time when food made in peoples’ homes is not fit for sale at a local fundraiser. It’s a strange time when the editorial staffs of the State’s newspaper are sacked and their jobs relocated to Melbourne. It’s a strange time when many hospitality businesses are considering closing on weekends and public holidays due to high staffing costs. It’s a strange time when a regional weekend food festival has most of its ingredients coming from outside the district. It’s a strange time when we start to view ethnic food vans as some sort of foodie renaissance. It’s a strange time when cooking shows which supposedly champion home cooking force the contestants to cook restaurant food. It’s strange time when the busiest stall at our state food festival is the one for deep fried food. It’s a strange time when generations of local food knowledge are overlooked for the aggrandisements of the culinary arriviste. It’s a strange time when we complain of our lack of decent eateries yet we fail to patronize them. It’s a strange time when we throw out a huge amount of food that we buy. It’s a strange time when we spend more time on social media that we do communicating directly with people we care about. It’s a strange time when we worry about issues overseas when our own backyard starves for sustenance. It’s a strange time when we are at our fattest and yet millions starve. It’s a strange time when…..

The promotional grab bag of goodies

2011-04-15T12:08:00.003+14:00

Went to the launch of a new series of the very popular cooking show where amateur cooks contest to be crowned the maestro. It was a star studded affair and the canapés and bev were of the top shelf variety which makes sense considering the subject matter of the program. However when we left we were presented with what we all assumed to be a bag of gourmet goodies. Imagine our disappointment when the contents of the bag were revealed. How curious.

Hobart Mall street food, a sketch

2011-04-14T13:27:00.017+14:00

Hobart Mall, Wednesday morning

Focused on the grill

Alive with culture

Picking out the good bits for the locals 'I hope he washed his hands!'

Look! they even have 'Aussie food!'

Everyone loves a fry-up!

They encourage you to haggle

Just like overseas, but closer!

Incredible Hobart street vendors

You could be anywhere but its the Mall!

They're always cheery

No sooner did Hobart mayor Rob Valentine decree that food vendors would be allowed to peddle their wares in the Elizabeth St Mall did a stampede of vendors scramble to set up in prime positions.

I took these photos yesterday morning in the mall and was amazed by the potpourri of aromas wafting through it as I made my way to the Harris Scarfe sale and a quick bite at the food court inside the Cat and Fiddle arcade. I decided to canvas a few punters in the food court on their thoughts on the decision to allow food vendors in the mall.

First up was Clancy St Hubbins, of Huon sur la Mar in Hobart for the Backgammon conference. I don’t care what they do mate as long as they respect our traditions and our culture”, he said between mouthfuls of felafel.

Next I approached two young woman, Shay’ lee Grimthorpe and her ‘bestie’ Kimmy Van Holstrupp, both of Bagdad. “We love the new vendors; they are so colourful and different. Why ever leave Hobart when it’s all here”

Finally I sat next to an elderly lady, Ms Bernadette Pinkus of Battery Point who was shopping for kitchen accoutrements. “I think its fine as long as they don’t stray from the mall, I don’t want those curry smells stinking up my neighbourhood thankyou very much.

So either way you have it, our mall has been thrust into the culinary spotlight for better or for worse.

Worst meal I ever ate-maybe?

2011-04-12T14:07:00.004+14:00

One shouldn’t ever criticise the host after scoring a Guernsey at their table. It would be churlish and smack of much ungratefulness if, at the climax of the meal, one were to really say what one thought of the food however grave it might have been. So this is why I’m writing about it now, years after the ‘event’. The ‘Event’, occurred one week night when the children were small and any invitation to share a meal outside of the pandemonium of our house and inflict it on another’s abode was as welcome as a Port is to a shipload of lusty sailors. I had starved myself all day secure in the expectation that I would be able to gavage myself on the spread made available at mine hosts. Big mistake. We rocked up like a tumbling troupe of carnival acrobats, screaming, snot nosed and tired and that was just my wife and I; the children weren’t far behind. To say we were all bringing an unusually heightened sense of expectation would be an understatement, we were bleeding starving! One glance at the single packet of Saladas, an already hacked-into block of Ol’ Bitey and some mangy olives providing some low-rent company spelled ‘Trouble at Mill’ and my stomach growled furiously at the injustice of it all. Our main course, pre-barbequed lay on the bench like road-kill on a coroners table. Between thick slabs of yellowing fat and bone some faint pink streaks of meat could be detected if you cocked your eye and squinted hard enough. Next to it were some thick raw potato slices glumly sitting in a bowl, unadorned. A salad, already dressed, its iceberg leaves already wilting with the sting of vinegar squatted next to the dead horse bottle and the Saxa on the table. Quick as a flash, mine host doused the meat with a few glugs of Fountain soy sauce a nd threw the black pepper over it like wedding confetti, minus the merriment. From the barbeque, already smouldering from the combusted detritus of previous usage, did rank twirlings of smoke nauseate our nostrils. The meat-matter was pressed onto the surface of the grill and whatever thermal mass had ammounted, immediately dissipated. The sizzle of searing flash was replaced by a low bubble as whatever moisture was left, leeched out, casseroling itself. The crammed grill looked like a diabolical, traffic-gridlock of stewing meat, no chop could move and didn’t stand a chance. I had to turn away from this travesty and seek some sustenance from the food table. All the Saladas had vanished and even the tired old olives had been consumed in desperation. Evidence of the Ol’ Bitey remained as a few tiny yellow crumbs which I scraped into a congealed nugget before hoovering it. I glanced out to the scene of the barbequing crime and had noticed the chops were now piled high in a cindering heap, blackened like bushfire cadavers and left to cool. Surely this was a bad joke? Testing my powers of resilience until I finally choked and said’ Come on guys, enough is enough, where’s the real food?’ whereby everyone would laugh and poke fun at me and we’d then get on with the business of a good dinner, what a riot! I wrestled with this notion to speak out against this shameful parody and then it quickly got a lot worse. Those raw spuds were now being placed on the fetid grill like melded Cannasta cards without any smug flourish, oil, or seasoning. Or anything. Did I mention that they were still raw? I don’t think you have to be a chef to understand that raw spuds on a very hot, grubby grill will not cook very quickly, nor will they be in the slightest bit scrumptious as they were. Also, the meat continued to languish uncovered, its fat gelling on the plate. This was a nightmare unfolding. My eldest only five at the time, pointed, as only a child can do, uninhibited or constrained by social niceties to the solidifying meat and silently shook her head in the negative and mouthed the word ‘no’. About 45 mins later, the potatoes, now completely sooty in colour were retrieved from their place of execution. The chops, stone cold and clogged with solidified grease were ceremoniously offered as was the flaccid lettuce now suspended in a sea of vinegar. We all sat there cheerily trying to make the best of the grim situation. I judicially eyed their kids for any evidence of malnutrition but was none to be observed between their enthusiastic gulps and spoonings, all was normal apparently. My own spawn pored and prodded and poked and picked. My wife smiled benignly Did I eat? Yes. Did I complain? No. What I did do though was to offer to cook for them every time they suggested we come round for a bite to eat.

