The Prestige (aka The Local Taphouse)...

Every magic trick consists of three parts or acts. The first part is called 'the pledge'. The magician shows you something ordinary: a deck of cards a bird or a man...

...another Eastern suburbs beer house seeking to establish itself as a new hot spot. The Local Taphouse Darlinghurst has set up scrumptious shop on the crowded dining and drinking fringes of Surry Hills. A shadowy interior in seductive black is huskily illuminated by golden bulbs of light adorned with antique bird cages. Wooden, cosy, curious crammed corners everywhere, cavernous couches in Old World prints, drinking, eating, general Friday night merriment: it feels exactly like being inside The Prestige, minus the intoxicating presence of Signor Bale. But who needs Christian when you have a menu like this?

'Pub Food' just does not do justice to what is going on here. An epic, solid, confident menu tells a tale of prosciutto, grilled merguez, stuffed capsicum, ChilliJamBasilMeatballs, tapatapatapenade, spiced feta, lithe lemon myrtle mayonnaise, firecrackerish frites with a serious case of Battered Beer Syndrome in Chilli, mussels aimlessly adrift in LemonLeekThyme, 10 inch pizza with oh so roasted TomatoBasilShavedParmesan, eye fillet, swimming snapper, linguine, beguiling burgers, chocolate in fancy and double stouted as mousse....Drowning in your own drool, much? Oh, C+K'ians, all the rumours they have been pouring into my willing ear are true, I do believe we have struck edible gold. 

The second act is called the 'the turn'. The magician takes the ordinary something and makes it do something extraordinary. Now you're looking for the secret...

These frites are the categorical reason that the phrase 'Mother Fucker' simply had no choice other than to exist. They are the turn. They are the mother fucking maddening turn! They will turn your taste buds all the way to on. I don't care where life takes me and what it makes of me, I will never rid myself of the ability to flip out over seriously good hot chips. I am batty about battered, make no mistake, and good hot chips are damn hard to find. These chilli frites were so good that they actually hurt. I was pained, offended and demoralized by their unfathomable deliciousness. It was complete and utter Ouch, Potato! You can't even pretend you've had hot chips until you have tried these babies. They are spiced with a sinisterly generous spattering of chilli flakes, beer battered into a frenzy and served with a little parmesan mayonnaise dipping pool that you can douse their literal, and metaphoric, flames with. These are better than my former fry love, the twice cooked fries at Little Creatures Brewery in Freemantle. Hell, they're even better than Fry from Futurama. Lo and Behold. I ordered another bowl the second I lost myself in that first virginal bite. So crisp, cut wide, like agonizing oblongs of angular delight, nice and broad but not too thick. Jesus. This dish deserves a following, it calls for a sacred text, it demands nothing less than a yearly pilgrimage to a distant land. Bite into the crisp beer battered skin and Potato as Platonic Form awaits you. The taste doesn't end in your mouth, food this good becomes pelvic...

Right. Breathe in, breathe out, tell them about the rest, Amanda. The burgers are gorgeous little creations, like a teapot, short and stout. Filled with luscious meat and deep sauces (vege option as well). The 3 Beer Beef Burger (my cholesterol just went up writing that) is a slick little teeth sinker with aecht shlenkerla rauchbier, gruyere cheese, tomato, rocket and hofbrau munich helles battered onion rings and hoegaarden and lemon myrtle mayo with rosemary roasted potato wedges. It's fat, rocking, Burger Heaven, the kind you struggle to wrap your mouth around and lick your fingers over. 

The Barramundi is one of the most surprisingly enjoyable meals I have had in ages, a huge flavoursome serve for twenty six bucks. It comes to you heaving on a heavy plate, delicate and pliable, beneath a divine crispy skin, crowd surfing on mashed peas, orgasmic olives, tomato and little intense flickers of lingering lemon. The mash was incredible and the olives were amazing, trust an Arab when they tell you olives are good, it's a very well researched topic for them. This dish was so filling I had to share it. Surprising to get great fish at a place that does burgers, pizza and meat so well. This Barra could have held it's own against any top end restaurant in Sydney, and the serve for the price is really good value. Exciting to see food of this standard in a really relaxed setting, and with so many quirky beers to match.

The Taphouse really is a beautiful place to stay a long while in. The lighting is a pain in the ass for good photos, but it makes the place great to be in, you want to sink in, drink, talk, eat and stay stay stay. Modern interiors can leave you feeling a bit cold and sterile, this setting is so textured and kooky and comfortable, you're just happy to be among all the lights and cages and lampshades. I had one of the best nights I have had in a long time here, and I also tried some damn fine meat balls.

A tiny wonder, of Great Balls of Meatish Fire with schlenkerla bauchbier (I am copying this verbatim from menu and checking spelling, so don't be impressed or anything) and oregano beautifully braised in tomato, chilli jam and basil, is a beautiful thing to Bemouth. We all thought we detected some honey or brown sugar infusing the tomatoness, there was a really earthy kind of sweetness to the way it all tasted, so divine, I usually dislike tomato sauces because they taste too acidic, this was Smooth As. 

