But look at these babies. Long golden spears of crunchy, perfectly spiced goodness. Not so thin as to be nothing more than potato prezels. Not so chunky that the pillowed fluffyness inside becomes tedious. A perfect balance in fact between crunch and softness.
The little bowl of aioli is lovely, although I will admit there are other dips that would work as well if not better. But we are not here to talk about dips. We are are here to discuss matters chiptastic. And I say there is nowhere you will find a more awesome fried potato product than Stokehouse on the river in Brisneyland.
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I know, right? Eeww. And yet it totally works. At least the way they're serving it up over at Sourced in New Farm. I'm pretty sure these are the guys responsible for making sardines cool again. Or maybe just cool. I don't know that there's ever been a time before now when sardines were considered anything other than poor man's sandwich filler. They were a cheap source of protein when I was a kid and I don't recall any fond memories of them.
So maybe it was just perverse nostalgia made me try the La Cuca sardines on toast the first time I saw them on the menu here.
Turned out they were awesome. Nothing like the stinky garbage fish of yore. Two lighty toasted slabs of sourdough, a green salad and a cup of coffee. Breakfast of champions.
Next time I went, however, the menu had changed and the leaf was gone, replaced by a salsa verde. Or maybe pesto. It changes all the damn time. Damn them. The latest incarnation arrived with a strangely familar paste that I thought might have been some sort of capsicum dip.
It was a skinless salami. In fact the skinless salami I'd first tried over at Enoteca and which I'd seen subsequently at half a dozen other, mostly Italian, joints around town. Think of a hot, spicey salami that hasn't 'set' hard and isn't fashioned into a sausage. It usually comes in a little bowl and you spread it on chunks of bread, maybe dabbed with a little olive oil for moisture.
I would never, ever have thought of putting it together with sardines. But these guys did. (Tossed a little pot of confit garlic and some cherry tomatoes in for good measure, too). Thinking I was smearing a sort of pepper dip on my toast, I wasn't surprised by the spike of heat, but the 'meaty' flavours and mouthfeel did provide a momentary WTF interlude.
And then I inhaled the lot.
It was such a mammoth meal I didn't need to eat again until dinner. Only one caveat. The salami paste does not play well with white coffee. I'd have water or a long black if I was doing this again. But given how often Sourced switch out the elements of their sardine toast, I probably won't get the chance.
Who the hell am I kidding? They're all my favourites. Especially the one I'm live blogging right now, from the bar at Claret House while the kids knock over a music lesson. I'm drinking a mystery red, a weird Yarra Valley blend of sangiovese and sav blanc. Yep, the Britney Spears of the wine world. They snuck it past my guard. It smells a little rusty in the glass, but drinks dry and light. I'm thinking of having some pate with it and calling that dinner.
It's quiet here tonight, unusually, perhaps because of the cold weather closing in and keeping people inside. S'cool, more elbow room at the bar for me.
I like this place for an escape from Planet Parenthood. It's friendly and reliable, and the food is a cut above your standard bar nosh. (Pork belly sliders for the win!) Some of the the burg's will know it from previous meet ups and we will undoubtedly meet her again in the future. I'm thinking of having my birthday here next year, but that's not what we're talking about. Happy hour. Happy, happy hour.
It's a tradition that seems to be falling away in this fast paced go-go world of ours and that's a shame. I think it's still a thing in the US, because I've enjoyed a few very happy hours in this bar and that at the end of book tour days. San Francisco in particular seemed to be keeping the flame alive. The hotel I stayed in last time I was there on my own had the happiest hour of all. Free drinks for house guests! And not just the sloppy seconds from the previous night's unsold, oxidised rubbish either. They uncorked fresh bottles every day at five, show casing a flight of west coast wineries and providing a few nibblies to go with them.
Claret House, do their happy hour – half price drinks – on Wednesdays and Fridays. But the hour runs for two hours. Huzzah.
No trays of party pies or sausage rolls, however, which I recall from the pubs I rolled through in the 1980s. Man, when I found out they were serving food...
I guess the thing that makes it a bit spesh these days is the fact I can almost never get away from commitments and responsibilities for anything like an hour on any given day. I can always dream however, and I'm sure that some of you will have super secret knowledge of a happy hour I can dream of too .