Karma Sutra for foodies

2011-04-05T13:49:00.003+14:00

Here's my little bedside helper for those new to the love that dare not speak its name.

The Foodie. You are probably reading this by the light of your daggy camping head-light you bought at Foam World or Rays Tent City and probably feel like a kid looking up dirty words for the first time in the Macquarie. If you can resist keeping one hand free to turn the pages then I promise this book will not disappoint.

My first position is called the Blue-Balled ache: this has you sitting at your guests table during a dinner party of wildly trumpeted courses that heroically fail to climax, leaving you tense, frustrated and angry.

Then it’s the Crown of Thorns Starfish: in this position, your fatigued, bored and generally less than enthusiastic partner, just sits there whilst you slave away in the kitchen trying desperately to ignite some culinary interest until in the end you just wolf down the meal and fall asleep.

Ok, here’s the Electric-Rabbit surprise: in this position, you partner spares no effort to please you gastronomically however as they shudder to a grinding halt after what seems like eons, their repertoire extinguished, you slip out your very own tasty morsel to ‘finish you off’.

Next it’s the Ten-armed Kali: your partner has to cajole the appetite for a dinner party for ten. Each hand must be very busy for each guest.

Oh and here’s the Hungry Bird: It’s very important in this stance to keep ones mouth open wide all the time, so your partner can unload each course with ease.

Now we come to the Brownlow Spit-Roast: For this pose one must take a partner. You start by serving your partner enthusiastically and then call over your friend to help you serve them at the same time.

The Ménage au Troigros: a party of three must cook every recipe of the Brothers Troigros for each other until they fall exhausted.

The Meal-Buddy: A rather recent position. In it you call up an acquaintance to help you share various meals without the commitment to ever sharing a meal together again.

The Lone Diner: the candles are lit, the wine is poured and Rod Stewarts ‘Tonight’s the night’ coos softly in the background, you are alone to vigorously appreciate the fruits of your own labour.

Enter the Tradesman: in this stance, instead of conventionally taking one’s sustenance from the dining room table, one instead consumes it at the back door.

Just a few to get you started.

The food critic scores everyday occurances

2011-04-02T17:38:00.009+14:00

Woke up a little late after a relatively average sleep 12/20

Third in line for the shower, water was warm to tepid 9/20

Breakfast: two slices, toasted sourdough 17/20

With low fat margarine 9/20

Tram ride to work, crowded, hot and reeking of bad BO 8/20

Grab TA coffee and muffin, coffee (well it was TA so what do I expect?) 11/20

Muffin 13/20

Get a smile from new security woman on the door 17/20

Arrive and at my desk before sub-editor who hates me gets in 19/20

Editor, sees me in first 20/20, a perfect score!

Elevenses, a Kit Kat and some office assorted cream biscuits 14/20-surprising I know

Lunch, I want a messy burger and chips, I get sushi from the new place 16/20-but I HAVE to say that

Return to work to write copy, time drags on 8/20

Afternoon tea time, Madeira cake, Bushells and a Macaroon from Ethel the tea lady 16/20

Leave work early to check out new bar in City 19/20

Meet mate in said bar 18/20

Order beverage, sip beverage 16/20

Pretend to study interior, scribble some notes, pick an obscure detail to take in about venue, neck rest of beverage, leave 15/20

Stop off on way home at local deli, dinner sorted 16/20

Return home, partner at Zumba, kids at sports and music, home alone 18/20

Put dinner on 12/20

Knock Stelvin cap off latest vino, feet up, sports channel on 19/20

Burning smell from kitchen as family arrive home and Aerobics Oz Stykle on tellie 9/12

Berated by partner before dinner 7/20

Dinner, more vino, chatting, laughing 17/20

Catch up time with kids 17/20

Kids off to bed, catch up with partner in front of ‘Farmer wants a wife’ 12/20

Go to bed with new Ian Rankin, but get jiggy with partner instead 18/20

Fall asleep 18/20

New Food Festival launches

2011-03-25T23:50:00.008+14:00

These days its nigh impossible to negotiate one’s yearly diary without the spectre of a thousand food festivals springing up every second day. Yes there are the original trailblazers that have a permanent ink stain in our collective dance-cards but it seems every State, every city, every region, every town and every cluster of dwellings on a dusty service road has a food festival of some sort and I’m suffering from FF, Festival-Fatigue.
For the big events, it must be hell for the organizers. I mean in these days of social media where everyone’s up to the minute on worldwide food trends, who’s hot, which place is not and the very latest insider gossip it seems that our appetite for being entertained raises the bar considerably every time. This neophilia must keep these poor event organisers up in the wee small hours for what I imagine is a thankless task.
I mean no sooner the talent is spotted, their cred verified, their appearance booked and the program finalised than the first whispers of the said event being ‘soo yesterday’ and ‘out of touch’.
As an antidote to the festival-washing that we are being exposed to, here’s a new alternative:

Ta Daa! ‘The F.A.M.I.S.H. Food Festival!’ “For all mankind, it shouldn't’ happen” From a bloke who knew the Dalai Lama

Festival highlights include:

Dumpster Diving.
Participants are encouraged to dive for their dinner in especially stocked and sanitized rubbish skips and bring their catch back to the communal table. To add authenticity, real homeless people will be amongst the participants to keep things ‘edgy’.