Should I tell you about dessert? Should I? No, Really? Do You Really want to know?...Well, I guess just this once. Now, I didn't get any clear shots of a kinky little thing that drove a few of us to frenzies of exclaimed delight! Siren's Chocolate Fancy. If you see it on the specials board, don't even wait for the end of the meal to try it, have it for entree. It's a fudgey consistency of RichRichRich chocolate with a little white chocolate and berry, and is an Atheist's Heaven. The little gobs on the sticky end of your darting fork should be directed to your mouth, post haste, simply apply to your tongue and let your taste buds do the rest. Wicked dessert. So luscious and smooth and creamy and rich. Hardcore Chocolate.

And the mousse? It should be hanging from your frickin wall! James is a mousse nutter, and he was not disappointed to say the least. It's double chocolate. Can somebody please enlighten me on why the word 'double' sounds so good and so right next to the word 'chocolate'? TongueFerrari, this one, at 250ks down Alimentary Highway. SlipperyNaughtyMintishOnTopChocolateChocolateSmooth Move. Get a big spoonful and slowly lick it and suck a little. Wait for it to give way. Patiently, patiently. Allow it to melt, that's the way to eat mousse, you should never take bites, play with the softness, it's so right it's wrong.

Alas, I hardly ever drink, so no heads up on the booze. I can tell you all that beer in the food was delicious, and they do have a bunch of beer brands I have never heard of. The menu matches beer to dishes, it's a MetroBogan's dream come true. I love this picture below, notice how the dude on the right actually has a real beer sitting right next to his protesting mouth? He's probably dead now, but if he can see that, I bet he's happy.

By the end of dinner, I was all Smiles: great food, great place, great company (the latter can't be guaranteed for your visit).

You've had The Pledge.

You've had The Turn.

But what of, The Prestige?

Making something disappear isn't enough, you have to bring it back. That's why every magic trick has a third act, the hardest part, the part we call 'The Prestige'.

I couldn't specify the exact moment in the night they pulled the third act on me, but pull it they did. Maybe when I was biting into a frite? Or when the Chocolate was stealing every last drop of my drunken dessert fancy? It could even have been when I saw the burgers come out. No doubt about it, I will be back. We all Will. James decided we have should have lunch here, every day, always and forever. 

The Local Taphouse happens at 122 Flinders St, Darlinghurst, ph 9360 0088, webpage here. Unbeerably Good Stuff. 

Thanks Tats, Sara, James, Erin, GeorgeWithNewHair and hilarious ShireZam Girl, Emma, Knobs and Knockers will never be the same again.

The Middle Feast.

We've all had that moment, you know that dreaded happening. It usually occurs in your childhood or early adolescence, and not well into your adulthood, like it did for me. That awful point in time where the realisation hits you, like the blades of a cold shower on a frozen winter morning: that the entire time you've known them, your family has never been normal! This whole time, they were complete and utter nuts, and I never even knew. Sure, being one of the only Lebanese kids at the kind of Presbyterian school that makes you wear regulation undies, there were some hints along the way, but honestly, it's only lately it seems to have fully sunken in. All of that brazen Bechara kookiness is evident in the way we eat and the way we cook. We have 4 fridges for a family of 5, and if Dan, I and 20 or so of my nearest and dearest drop by to say a quick hello to my folks, it's nothing for my mother to cater for all us at a moments notice, and have enough for doggie take home bags. At most houses they offer you a casual cup of tea with a biscuit, at my house the casual offer is for some juicy and tender eye fillet and garlic sauce....with a side of lasagne. Dan loves it, but my metabolism is still reeling years later. There has been talk that my gallbladder, liver and pancreas are arranging some kind of class action.

Lebanese mothers...you've got to love them. They are warm, generous and almost carousingly caring. Their love of you and their need to show it is unrelenting, like a shadow just out of your range of vision. They feed your stomach while stroking your hair and obviously looking at you with that not so latent wistfulness that says 'don't let me die without grandchildren'. No Lebanese mother is worth her weight in salt if she doesn't own the kind of deep freezer than can store several dead bodies, I think my aunty Frida's is still the biggest I have seen. Lebanese mothers amaze me, and, with glorious bias, none more than my own. She's a funny woman my mother, silent, deep, and perpetually able to frown, and smile at me simultaneously. I always knew she was an amazing cook, I grew up happily in the familiar flavours of her boundless talent. But it was only after inviting lots of friends over for dinner, that one dish kept drawing startled praise from my non Lebanese friends. Mum's Koussa (Arabic for Zucchini) it seems, is the Real Deal, and even if you're too scared to make it, this is how it's done.