Hands up everyone whose mind went straight to the gutter. Right. Off to the naughty corner with you, because you do not deserve to enjoy this flaky, eggy little flavor bomb of goodness. My little friend here, the Portuguese custard tart from the Oxford Street Bakery is one of the reasons I get through so many podcasts and audiobooks. If you're going to cultivate a serious hungry for these things, and it's almost impossible not to, you’ll need to be spending some time on the treadmill too. These tarts are the preferred food of the blubber eel which is forever trying to take up residence around my tummy regions.
But, one caveat. It’s not really a Portuguese custard tart, is it? Not because it was baked about million miles from the monastery at Santa Maria de Belém, the spiritual home of the Pastel de Nata, but because it’s just all wrong. The pastry is wrong. The egg custard; wrong. The slightly burned skin which is the mark of a true nata? Not even there.
And yet… God help me, I have come to prefer these ones. The sweet, soft crust pastry has a much more predictable consistency and although it lacks the crunch of a properly executed Portuguese custard tart, nor does it suffer from the problems of inconsistency, irregularity and simple shoddy fucking pastry skills which so often ruin the experience elsewhere.
I love these things. They are my treat of the week. From Monday to Friday as I grimly mutter “No bakery treats no bakery treats, step away from the sweet treat cabinet you fool”, it is the prospect of inhaling one on the weekend which keeps me honest. I try to get there early enough to score one fresh from the oven, when they are at their best, with a thin skin barely holding in the gooey just set custard. With a strong coffee they are an almost perfect start to the day.
I’ve always been a fiend for custard tarts. My mother tells me I threw one of my greatest tantrums as a child when I was forced to abandon a half eaten tart to run for a bus, or something. The reason for the abandonment hardly matters, does it? It was principle of the thing.
I still love and appreciate a good, traditional stodgy Anglo tart, with the wide, almost biscuity base and a sprinkling of cinnamon, and I’ll always save room at Yum Cha for the Chinese version – of which there are two types, the Chinese of Macau being influenced by their former colonial overlords from… Portugal. But there is nothing to compare to having one small simple serving of custardy awesome in one hand, and a decent cup of java in the other.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a pack of hefty blokes in possession of a good appetite must be in want of a pork fest. Unconscionably protracted in the planning, painfully abridged in the execution, our night of the suckling pig drew together such a team of these greedy yahoos that its like will ne’er be seen again.
The Night of the Pig was a mission from God. A magnificent obsession. Out there with mad Cap’n Ahab’s hunt for the great white whale or the Man of La Mancha’s crazed charges against enemy windmills. And Don Quixote de la Mancha is no gratuitous classical reference cast like a cultured pearl before you beery swine. Well, actually it is. But it segues really nicely into a consideration of Don Quixote’s House of the Suckling Pig, the centre of the pork-loving universe. Familiar to generations of Sydney movie-goers through its cheap, scratchy, Whitlam-era cinema ads.
The Don caught my eye when some pompous twit of a food critic swanned through to nickel and dime the joint to death. As if I give a fuck about the lack of radicchio and tiramisu. For me, the kicker from that review was the clear impression given that these guys could supply you with more pork than you could possibly eat.
Oh baby, I salivated quietly, racking gut cramps here I come.
My original plan called for twelve good men and true to repair to the The Don’s place to stuff themselves insensible on hot, salty pork while drinking so much Mexican beer that someone would accidentally get a tattoo and join the merchant navy And with but one exception every red-blooded son of Anzac I approached felt as I did, to the universal horror of their girlfriends and heart surgeons, whose eyes bulged at the thought of them gorging on pork until they could gorge no more.
Their neediness was even a little scary. One, a lawyer for a multinational arms conglomerate, suggested hiring a private room where we could eat naked whilst dusky serving wenches scurried hither and yon with tape measures to track the expansion of our waistlines: first to enlarge himself by 20 per cent to win.
As word spread through the city hopeful pig brothers appeared from all corners wanting a piece of the action. Captain Barnes, flew up from Melbourne, avowing that he wouldn’t be happy until his fingertips turned grey from restricted blood circulation due to the massive quantities of hog fat congealing in his bloodstream. Sadly we were to be undone by our own appetites.