Feed your family of four on $5 a day
Guests will thrill at the idea of cramming into the dining room of a typical working family in an outer suburb of our capital city and marvel at the ingenious food combinations on offer. Sit cheek by jowl in a ‘real’ environment. Inspired stuff indeed.

Gleaning, foraging and fossicking
Groups of enthusiastic festival goers will glean their meals in an exciting game of chance on the streets. The wonder of bins, unattended and unfinished meals on street-side tables and the naughty temptation of breaking the law, all in the name of hunger! Fabulous!

The fun of food!
That’s right! food is everywhere if you know where to look. Come with our hosts Luther and Little Chuck as they take you on an adventure through the wakes, hand-outs, restaurant back doors and soup kitchens of your capital city. Those lovable rogues of the festival!

Doing it on a shoestring
Partakers will thrive on the tips doled out by this select group of penny-pinchers who will dazzle with their handy hints on saving a dollar, or maybe three! From only eating the bread whilst perusing the menu, to pretending not to like a dish to the time honoured science of ‘Doing a runner’. Those nuts!

Food Fight!
Yes that's right a real life food fight! Thrill at the adrenalin rush as you wrestle for that drumstick with an actual-hungry person! Marvel at the genius of being pitted against a wiry and wily opponent for the last bit of dipping bread and rejoice in that 'right-in-the-midst-of-things reality when they run out right when its your time to order. Are you ready!

These and many more inspired events are yours to be enjoyed at the 2011 FAMISH Food Festival.
For a full festival program please visit http://www.famish.org.au

Those were the days my friend-Redux

2011-03-23T19:23:00.003+14:00

Posted this two years ago to the very day! Ok so I'm being lazy

Around the dinner table tonight we were discussing & underpinning the division of daily chores for each person & our collective expectation of what the other is responsible for. In my case, just so you know, it’s the ‘daily maintenance & upkeep of the kitchen’ & the regular sanitization of the cottage bathroom in which two of the children reside-code for: it’s a pigsty! Now the kitchen I can deal with in my stride but the kid’s bathroom, now that another matter entirely. However, if one is to lead by example, I have to suck it up & get on with it. During our family negotiations, at times the mood became heavy & in order to lighten it up a bit I decided like all old people to enthrall my younger audience with tales of hardship & toil from yesteryear. My tale unfolded with the predictable outcome of their eyes glazing over & them, slumped onto their elbows staring at the wall whilst I gesticulated wildly with hubristic panache, desperately trying to engage them with my own ‘Tale of the Ancient Mariner’.

However a funny thing happened. Towards the end of my saga, which I had actually sped up, to ensure I could take in the seven o’clock news my eldest latched upon an aspect of the tale & thoughtfully expanded, leaving me a little lost for words. ‘But that’s illegal’, she said. Illegal, I thought. Yes perhaps it was. Why had I not thought of that? ‘How can they do that?” she enquired. By this time the others had been resuscitated satisfactorily enough get some traction on the thread of what had until now, been a monotonous monologue precluding them from excusing themselves from the table to suckle at the TV. ‘Yea dad, how can they do that?’ chirped the youngest one. I was caught in a moment where I had no answer & was swamped with thoughts of a major opportunity lost to correct a long time injustice.

It went like this:

As a second year apprentice, the restaurant I worked for went into receivership. It was taken over by & operated by a company that intended to eventually buy what was left of the business. As I was indentured apprentice to the restaurant, I had to stay & watch my chef & the rest of the kitchen staff be sacked with the loss of all their entitlements, holiday pays etc. This was an awful predicament to be in. The new kitchen crew was a rag tag bunch of guns for hire that appeared to hold no allegiance to the new regime yet alone what they had come in to replace & I was the one remaining person who was part of the old team. What unfolded from that day on was a sorry tale of victimization & bastardization in that awful kitchen of which I put up with for a full six weeks in the vain hope that my papers would be signed & could leave to be taken on as an apprentice in another restaurant after I had successfully applied for another position. That's a story for another day.

This is the story that elicited that response of shock & awe from my eldest at tonight’s dinner table. It was my last night after that very arduous & taxing six weeks of misery & we were nearing the crescendo of service. I was already being informed that the rest of the kitchen crew were leaving early tonight & as well as doing all the desserts on my own, the entire kitchen clean down would be left solely for me to do.
At that point I was grilling a beef Bitok under the gas salamander & the rendered caul fat wrapping around the Bitok had run into the already smoking hot oil in the pan. Distressed at hearing this bad news I unintentionally shook the pan a little too hard causing some of the hot fat to cordon into the gas flames where it combusted spectacularly in a burst of orange & yellow flame. My arm fully outstretched & bearing the weight that only a cast iron pan can exert, could only hold onto the pan which threatened to bubble over & run down my arm, & which it did.
I tried hard not top spill the contents of the flaming pan as I knew that it could & would spread angrily over the benches & possibly over my belly & legs. I managed to get it over the bench & let it down before the pain of the oil bore down agonizingly. In disbelief I watched as my forearm & elbow ballooned with a large blister which popped as soon as I straightened my arm to lay the pan down. Rushing to get my arm under cold water & I guess in a bit of shock, the words of the chef seemed not unreasonable as he enquired as to the whereabouts of the entrée for table 12. It wasn’t until later that painful night as my mum bandaged my arm that his words sounded so callous & so cold.
They left me as planned, to clean the whole place up.
My kids open mouthed disbelief at this story jolts me back to the now & the easy conviviality of our table after a belly full of meatballs & sketty.‘It happened a long time ago’, I say, ‘things were different then’.