This bombtastic, spicy, swirling, Dervish Dancing tomato broth based, white zucchini RiceLambParsleyTomatoSpiceSpiceSpice stuffed stew/soup thing is Yummerificnous. It's warm and gentle and filling. It consists of beautiful plump little zucchinis, full of divinely steaming flavour, bopping up and down and drunkenly into each other like stoned toddlers in a bewitching broth of tantalizing tomato. It has a richness from the lamb that beautifully grounds the sharpness of the parsley. So hard to describe well in words, it's simply more than the sum of its parts. One bowl always leads to three. I love it even more the next day when some of the broth becomes more congealed into a thick, almost porridge like tomatoed stew. Mmmm. So, if you want to teach your taste buds how to scream 'Ya Habibi', this is what you'll need first...

You're going to have to go to a Lebanese Grocer. If you've never been, a world of untold riches of smell, sight, taste and sound (from all the noisy Lebs shopping there) awaits you. Don't be daunted, pretty, pretty please give it a try. You'll see the biggest, brownest most gorgeously golden cashews, roasted to salty perfection and so fresh you'll never shop at coles again. Lebanese nuts are simply the best (grow up), they're like gobsmacking jewels, giant pistachio, alabaster almond, so fresh, all the good oils intact and alive and kicking . You'll see mint, vibrant dream in green mint, mint in big, thick, lustrous bouquet bunches, and parsley so alive and free from that skanky supermarket condomish plastic sleeve embrace. You'll smell spices you can't even name, and the fruit...I love Lebanese grocers, quality and freshness are guaranteed. Abu Salim in Greenacre is amazing, but you don't have to go Wild West to find an authentic one, they're dotted all over Sydney. 

From The Grocer:

a little utensil for hollowing out the zucchini insides, its like a very thin scoop, very cheap.

white zucchini (about 20 for) the thinner ones are nicer, mum says.

white rice (not long grain, it expands too much), 20 tablespoons

3 bunches or so of Lebanese/Italian Parsley (the flat, not curly kind)

8 firm red tomatoes you'll chop these up, slicer dicer style.

Lebanese Spice Mix (cinnamon, hot pepper, black pepper, cumin etc, same used in tabouli)

Optional: Tender Lamb Shoulder (about 2 cups full, don't know the grams), the lamb gives a richness that seeps into the whole soup beautifully, but if you'd prefer vegetarian, which mum makes on occasion, it tastes as lovely, for vegans, use olive oil instead of ghee). Lamb mince is also okay, Lebanese don't use it because the shoulder diced yourself is fresher and leaner. Beef can be used, but it's dryness means that lamb is preferable.

3 tablespoons (heaped) tomato paste

3 tablespoons (heaped) ghee (ghee is clarified butter, used extensively in Arabic and Indian cooking, Ayurvedics believe it's a very nurturing food, warming for the body and good for strengthening and energizing)...you can use normal butter but it doesn't taste the same, ghee has a rich less creamy taste than butter and really suits savoury rice based dishes.

Salt (duh)

Preparation takes a little while, but once you've got it all laid out, it's just a matter of stuffing and boiling and watching, and Abu Bob's your uncle. Wash everything first, like a maniac, Lebanese people wash vegetables about 3 times thoroughly. For the zucchini,  scalp the little knobby thing off the end (it's too hard to chew) and then hollow out gently the zucchini. The tube the utensil makes in the flesh should be able to fit your little finger (I giggled a bit during this lesson, Mum rolled her eyes).

Then make the rice mix. About a tablespoon of rice for each zucchini, so 20 tablespoons in this case. Rinse the rice (3 times), mix in the finely chopped parsley and diced tomato. At this stage get a massive pot (I am sorry I can not scale these measurements down, they are massive and just inherently Lebanese, these people do not understand the concept of a serving for two, they never will) and fill it up about 3/4 full with water, add to this the three heaped tablespoons of tomato paste and allow it to come to the boil. If you want to be puritanical about it, get a spoon and keep scraping off throughout the whole cooking process the thickened tomato residue that rises to the surface, mum says this gives the broth a much cleaner, sweeter taste.

Your mix should look roughly like this, add, to taste, the spice and salt. Mum is anal about the fact that you must taste it and there can be no measurements. Even if you have spit out the uncooked rice, you must taste...God, why do Lebanese recipes end up including the advice that One Ought to Spit... Leave your mix and your zucchini to the side. Take the lamb shoulder, if you're using it, cut out the fat and dice it into small pieces. Take this, or the mince ready made, and add to a frying pan with ghee, you only want to brown it a little before adding it to the mix. Once browned, mix it in with the parselyricetomatospice and then take the zucchini and stuff each one with the mix. Stuff only 3/4 full, as the rice expands in the cooking, you want to leave a bit of room at the end (snorted this time, no giggle).