Meeting in the Century Tavern above Hungry Jack’s in George Street, we discovered that despite brave words to the contrary the women in our lives had not organised some counter pig night (or Teste-Fest ’98 as one dubbed it). A picnic at Shakespeare in the Park had been mooted. Or a Jane Austen video binge. But despite the tantalising prospect of organising five or six bloke-free hours together at that stupid, interminable Cloud Street play, nothing transpired. After copious hits off the Tooheys Old taps we all agreed this had something to do with girls not being good at sums.
While these weighty deliberations took place, yon editor and photographer inspected the facilities. A couple of thin tweedy-looking college boys – looked like a good fuck and some pork crackling might be the end of them–they were escorted through the voluminous kitchens by Manuel, who’s been with the restaurant for about three hundred years. They were introduced to our own specially selected porker, procured from a secret alpine breeding station, the source of The Don’s succulent white meat for three decades.
All around them other little piggies lay happily marinating in their trays or slowly roasting in the ovens, a process which can take up to six hours. Manuel became very excited by the prospect of another magazine review. His only other brush with fame was a cover story in something like Pig Breeders Monthly, a long time ago. The details are a little hazy due to many schooners of Tooheys Qld warring with the San Miguels I switched to on arrival, the chewy over bite of a cold San Mig being the only possible consort to such a repast.
With the team finally in place at the bar, our sixteen big men blocked all access to and from the body of the restaurant, drawing worried glances from the wait staff and other diners. The Don’s place presented a little like the flagship outlet of an upmarket Alamo-themed restaurant chain; lots of weathered oak and brick and, in the bar, what looked like a couple of wooden cannon bookends untainted by the merest hint of irony. It was the perfect site for an all male meat fest, but I gotta say we didn’t understand all the couples who kept arriving for what were obviously to be romantic dinners. The presence of those few Asian tourists still standing after the regional financial meltdown had sent their tinpot economies back to wholesaling sacks of guano and betel nuts was understandable. They were here by mistake. But surely the locals should know better?
Maybe it had something to do with excellent dating facilities; specifically, The Don’s dance floor on which riotously tipsy thick-waisted hipsters punished the macarena while Zorro’s great-grandson tickled the synth with all the dexterity which his famous forebear deployed in carving his mark into the chests of California’s avaricious landowners.
Waiters who hovered with offers of garlic prawns were dismissed to the kitchens with stern orders to start bringing the carcasses and to keep bringing them until our corrupt and bloated bodies lay groaning on the floor, covered in a thick greasy sheen of glistening lard and faintly creaking as the monstrous volume of meat pressed against straining ribs and taut belly skin.
I don’t think they knew what they were dealing with.
Piles of warm crusty bread rolls arrived but any of the eager juveniles who reached for them were quickly smacked back into line. A big trap for young players. Save space for the pig. The first pig which arrived was laid on the table and I do not exaggerate when I say that its bones had been sucked clean before the somewhat superfluous vegetables arrived two minutes later.
It was around about this point that Manuel, who had previously been the very picture of a genial host, became worried.
‘More pig! More pig!’ we cried. More plates arrived and were cleaned off with ferociously efficient despatch. ‘Ha ha,’ laughed Manuel nervously. ‘We normally get romantic couple in here. They don’t eat so much.’
‘More pig! More pig!’ we cried.
The waiters eyed each other anxiously and began to back away from the table. The horrible truth began to dawn on me. A special alpine breeding station. Six-hour cooking time. A restaurant full of diners all tucking into their meals while we denuded the bar.
Oh. My. Fucking. God.
They were short of pig. Or, more likely, they had enough pig for a normal night but this was most assuredly not a normal night.
All joking aside Manuel,’ muttered Robbie, ‘where’s the rest of the pig, man?’
They were sweating by now. We suggested they might care to scrape the plates of the other diners whose eyes had proven too big for their bellies. I don’t know whether they did this but we were about to do it ourselves when a few more plates turned up.
And in defence of The Don let me say that this was magnificent pig. The best any of us had ever tasted. So keen was Adam Spencer for a few more scraps of its golden goodness that he and Barnes picked clean the skull of the first beast Manuel had laid before us. Eyeballs and all.
But… They were short of pig. We had broken them.
As we spilled out onto George Street a raucous argument broke out over whether we should head back to the Century to drown our sorrows and fill the empty spaces in our pig-loving hearts with Tooheys Old, or whether we should go to Hungry Jack’s first.