When the petrol dries up

2011-03-16T19:13:00.007+14:00

" One day they just stopped

and these guys stepped in and things changed overnight"

I can still recall the look on the face of the lady with her screaming kids at her skirt. The snot rope on one of ‘em was attracting the biggest of blowies and despite her efforts to wave it away the bloody bastard thing just hovered on the kids lip.
She looked like a mad woman.
My dad was using his calm voice but she was getting more and more hysterical. At one point she held up one of her toddlers and shook the poor lil' bugger for effect.
‘She’s starving!’ she sobbed, ‘Please show some compassion and let us eat!’
The child’s crying took on a staccato effect in her mothers arms.
Dad tried hard to explain, as he always did but it was never any use. People always got more angry and desperate and the holster for his semi-automatic was always un-clipped for this reason.
She must have dropped the kid at that stage ‘cause the howling became more urgent as dad hit the shut button on the electric gates and the mother started furiously banging on the steel doors as they closed with a metallic clang.
Within moments, her protestations became muffled by the thickness of the metal and its rubber flanges separating her from us and Dad shot me a look that spoke of empathy and a terrible routine that we were all learning to deal with.
This was of course if they didn’t bring anything to barter with, which sadly was too often.
It was a routine that meant saying ‘no’ to friends, neighbours and other townsfolk. People who you once said G’day to in the street, the lady that you got your mail from and the bloke who dropped the paper off each morning, they had all come to our door at one time or another, begging, desperate, a wretched look in their eyes.
My little sis could never get used to it and she would just sit in the corner amongst the old chaff bags singing to herself gently and gaze through her old kaleidoscope with its enchanting coloured pictures of Siam, Ceylon and other faraway lands.
Behind us, outside our heavily fortified Bartering compound, sat the farm cart, led by our four Clydesdales, laden with new season’s potatoes, ready to be stacked on the shelves and I wearily began the task of unloading them, one by one.
I placed them next to the bags of flour and the pulses, right where the punters could see ‘em through the bullet proof glass ‘shopping window’.
‘Everyone loves a spud’ I mouthed to myself, pretending to copy my dad as this was a favourite saying of his. He swore that spuds more than anything we bartered with, had the most power over people, even over our milk and our grains.
‘Mark my words Morgan, one day the shit will hit the fan and some people just won’t be prepared but I fucken’ well will be that’s for fucken’ sure!’ he would go on and on.
It always sort of unsettled me when he was in one of those kind of moods. Sis would get weepy and cling to mum but Dad would just take his swearing outside and toil for hours and hours in his words ‘getting things ready’. This seemed to go on for years; in fact, it was all I ever knew of him when I was younger.
When the event happened though, he kind of became quieter, less shouty and calmer, it was as if he was sort of, well, sort of enjoying what had happened, even if it was scary and it affected everyone on the planet. But it was a rare day these days when he wasn’t whistling to himself or without a quick smile for me, sis or mum. It was good for us, even though it was bad for everyone else I guess.
It wasn’t always like this though.
My family were looked upon differently right from the start when we moved to the town years back when sis wasn’t born and I was a lil’ tacka. I often came home with a bloodied nose because my clothes didn’t come from the shops and my lunch was always different. Sometimes all I wanted was a vegemite sanga, some chips and a coke like everyone else. I knew Mum and Dad had views that were different to many other people but I hated the way that we were mocked as ‘loonies’ and crazies’.
‘One day people will understand’ mum would say to me as a cried and cried into her lap, my fists skinned and my teeth bleeding. ‘When the petrol dries up, people will need us, but for now, try to understand, they can’t see what your Dad and I can’.

But I only eat red food

2011-03-12T18:14:00.006+14:00

‘Mum, today I’ve decided I’m only ever eating red food from now on’ said little Johnny one day.
‘That’s nice dear’, his mum said looking up from her sewing.
He’s such an odd boy she thought to herself.
Johnny soon found out that not many people shared his particular tastes. In fact it seemed most of his friends ate lots of different coloured foods.
It wasn’t until high school that he noticed a smattering of similar people who had decided only to ever eat red foods and it made him feel good to be part of a like minded group.
Adulthood approached Johnny decided to take his girlfriend out for a meal. He found out that she ate all the colours! To his horror, he could only find one red coloured food on the menu! This really annoyed him as he could see everyone else enjoying their meals.
The years passed and John, as he now called himself was an accomplished cook in all the red foods and prided himself on his extensive repertoire.
To celebrate a birthday he and some friends decided to visit the local restaurant. They had not made a booking and chanced a table.
John was very disappointed that there were only two red foods available and called the Maitre’d over.
‘Excuse me, but why are there only two red coloured dishes on the menu?’
‘Sir, we serve multi-coloured dishes here and are not specifically one colour orientated over any other’
‘But, we’ve come for a special occasion’ John said
‘Most of our patrons are happy with the multi-coloured food we serve and, to be frank, eating just one colour kind of puts you in the minority.’ He continued, ‘However if Sir had phoned ahead and conveyed his preferences, the kitchen would have been more than happy to offer him some more alternatives’.
‘That’s doesn’t help us now though does it?!’ said John gathering his friends and making to leave.
The Maitre’d tried once more to show John and his guests the dished that could be altered to become red only, but they weren’t interested.
John and his friends disappeared down the street and the the Maitre’d watched them go, he knew the only alternative venues in this area were all serving multi-coloured foods and some of them were not really of the standard that he would be happy to recommend.
Turning back to his dining room full of happy smiling customers he knew at least this lot were having a good time.

Something fishy this way comes

2011-03-09T15:33:00.012+14:00

"It was a nice day so we decided on a drive down the coast. As we neared the sea our appetites became sharpened, something to do with the ocean I think.

I started to imagine eating freshly battered fish and chips made from real potatoes, sitting beside the sea, listening to the waves, the seagulls and the ting of the rope on the jetty flagpole."

Cygnet: the new Bray or San Sebastian?

2011-03-01T14:45:00.004+14:00

Forget Marque opening in Melbourne, don’t worry about David Chang in Sydney or a Noma in Australia. The big news the three new shops being built in the Cygnet CBD have already attracted the attention of some of this country’s greatest names in the food business.

Neil Perry is a name that keeps cropping up as speculation runs rife in Cygnet, a town in the area fast becoming known as The Valley of the Foodies, thanks to the scribe Winsor Dobbin. In fact there is some suposition that real estate prices are on the increase mainly due to the success of the Gourmet Farmer program with some pundits exclaiming, 'Cygnet is now more expensive than Monaco!'