The ready to go little green flavour rockets bound for your tum should look a little something like this. Be gentle when you add them into the boiling broth. Turn down the heat on the stove. Don't ever stir with vigour, you don't want the zucchini pockets to break, just push down the top of them occasionally so they're rotated around a little. As they approach the end the colour of the zucchini begins to come become paler, it's almost an hour cooking, you want to test one by spooning into it, it should be firm zucchini enveloping a well cooked, maddening rice stuffing. If you over cook the zucchini the skin starts to break down and it loses its shape and leaks out the rice. Mum usually adds a cup of the stuffing to the tomato broth itself to thicken the soup out. Do this if you like, but don't add too much. Any extra rice she cooks in a little side pot as a separate dish.

What you end up with is a down right Ethnic God Bath of fantastic flavour. The lamb and ghee are like barely discerning bass notes that sound out from under the melody of the tomato, parsley and spice. The texture is heaven, not unlike a wonton soup, you get the wonderfully rich and flavoursome tomato soup (into which the taste of the peppers and the cinnamon seeps) and then a piping hot zucchini shell with a wonderful arabesque risotto inside. It's a fresh light dish, but not too light, so satisfying, a bowl of it just makes you feel so well fed without being too full. Kieran, poor Irish lad raised on a steady diet of taters, had a fit trying this for the first time, said he'd never tried anything as nice in his life, and he was sober at the time, so I trust him.

You don't even have to make this yourself. Mum loves cooking it for people, ask for an invite and she'll be happy to crank some out for you. Probably the best thing about making koussa is enjoying the aromas that fill the kitchen as it all comes gloriously together, maybe that's why we were born with Not So Little Noses. 

Thanks Mum, being born to you is like a lifetime rez at Tetsuya's.

Abu Salim is at 151 Waterloo Road, Greenacre, ph 9740 4600, not far from the famed Greenacre Lebereatery: Al Aseel. Very kind staff work here, they'll be happy to help you find what you want, but don't let that stop you exploring.

Bellies will be dancing...

The Everlasting Glaze (aka Bourke Street Bakery Strawberry + Vanilla Creme Brulee Tart)...

A few of us hold, somewhere deep and untold, within the labyrinthine, scarlet folds of the ventricles and atriums of our solitary hearts, a little pound of cardiac muscle, so sacred. It is within the pulsing strains of this marked place, where in beats, in pulses, in fretful hiccups of rhythmic existence, a love so dear is held. And in whose hallowed name do we keep this place? None other than The Smashing Pumpkins. Sweet, Sweet, Soma. If you never let their music possess your outer, middle or inner ear, it is a Shame, but it's never too late. I still listen to them more days than not. CakeishKnifeBabies, If Once Upon A Time you Ava Adored, then chances are that you may possess a very prized and precious box set called The Aeroplane Flies High, and herein lies the key (to 'What The F Is She So Flamboyantly On About')...

I still remember the day one of these coveted little treasure boxes of serendipitous sound came rushing into my proud and much proclaimed possession. It was on the final track of the final little CD that I first heard the Tonite Respite. It's an acoustic and mellowed version of the operatically urgent Mellon Collie favourite, Tonight, Tonight. There are approximately 4 sublime seconds in the song's introduction that Stopped me. 4 seconds of seraphic beauty, pinioned somewhere between silence and sound, Just Before, and Just As Corgan begins to strum out the fraught and fumbling opening notes...it's a hard feeling to describe, but if the vibrations of those 4 seconds could undergo an alchemy that could result in tangibility, and if you could then take that tangible thing and bring it up to your lips, to the silent, breathless threshold of your trembling mouth, for just one taste... then that taste would best describe a Bourke Street Bakery Strawberry and Vanilla Creme Brulee Tart.

I think they're going to diagnose me with some kind of mental illness one day, if you haven't already, but an attack of seriously good tart brings out the verbose wanker in me. Every. Single. Time. I have always had a relationship with The Chocolate (above) + Ginger Creme Brulee Tarts that can be described as amiably alimentary. The idea of creme brulee in tart form was enough to recommend the Ginger to me before I had even tried it. When desserts make cameos inside other desserts, it's a pretty exciting moment for tragic cake fiends. 

On two recent trips I went to get Dan a treat and discovered they had a newish flavour star in the Clan Creme Brulee, Strawberry and Vanilla. Oooh. I like Strawberry. I like Vanilla. Odds were I was going to be pleased about their Creme Brulee'd Tarty Union. Needless to say I was, Danny loves this tart, Dad and Mum as well. I accordingly now have to take a little box every time I go to visit my parents, they're pretty cute about stuff like that. I've already done a piece on the crammed corner delight that is Bourke Street Bakery (just a waddle around the corner from my house), but I wanted to do a sweet little something on this gorgeous and gooey little addition.

Cakes, dessert, and every other beautiful thing brings out the wicked little girl in me that likes to destroy things, making this creme brulee tart the perfect victim for my wanton ways. The, scarred, burnt toffee membrane that encases the fragrant cream beneath is the kind of thing I find deeply moving about life on earth. It's what I imagine heterosexual males feel about an elaborate, lacy black bra - with killer hooks that they have to struggle to get off. You have to CRACK and RUPTURE the PlayingHardToGetBurntSugarCasing really HARD with a good JAB of a fork (alas, no knife) to sever the unsuspecting surface. When you break on through to the other side, i've got to tell you, it simply lights your fire. Jesus.