It is rumoured that Perry is considering a micro version of his Rockpool Bar and Grill brand. “It’s just speculation at present, nothings confirmed yet’ he said from the ski slopes of Aspen, ‘but it would stack up nicely, Sydney, Melbourne , Perth and Cygnet, it’s a nice fit don’t you think?’

In another exciting development which has had the local foodie Passionista’s salivating at the prospect, Sydney’s luxe homage to the humble butcher, Victor Churchill’s is set to open later this year with a fit out that the PR behind it promises to ‘’blow David Walsh’s MONA museum out of the water, you've seen that piddley installation of rotting meat at MONA? We'll have a whole wall of rotting meat, dont worry about that!"

Perhaps the most exciting development though is the buzz surrounding Joost Bakker’s new project, Greenhouse in Cygnet. Floral conceptionalist man of the moment, Bakker has confirmed he has indeed been ‘in talks’ with the sites developers. Underpinning this supposition was the arrival of a giant potted Topiary Pittosporum in the shape of a giant J which sent the town’s gossip metre into the red line.
Local foodie-resident and trend spotter, Clancy St Hubbins quipped’ It’s gotta be Joost doesn’t it, no one else makes a statement like him’.

Either way, it seems that this little town is set to shake up the food world with the arrivals of these big players.

But there's a flip side to all this hoopla with some residents not happy with the attention that this tiny hamlet is attracting.
'Yep, we're moving', says Yvonne and Darcy Corthuthers. 'We moved here as part of the witness protection program after the Underbelly series came out. We looked for a town that was overlooked, not on anyone's radar and a place where one could disappear, indefinately, and now all thats changed'. Mr Coruthers continued, ' These days Mary St. is clogged with camera toting bloggers and Foodanistas, no ones privacy is safe anymore so we're moving to Geeveston where no-one will look for us'.

Hobart Apprentice chef linked to Al Qaeda!

2011-02-28T12:08:00.003+14:00

FEDERAL POLICE, ASIO, MOSSAD & INTERPOL have charged a Hobart Apprentice Chef over a series of incidents that have kept the Tasmania Police bomb squad busy during the past fortnight.

The person who cannot be named appeared in an out-of-sessions Hobart court at 6pm yesterday.

It is accused that the man has strong links to Al Qaeda and had done some basic military training in the Eastland’s car park after hours. Acquaintances of the man said he ‘was a crack shot’ at the air guns in sideshow alley at last year Huon Show.

The apprentice chef was charged with four counts of creating a nuisance under the criminal code.
The man did not enter a plea and was remanded in custody. He has been sent to an undisclosed location, some speculating that it might be the cellar at Sapphire Lodge where he will be subjected to Water-boarding and interrogation.

Five improvised explosive devices were discovered on Hobart's Eastern Shore during the past two weeks.
The first device was found about 9.30pm on February 19, forcing the closure of parts of Lindisfarne.

A second device was found on the ground outside a house in Cornwall St, Rose Bay, on the following Monday and a third was found on a bush track off Flagstaff Gully Rd at Lindisfarne.
A fourth device was discovered on Saturday night at Kangaroo Bluff near Bellerive. The devices were made from basic materials including Soda Stream bottles, crushed firelighters, aerosol cans and sparklers.

Some were wrapped in brown paper. Others were wrapped in Mauve Tuille with sparkly ribbons and a signed card.

The fifth device was found at the recent Hobart International Track and Field meet but Police were not concerned as attendance was so low it was never going to be a threat.

Tasmania Police's Con Rilios said two calls from members of the public late last week had helped the investigation.

"The images that were published in Thursday's Mercury triggered very specific information from members of the public," he said.
We are indebted to Mrs Vera St Hubbins and Mr Wesley Vanden Donger for their alert but not alarmed observations.

"Sadly the spectre of world terror has arrived here in Hobart, this city will never be the same again".

Chilling stuff indeed.

Good food takes time mate!

2011-02-26T15:02:00.004+14:00

‘Well just bloody well wake up earlier and bake some more’ was the delicately put advice given to me once by a clearly annoyed customer on discovering we had sold out of bread that day.
From that day forward two things became clear to me, there is an expectation from some members of society that their needs will always be met and the other was I had discovered that ‘Bread-Rage’ could be added to the growing number of the modern day malady.
In today’s Elizabeth Merryment column in the Weekend Australian I was struck by the comments that Igor Ivanovic an artisan bread maker in Sydney had to say.

“We can’t physically make more bread than that in the space,” says baker Igor Ivanovic with a shrug. “Although more people come, all that happens is that we sell out earlier. Some people get very unhappy about that, but what can you do?”

And this

“I remember growing up in Europe. If you went on the weekend to the bakery after nine or 10 o’clock, there was no bread. Here, that’s a new thing. But I think people quite like that. It lends it a bit of … magic.”

At the café we don’t do pre-orders of bread. The reasons are simple. We are not a bakery, we are a café that makes its own bread and we sell whatever will suffice for the cafes needs that day, the rest we sell. In an earlier time, we were faced with the absurd reality that all the bread for sale had been pre-ordered and no one making the effort to come in early for a loaf could get one. This lead to much Bread-Rage.
If you want the bread you must come in and get it. Sometimes the bread isn’t always ready at 10.30 and this understandably can lead to frustration. Making sourdough is not a finite science. There are so many factors in which can affect the finished loaf.
This certainty and consistency is why the large franchises do so well, because they have altered aspects of the bread in order to meet the demands of the market. Smart move one might argue if your goals are market domination, so what’s the problem?
Well some of us believe that in this quest to satiate this constant demand and instant gratification, we have lost sight of the importance of the integrity of the product. Also and this is the thing that I am most interested in; that somehow we have lost the ability to ‘wait’ for our food. We become indignant, impatient and incredulous when we are told, ‘I’m sorry we have sold out today’ or ‘we only made a few loaves of these as they were special’.
This does not sit at ease with many modern sensibilities where virtually every whim no matter how niche is not only catered for but seen as a unique business opportunity.
In fact some businesses are even seen as dinosaurs because they don’t bend instantly to the constant winds of the market. Curiously though there are a few acceptable anomalies that are affectionately regarded as ‘quaint’ or my ‘eccentric’ or my favourite ‘Old fashioned’
The irony with this last one is that in order to now be regarded as ‘old fashioned’ they must withstood the changes thrust upon them and weathered the many fashions that have come and gone, which must have been every hard at times.
Their reward? To be seen as some sort of anachronistic throw-back to a time when we didn’t expect the shops to be open 24/7 and we could only get one sort of bread, but at least it was a decent loaf made with quality ingredients, love and the time to make it properly.

The Swan Inn, Stratford St.Mary 1988

2011-02-24T18:58:00.002+14:00

My fondest memory of that time honoured of hospitality institutions, the knock off drink(s) was way back in 1988, between the hamlets of Dedham and Stratford St. Mary, just outside of Colchester in England
At the time as a journeyman chef I found myself sweating away at an historical coaching restaurant with a dynamic if not eccentric chef, hell bent on achieving a coveted star in the Michelin Guide.
We all lived in the tumbledown staff lodgings which really equated to some very average digs of questionable suitability.
Gumboots were swapped for slippers at the bathroom door at one of the two toilets which was perpetually broken and flushed its contents across the floor wetting the feet of the not yet fully inducted new staff member. The Maitre’D would get himself hammered every night and would frequently neglect his cat which turned to the wilds for its supper. One morning after following the stench to his bedroom door, we peered under his bed on which he continued to snore and fart unhindered by our presence to locate the cadaver of what looked like the putrefied and decaying remains of a woodland animal.
Meals were provided, that was of course if you were happy for your diet to consist of fried potato peelings and fried eggs with HP sauce, three times a day. Otherwise one had to supplement your calorific intake with packets of pork scratchings or Walkers salt n vinegar crisps from the Swan Inn, the better of the three local pubs.
Our regular working day would start at 7.30am and we would mostly get out at 4pm, race home for a kip and be back in the kitchen at 5pm. From then we’d do service and finish at around 10.30 or 11 o’clock and it was always a mad scramble to finish on time. We would all bolt down the tree lined road still in uniform with our heavy coats trailing and the bubbling of a tributary of The Stour River as soundtrack. All along the road were bushes of thick nettles which claimed several of our number over the year of stumbling back to the staff house after a session at the Swan Inn.
The pub shut its doors at 11pm I think so if we got there before then the publican would ‘lock us in’. This meant he drew the curtains and to an observer outside, the pub would appear closed and thus keeping to its licensing requirements. Inside however the place was alive with patrons unshackled from the burdens of work and mischief was in the air.
My routine began by claiming a table by the fire to write many detailed letters to my friends and family back home, my toes warmed by the radiant heat as I gulped copious pints of hand drawn ales. Then it was darts and then taking turns at the bar to talk shit and out-do the previous story. Of course staff fraternising was part of these evenings and our luckily for us, our restaurant was a participating training partner for the near bye Hospitality college in Norwich. Every two weeks a new ‘batch’ of trainees, mostly woman and curiously from the Scandinavian countries, would arrive to do their placement. Their presence in this grim time of night always kept the mood electric. Though we worked hard, they were great days and nights, drinking and chasing the girls. We usually got kicked out of the pub in the wee hours and suffered horribly the next day at work. Sadly this routine was to claim the pay packets of at least one of the chefs who owed the publican his wages nearly every week. What a sorry figure he began to cut, cadging drinks from anyone who’d not heard his sorry tale of woe.
The sheer dread one would experience when the knock at your door on the morning of a rostered day off would indicate that one of your workmates was sick and you had to cover for them. ‘Bastards”, you would think, ‘they were fine guzzling pints the night before’.
I can actually recall turning off all my electrical appliances on one of these occasions to fool the belligerent Sous chef that I was not in my room when he hammered on my door, bellowing for me to come to work. His words muffled as I submerged myself under the refuge of my doona, secure at least on this occasion.
Then conversely there was the pure unbridled elation one experienced when a rostered day off appeared from the mire of work and you could really let your hair down knowing the following morning could be slept off under the covers of your eiderdown.
I always wished I could bottle that feeling.

Cheap ethnic food, our right or our prejudice?

2011-02-15T11:46:00.013+14:00

I’ve often wondered why it is that we assume that many ethnic cuisines will be cheap. Why is this so?
For many people a cheap night out will often include a meal at an ethic restaurant be it Turkish, Somali, Vietnamese or Indonesian.
If you are talking about takeaway food then then the anticipation of thriftiness is increased. I suspect that the very early Chinese restaurants in this country were also subjected to this kind of prejudice but it’s amazing what a few generations of acceptance can do. These days many of the nation’s better restaurants are Chinese or more specifically, Cantonese and customers expect to pay a premium for this experience. It could have been the same prospect for those early Italian eateries, which are now such a far cry from today where Italian food is not equated with cheap, far from it in many cases. The dining public’s acceptance of more costly Japanese food has also changed somewhat over this time.
Paradoxically, Greek food until more recently has mostly been confined to the low price point threshold whilst conversely Indian food has always been on the more pricey side of the ledger. In the case of Greek food, I suspect unlike the Italians, that he Greeks had some sort of culinary cringe when it came to exporting their cuisine. This theory stands up especially when you consider that Greek cuisine eagerly absorbed many French techniques in their quest to modernise and be a part of a progressive Europe. Many dishes we equate being Greek actually are French in origin. This in itself is not as remarkable as many cultures enjoy pinching dishes from each other, however when you consider how almost primitive and basic the cuisine of Greece was, these additions must have been very seismic in their effect.
The fact that Indian food has always enjoyed a consistently high monetary value could be attributed to the fact that it is very familiar especially in England so it’s been absorbed over a couple of hundred years already, thus ‘doing its time’ as a cheap alternative and now has ‘earned the right’ to charge accordingly. These are all just my own views and are not based in any concrete evidence, just bits I’ve read and observed over the years.
Over the decades a few attempts have been made to ‘sex-up’ read,’ charge more’ for Vietnamese food. For the most part, this has manifested into the décor and fit-out of the restaurant. Banished were the cheap Formica tables and plastic condiments caddies and in were the bold statements of interior design. Linked to this was the notion of travel. Vietnam has been a hot spot for travellers for the last twenty years or so and people returned hankering for those authentic tastes. Throw into the mix a new generation of savvy entrepreneurs born with a sense of pride at their cultural differences and the smarts to know how to present and make money from them and you have a big shift in the dining publics’ perceptions.
Maybe one day the Vietnamese restaurants will be regarded as venerable as say those of France and Italy and then they can charge aptly?
However sadly I suspect that one new cultures' acceptance and sense of worth in their adopted country might even be defined by their entrenched price points in restaurants and cafes. Something to mull over and discuss I think.