Texture heaven. I like a treat that fights back, that makes me work for its delicious, delicate, ecstatic essence (I was going to use innards instead of essence, but thought that was a bit too gross - proof of restraint). Oh Lord, once you're inside...Sweet, delicate, dancing, vanillaed, baby breath, decadent dreams. Perfumed and luscious, TongueVelvet, so gooey and lickable, and offset by little shards of the burnt sugar crown, like gorgeous jewels of candied crunch throughout, they splinter into the creaminess and add sharp, little intense flickers of a beautifully burnt taste that lingers languidly into the rich, vanilla creaminess. 

And beneath, the Tart makes a lovely little mess of itself. Waiting to ooze out and infuse the willing ivory cream, is a little secret strawberry pulp/syrupish stash, once your fork breaks through the hardened envelope, pinkness erupts, but gradually, and stains the pureness of the cream with little blushes of strawberried pink. [insert groan]. SO GOOD! And it seems the pastry is far better than the last time I tried it, it used to be a little loose and flakeish, now it's denser and seems more well cooked, much more commanding to bite into. A perfect perimeter of punishing goodness.

The Strawberry + Vanilla Creme Brulee Tart at Bourke Street Bakery + the way I love it: Sad, but true. Grab a tart and disarm it with a smile and then it cut it like it wants you to. Go onnnn, do it! The original Bakery piece: here.

Bourke St Bakery, at the Cnr of Devonshire + Bourke. 

It's Tart imitating Life.

Slain By Brew-tus...(aka Coffee).

Coffee and Skinny Leg Jeans have something you might not know in common: I adore them both, but they're definitely not for me. Being a devoTea for many years now, coffee is something I only ever succumb to occasionally. Don't get me wrong, taste wise, I get it, it can be a thing of absolute and sublime rapture, but just like getting a car park in Surry Hills on the weekend after seven, its effects leave me a little bit Too Excited. Coffee is like a liquid roller coaster that renders my nervous system (already a proverbial tower of Pisa), that much more scattered and swaying in the wind. Compounds in tea, such a L-Theanine, act with the caffeine to have a much more delicate and energizing effect on the body, coffee is straight up Death Metal for The Mouth, just with a higher antioxidant content. But what good is a life free from vice? Even HowDoYouSolveAProblemLikeMaria had to trade in the quiet convent and the verdent hills for some saucy action with the Captain. So for those among you who remain resolutely faithful to the beautiful bean, and at last count there were about 5.7 billion of you, if you simply must do it, here's how do it well.

You remember Ardri, of Clipper Fame and Fortune? Well, it seems some Scotsman lay their claim on history by painting their faces blue and leading their men into unlikely victories through fearless battle, minus the trifle of underwear. Others, it seems, will be remembered because they make a damn good latte. Ardri (bari(SUPER)sta(r)), donning undies and a long way from Stirling Bridge, belongs firmly and fabulously to the second camp. This one knows pretty much all there is to know about coffee, and, in that accent that I can make out clearly just under half of the time, I found out all the Insider Do's and Do Nots for how to make and how to order a hellish good cup. Remember, foodie world is one place where you can judge a book by its creamy cover, indeed, people with too much time on their hands can usually tell a very good coffee just by looking at it, you'll never find a good cup that doesn't look Just So.

Coffee is serious business, this little shiny silvered beauty is a $12, 500 whiz-bang-barista-bling-twin-boiler-baby! coffee machine from La Marzocco. Twin boilers mean that there is one dedicated boiler for steaming (and 'stretching') the milk that makes a flat white, latte and cap ivory spun magic, and the second boiler is for piping out hot, Neroesque, aromatic SlapOfQuickQuickQuickToTheBrainThroughTheNose espresso shot after Ohhhhlfactory shot. Oh. That you don't use one boiler for steaming and shots means that each can keep its own distinct temperature consistently, ensuring a perfect coffee every time. If you walk into a cafe and you see a machine this technical, then you are probably, but not definitely, on the cusp of a celestial cup.

Now, unless you're ordering Soy milk, the top of a milky coffee should be a bit like Bert Newton's head, shiny and velvety. Good coffee has that lustrous flirty film of pearly light that dances around the the perfect curves of a dangerously brimming surface. If the milk looks dull or porous or too dry/foamy then it hasn't been stretched properly. Stretching is like DownwardDog for the mouthfeel of your milk, it's the technique of texturizing the milk by the way in which you place steam just on top of it. Just like picking up a boy in a bar (Heels, Little Black Dress, Flirty Smile), it seems there's a little bit of a formula: for a flat white, it's a 2 second steam, for a latte it's 4 seconds, and for a cappuccino it's 6. Good Baristas also take into account the type of milk, skim needs more stretching because it contains less protein and fat. Milk well stretched should have no bubbles in it, bubbles upset the texture and make for a less velvety finish. When milk is stretched just so it gives a nice thick and silky consistency to the milk and tempers, in amazing alabaster, the soaring richness of the dark coffee beneath, it also thickens it beautifully. Flat White's should be flat (you'd be surprised), and good baristas know not to make the milky membrane too thick or dense. A cappuccino is distinctly different, it's chocolate sprinkled layer should be generous in width and creamythick. The way the cup is filled is also an indication of the finesse of its maker, great coffee rises to its circumference like an ambrosial asymptote, it beckons towards you without actually reaching out, just almost approaching the edge and spilling over, never quite getting there. Back in my waitressing days, you could always tell who the better baristas were because when you carried the coffee made by a good one out, the milk would bulge and gleam but never spill, bad baristas would make poorly stretched milk that could easy dart in and out of the glistening surface membrane, and sometimes spill right on to the astonished laps of annoying customers. Or perhaps that was the waitresses fault...

Like any good domestic in the Western Suburbs, coffee always begins with a shot. Ardri tells me that the biggest mistake people make with coffee is not grinding per shot. So if it's a double shotted brew that means each individual shot must be ground separately, doing this is what releases the fullness of the flavours. Fresh roasted beans are apparently not the best, contrary to what I thought. Adriano says that it is actually at 5-7 days after roasting that a bean comes into its true character, these few days are necessary so that the carbon dioxide from the beans can be released, this results in a nuttier and less acidic shot.

Ardri loves Single Origin blends from El Savador and Ethiopia, especially, but I was very interested to learn that it's actually in Vietnam where most of the world's coffee is cranking out from. A customer who was sitting by told us that it's served there from a tiny plunger contraption that sits atop the cup, they have no machines, and they finish it with a dollop of trickysticky condensed milk. Coffee in Mexico remains something i'd kill for, I tried it in the Cafe De Olla style, with panela, canella, cloves and orange rind, I had five in a row on the first night and poor Danny had to put up with one severely caffeinated Arab for a few hours ensuing.

Swiss decaf is apparently the best, if you are so inclined. Their method of extracting the caffeine is a more natural one in that it involves the beans being washed over and over and left to dry in the sun, how nice does that sound! This tidbit got us talking about the most ridiculous orders ever taken, ready for this one: a double shot decaf soy latte, for someone whom I am fairly sure can not claim the mastery of arithmetic as one of their strong points. And the lovely Agnes looked at me incredulously as she recounted one regulars preference for a 1/2 skim 1/2 soy latte? Milk Identity Crisis, Maybe? The worst order I ever took was for a triple shot, double mocha, I nearly had dyspepsia just carrying out. Dirty, dirty people and all your delirious little kinks of cup...

Adriano loves the more delicate coffee in the North of Italy. His favourite is at Cafe Trombolli in Rome, just near Roma Termini Station, although he concedes the standard in Sydney in considerable. He says they drink a coffee in the South of Italy called Robusta, much sharper and very caffeinated, and not much to his taste. Honest to goodness, Mexico aside, an ardri latte is the best coffee i've had in Sydney. He only uses brown sugar to sweeten, which is another good sign that you're onto something, white sugar is too acidic, too sharp, the gentleness of brown sugar muddles nicely with coffees smooth richness. Nothing grosses me out more than a sharp skanky brew laced with too much white sugar. Don't even get me started on artificial sweeteners.

Coffee should always come with a glass of water by it's side. That's how it's drunk in Europe, it's good to put back in the water it takes out. Ardri has noticed the trend away from the milkier concoctions towards the short blacks and macchiatos. Macchiatos in particular are enjoying a new vogue. If you do drink coffee for the antioxidants, you're better off drinking an espresso, macchiato, or long black, as the dairy (milk) is an antioxidant inhibitor. 

And the taste? It's like Elvis slowly crooning Love Me Tender directly into your mouth and down your warm, willing throat. It's DrowningGroundingSweetRichDeepWarmingStorming a liquid battle between darkness and lightness that always ends in a madness of melting. You are always sad when good coffee ends. The last sip is like the goodbye kiss of cherished lover. Ardri likes it better than wine. The Turks like it black as hell, strong as death and as sweet as love. 

Much more than the drink itself, I like the way it draws people together or holds them in themselves, social or solitary, it frames simple moments. So from the dressing gown dreariness of The Nescafe, Get away! Coffee is an art, an experience, one of life's Great Respites. Get out and try new places and see how nuanced and different a thing it can be. Clipper at Glebe, is a hotspot, Bertoni's in Balmain, as well. Forbes and Burton serves some lovely single origin coffee, too. The Earth Store in Gould Street Bondi has the best organic coffee I have tried, especially when it's made by Nick and The Book Kitchen in Surry Hills has one I tried a long time ago and liked. It's a staple all over the world, but it's not quite the same anywhere you go. I like that.