Jake Gyllenhaal goes under the knife to appear on reality TV Cooking show!

2011-02-14T01:01:00.018+14:00

Jake Gyllenhaal after surgery. Arguably a sad day for the ladies.
Really shocked to have learned about a new-ish phenomenon that is taking a throat-grip on the contestants of prospective reality TV contestants in order for them to appear more 'believable'.. The term ‘Contestiplasty’ might be new and invented by yours truly but its insidious talons reach way back into our history of apparent need to conform to stereotypes or be overlooked by the food networks.

Media companies are always looking for the next big thing, My restaurant Rules, Masterchef and My Kitchen Rules spring to mind, OK scratch My Kitchen Rules but these programs need the modern society to be represented on the tellie as to reflect their viewing audience and thus appeal to their core demographic, no not the audience silly you, the advertisers!

The advertisers call the shots. You think you are watching some epic contest between a few precociously talented twelve year old home cooks? Wrong! What you are witnessing in prime-time is overt product placement punctuated by some bratty kids cooking their Stage-Mums dinner party soufflé and the subsequent meltdown when big Matt doesn’t score them large.

In fact in this age of the cult of celebrity chef it seems everyone’s a contender despite of or because of their lack of experience. These days it’s less important to have any kind of track record in the field but you must be telegenic above all else to succeed. I am saddened to report that a growing number of talented chefs and cooks, eager to get their mugs on the box have succumbed to the slashes of the surgeon’s knife. It seems it’s no longer possible to make it on talent alone these days and there’s a mad scramble to ‘Nip & Tuck’ or ‘Botox’ the imperfections away to suit the 'profile' of what the show requires.

They want a tubsy-happy-go-lucky 'Kenny' type, no problemo Or a street-smart-young-n-sassy Eurasian woman-done. Oh, and who can overlook the battling suburban Mum type? Because these profiles are so familiar on our screens, folks are ready to go under te knife in order to sharpen their chances of success.

But with every story of those who stretch for the lofty heights of stardom comes a fable of those who crash down to reality with an ignoble and inglorious thud.

Take this guy, a modestly talented and capable cook who in his quest for greater glory underwent hours of major surgery to fulfil his deluded dream of landing a TV show.

Sadly for him the dream was to turn to nightmare when his surgery went all so wrong.
He recounts;” Yea I was a major acting player, a few notable roles under my belt and I knew how to appear on screen for sure, I mean, you guys know I was nominated right?! This was different though, I had to appear as if I was confident yet not egotistical. Shit, it was my toughest gig if truth be known and that’s when I decided I should try the Contestiplasty to give me the edge I needed to get the gig.’

What was intended as a minor facelift took all the wrong turns and for those of you, whom are familiar with this actor’s body of work, is still being fought over in a Hollywood court today.

‘If I have some advice for you kids dreaming of becoming an actor out there in their suburban bedrooms, live that dream, don’t complicate it by trying to be a celebrity chef contestant or ever getting Contestiplasty!

Like the sombre words 'Don't smoke' of sadly deceased former actor and smoker and Yul Brynner, hang ominously in the air and so echoes the tale of Hollywood heartthrob Jake Gyllenhaal, ‘Please don’t get Contestiplasty in order to appear on a cooking reality show, it ruined my life and my acting career’.

Hobart City Council rejects mobile Halal abattoir in the Mall?

2011-02-12T16:23:00.004+14:00

Hassem el Jabani has lodged an application to establish a mobile Halal abattoir in Hobart's Elizabeth Mall despite advice from the city council that his proposal would likely be rejected.
Mr el Jabani said he had asked for the decision to be made by Hobart City Council aldermen, because there would be no change to policy regarding mall stands until it was determined by aldermen.
He said he had surveyed retail business owners or managers in the mall and none had a problem with his plan.
Of those canvassed 55 per cent described it as a great idea, 27 per cent said it would attract people to the mall, and 18 per cent said the mall badly needed revitalising with something new.
And Mr el Jabani said there were no other mobile Halal abattoir’s in the locality, Peter Simmonds who had the Donut King franchise in Cat and Fiddle Arcade, said he had no issue with the proposal.
He said Mr Simmonds did not butcher Halal meat products and he believed variety was good in a dynamic retail environment.
Centro Cat and Fiddle arcade manager Caroline McGovern also had no objection.
Mr el Jabani said public comments also supported his proposal.
He said his mobile abattoir would conform to food handling regulations and would enhance the mall providing a new food option for people.
The supporting businesses in the mall included ones selling food and drinks.
"Many of those commenting said it may bring more people into the mall at a time when there has been a downturn in business," Mr el Jabani said.
But he expected council to be "hard set" in its policy not to allow more commercial stands in the mall.
The only portable permanent business in the mall is the Flower Barrow.
"I am wanting them to relax that policy and be forward thinking and innovative and at least allow it for a trial period," Mr el Jabani said.
He said space he occupied in the mall would be charged at a commercial lease rate, and the council should consider each application on merit.

Self censorship in action!

2011-02-09T13:31:00.000+14:00

It was all a dream....