Thanks again, ardri x.

The Odd-ysey (aka The Return to Zumbo).

I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to get Adriano Zumbo down on a couch. No, no no. Not the sort of couch you lascivious little lot have in mind, Jesus, I really need a less gutterminded readership. I mean a shrink's couch. You know the kind I am talking about: dark room, padded floor, dim lighting, me sitting back in a chair (the cushy expensive kind that can lean right back) with a notebook, pen poised, legs crossed, all a personified question mark. Beckoning him, in a serious, professional murmur to get comfortable, to sink in, to relax, to close his eyes and to think...think back to where it all began, the very first of flavours, the very first of memories...the brilliant, the burgeoning, the burnt toffeed beginning...

...Oh, My. Cake + Knifelings, each and every tantalizing time I am gifted by the lusciously oddball, edible brain babies of this incomprehensible, indomitable imagination, I begin to wonder. I wonder about the mind that the imagination dwells within, and all of the things that make it turn and tick, and most of all trick. Because this is straight up FoodSugarSexMagik, and yet another visit to the Darling Road Patisserie and Cafe have left me this enduring impression. What's it like, deep in there, Adriano? Way out back? In the far recesses of your sugar mad mind? Bottomless bowls of kooky candy? Honeyed caramel chandeliers and shag pile carpeting made from silky, vanilla-ed meringue? I guess we'll never know...

Your combinations are anything and everything, from the dazzling and the dangerously bizarre, to the downright ridiculous, and this new collection reiterates that HighUpInTheSkyApplePie Set standard. Some of the concoctions are the culinary equivalent of having a tiny, caffeinated Jet Li pulling crazy and erratic martial arts moves in your mesmerized mouth, you don't even see the next move coming. Try sampling the treats before you read their ingredients, it makes for a more innocent and astounding experience. Half the fun is stumbling over the more subtle flavours after getting lusciously slapped in the mouth with the heady fullness of others.

Zumbo is not all fun and sass, though, there is a lot of palpable meaning and heart that flows from the mind, through the hands and into the creations. Each and every dessert is like a little autobiography, there are stories in all of them, private jokes too. It's deliciously referential food. Oh, Adriano. We are eating your story and we are living and loving every teeny, tiny bite. Zumbo's genius comes from an overwhelming absorption of ideas that is brilliantly comprehensive, he has always thought outside and beyond the Cake Box. Mundane, Every Day Type LunchBox Like flavours are ruthlessly reincarnated when paired with something more sophisticated or exotic, or when presented in a form we would never expect them in. It's HighBrowLowBrow cake, and I would never have it any other way.

If this were the 19th Century, they would erect statues of you, Adriano, in all of the market places. They would sing songs in your name. The King would commission all of the best poets from all over the kingdom to compose humbly in your honour, and they would be weaving and winding words that echoed the vivid and boundless sweetness of your fluid flavours. 

It may be 2009, (and I can't sculpt or sing to save my life) but like that was ever going to stop me. Adriano, this one's for you...

Once Upon A Time, There may have been cake,

But never the sort, That made you violently shake.

Oh, the gluttons did sulk, and the gluttons did weep -

'Til the oracle, he promised, but the blackest of sheep.

One in whose hands, sugar would breathe new soul,

Oh they heard the oracle, and they gobbled him whole.

Yet in a faraway land, this boy came to be.

To put a definitive end, to Sarah Lea.

A boisterous, a magical, a most fearless head,

And all just like the oracle said.

This head would come to be quite shorn,

Almost as much as the day it was born.

But beneath that scalp, so smooth and bald,

some of the greatest imaginings, would one day unfold.

The case, it was for but a dainty sake,

The cause was sweet and the cause was cake.

And so to dreary sponge, he turned his nose,

And this is how his story goes.

He looked up, Then he looked down,

Oh our Adriano, he looked all around.

For new ways, to make old chocolate sing.

And for passionfruited cream, to awaken to zing.

How else could caramel, cast its toffeed spell?

How could vanilla, so pure, be as sexy as hell?

Crazy ideas, from all over the place,

On just how to reinvent, The Stuffing Of Face.

He liked his dancing fruit, he loved his dangerous spice,

The toffee so sticky, the peanutbuttercream, so iced.

In every bow of rain shade, that boy macarooned,

And the gluttons they bit, and the gluttons they swooned.

In Chocolate, In Orange, in the Earlest of Grey!

The gluttons, they ran, there could be no delay.

Blackcurrent! so purple, of such lurid zest!

Or the popcorn in salted crunch, do i love thee best?

But there's pudding riced! And even cherry choc'ed,

Those hardy gluttons, they felt their appetites mocked.

How much more, did he expect them to take?

Their pancreases wanted him burnt, at the proverbial stake.

Pear! Mocha! Chestnuttedpassionfruit!