The Cooking show talent spotters

2011-02-03T17:09:00.004+14:00

Three men sit at the end of a long board room table. A jug of water, glasses and three neat A4 pads and pens are arranged at each place sitting. The company logo, Freementle Media, adorns the pads.
Two of the youngish men are in smart suits whilst the third, lets call him ‘the Talent’, is a portly orange-tanned middle aged man with bleached teeth, blond highlights and a paunch not tamed by his low-cut skinny black jeans.
The camera zooms in to the head shots and we take up the dialogue:

Suit #1; ‘Well Mr _______. you certainly are tenacious and I have to congratulate you on your chutzpah, I’ve not seen anything quite like it before, so I hope its all worth our time. I’ll cut to the chase, how can we help you?’
The Talent: ‘Yea cheers but first I’ve got a question for you’
Suit #1; ‘Go ahead’
The Talent: ‘What’s Choots-par? Is it a curry or sumfin?’
The suits exchange looks, whilst Suit #1 draws a thin redline across the words: Poss guest chefs/Masterchef
Suit #2: ‘Ok, let get to the point, what are you here for?’
The Talent: ‘I want to do a show’
Suit #1: ‘A show?’
The Talent: ‘Yea, you know, cookin ‘n shit. Moochin’ around in the deep-country meetin’ six fingered farmers & two headed fishermen n shit, you know keeping it real.’
Suit #2: ‘N shit?’
The Talent: ‘Exacly! I wanna be big, real big, bigger’n that Hugh Fartsy-Know-it-all. Bigger’n that shouty-sweary Ramsay. Bigger than even him.’
Suit #1: ‘Him?’
The Talent: ‘You know, HIM, the bloke who’s bigger than Ben Hur n'shit, the biggest and baddest one of the lot.’
Both suited men look blankly for a moment.
The Talent: ‘The bloke who we are not allowed to mention, for crissakes’
Suit #1: ‘Er, you mean Voldemort?’
The talent getting frustrated: ‘Fuck no, Mr Luvery Jubberly hiself, Jamie freakin Olivar mate, thats facking well oo!’
Suit #1: ‘Oh right yes I see, the other network, of course.’
And exchanges looks with suit #2, clears throat and holding his pen for ballast, continues: ‘We feel that in order to portray you convincingly, as a travelling chef etc etc, that you must have some actual culinary experience under your belt alre…..’
The Talent cuts him off mid sentence and crows
‘HA! Got ya!’ thumping the table for effect. ‘I’m already enrolled in Cert 3 at the bloody Polytechnic!’
Stunned, the suits chime in unison ‘The Polytechnic?!’
The Talent continues, ‘Yea they advertised a while back, ‘Do you want to be the next Jamie Olivar n'shit?’ ‘and my freakin’ answer is Yes. Yes and freakin’ Yes!’
‘Now how bout my show then?’
The suits look at each other before suit #1 shrugs his shoulders and suit #2 flips his pad onto a new page, writes Contestant in bold letters, clears his throat and says;
‘Righto then, first question: How convincingly can you cry?’

Camera fades to The Talent belting out his best ever Crocodile tears

The antidote to all those 'must-invite' dinner lists

2011-02-02T19:20:00.002+14:00

It’s such a cliché but whenever someone gets asked who they would invite to their ‘ultimate’ dinner party, inevitably Ghandi, Mother Theresa and Einstein are in their list of ‘must haves’.
The list, you understand, is meant to inform the reader of the extensive interests, profound ponderings and immeasurable character of the listee.
In short, it’s not really about the dinner guests at all. It’s about the person who wrote the list and a reflection of their tastes.
I suspect it is a widely held acceptance that list-making is mostly the pre-occupation of geeky Male-Kidults who don’t quite fit in anywhere, so amuse themselves by sequencing their likes and dislikes. Look Nick Hornby explains this way better than I ever could so I’ll move on.

Instead of boring everyone with my ideal dinner guests, I’ll bore everyone with my list of non-invitees.

Fabio Grosso-the Olympic diver who plays soccer

Hugh Grant-no not the actor and curb crawler, the CEO of Monsanto

Ray Croc-the bloke that did a deal with the Devil, Walt Disney to change forever the way advertising is marketed toward children

The person that invented the cheesy-multi-crust pizza. WTF?

That killjoy at Banjos HQ, who insists on forcing upon us the old fashioned tomato sauce portions-Fuck-all sauce with maximum hardship.

The person from the Huon Council that decried ‘No standing’ on the stretch of Mary St in Cygnet, where its, err… OK to stand?

That short, curly headed bloke from Air Supply, who seems to have all his songs on high rotation on Hobart’s FM stations.

That ‘Free-Hugs’ try-hard bloke from a few years ago plus those annoying people that put smiley emoticons on their emails.

Oh, and while I’m on it, that: ‘Stuff white people like’ wanker, the ‘You are what you eat’ bully and the ‘Biggest Loser’ creators too.

I will NOT be inviting Noel Gallagher, Simon Cowell, Mark Holden, Lady Ga Ga, or any of those overly warbley, high note reaching, Beber-esque lady-boy singers.

Phillip Ruddock is most definitely, not invited, nor is Henry Kissinger, Don Rumsfeld or Dick Cheney

Milo Minderbinder, prototype capitalist and film arch-villain, not on the list.

Brendon Fevola, Shane Warne, Kevin Muscat, John Hopoate, Anthony Mundine, and Mike Tyson won’t ever be welcome at my table

Sorry but the people responsible for the lax food labelling in this country, are not welcome either. Nor are the ones letting GM-free farmers hang out to dry whilst big agribusiness sue them for breach of copyright. Ditto those in the RSPCA for giving ticks to those responsible for the questionable treatment of animals.

Nor is Kyle Sandilands, Piers Ackerman, Andrew Bolt, Neil Mitchell and Steve Price

The people responsible for ‘Freddy got fingered’, ‘Battlefield Earth’, ‘Pluto Nash’, ‘Soul Plane’, ‘The Pink Panther two’, ‘Year One’, ‘White Chicks’, ‘The Love Guru’ plus many more…

Sheesh, I could really go on and on…

Chef Crisis in Tasmania!

2011-01-21T12:06:00.002+14:00

It's only taken a few years for the powers that be to finally acknowledge that we have a severe lack of properly credentialled and skilled chefs in this state. http://tiny.cc/w90vb