To Young Mr Zumbo, they groaned a foodie salute.

CaramelledSalt, oh, mandarins...

So many more macaroons, than dark, deadly sins.

So luscious, so gentle, so breathless to behold,

Forever adding to our bellies, yet another fold.

Oh, Macaroons! What about little cakes?

Then stop macarooning! for Goodness Sake.

Like a Lazarus, then, Into some Sugared Insomnia,

With a bit of escape, from a rainforest in Columbia.

She was gluten free, and so beauty-full

That flourless sponge in Chocolate, Oh, She made them drool,

Admist a DarkDarkDarkChocolatey disc, all a fizzy

And Cherry Cola Jelly, to make them dizzy.

CherryColaSlurp! Chocolate Sabayon Mousse!

The flesh of those gluttons! It was growing so loose!

They needed some action, Away from the ladle,

But along came Ed, and he rocked that cradle.

Cheesecaked, they were! In coffee and milk!

The gluttons, they knew they were of that ilk.

ChocolateCheeseCakeBase, CoffeeSoakedCaramelCreme,

In Italian meringue, it's a glutton's wet dream.

And Amanda Made The Cut, Or so it was said, 

And not a thing in this treat, For a taste bud to dread.

MilkedPassionedCaramelledMousse, With a Smack of Lime,

And PassionMarshmallowedCocoCrunchBrownie, a Caloried Crime.

From that wicked man, They could take no more!

Their bellies, so full, their pockets, so poor!

Nor once did it occur to those gluts, as into their beds they were tucked, 

That if he ever retired, they'd be totally....

Sinking To New Depths, That's how it done. Cheers, Adriano, Thanks for the Yum and the Fun. And to Erin P (or soon to be Erin M?), for a damn fine morning.

Zumbo still happens at 296 Darling Rd Balmain, 9810 7318. 8-6 Monday til Saturday, and 8-4 Sunday. For the original Zumbo piece, go here.

Don't let them eat cake, let you.

Suveran: The Sequel.

Being a Food Blogger (that's right, capital f, capital b, thankyouverymuch) can be both a sad and a sorry affair, a sordid one too. In the comfort of your own homes and from your laptops in illustrious libraries and cosy cafes, what you witness is the finished product: the food, the friends, the flavours, the glamour, the good times. You think it's a piece of proverbial cake, don't you? Alas. What you don't experience is the almost Homeric pathos that dwells above our full and privileged bellies in the little, lonely confines of our lost and yearning hearts. Blogging isn't just about perfecting your photography while trying amazing food and discussing it with quirky people, it's also a numbers game: you wanted to be liked, you want to be loved, you want to be read.

So it then becomes a matter of waiting and of watching: to see who logs on, when they log on, why they log on, what they log on for. My site/stalkmeter tells me that many of you hungry, far away, wistful somebodies actually find me by googling 'suveran', and, far be it from me to disregard that most hallowed, most American of traditions, Giving The People What They Want. So, here it is, Amanda, the panderer... of your every organic whim and gluten free desire is here to answer the prayer that has as not yet formed on your unknowing lips, Cake + Knifelings, you have (not quite) asked for, and I have humbly given: Suveran, The Sequel. I'll try and make it much more Godfather II than Grease II, but no pressure, eh.

Have you honestly seen better looking produce, people? This is a bit of a Biodynamic Victoria's Secret Supermodel line up, gobsmacking greens, gorgeous grapes, for the Romans, and the Romans at Mouth. Look at those apples, so luscious and scarlet and with all of those telling markings that denote an authentic fruit. Yes, Suveran has moved onwards and upwards and horizontally - another outlet a few doors down is a boutique little produce shop. Biodynamically and organically grown fruit and vegetables in vivid, vibrant colour adorn the shelves and crates at the Suveran produce store. 

The range is impressive, where else are you going to find a glowing tomato rocking it out next to some biodynamic Lebanese eggplant? Pete has selectively sourced growers from fertile little nooks of NSW (such as Orange), to supply fruit and veges so nutrient dense and attractive that Monet himself would have questioned his ability to capture their beauty and brilliance in Oil. This shop has a beautiful, clean, pure feel to it. All of the produce looks ridiculously fresh, compare the dazzling colours here to what you're usually served in any given Supermarket and some idea of the level of quality should start to hit home.

The divine Marbrook Farm Yoghurt is stocked, this handmade boutique yoghurt is little short of an oral cataclysm of good taste. The Bush Honey version is one of my favourite products of all time. No milk solids are used, which makes a purer, more digestible product, the thickness of which comes from their method of hand processing. Taste this stuff and you'll know why Hindu's think Cows divine. A discerning selection of beautiful cheeses and clean, pure milks are an open invitation to revolutionize the way you do toast and tea. This is clean dairy, and dairy, like the Cross after 10pm, has the inherent potential to be more than a tad bit skanky. If you're a dairy queen then, these will be your most loyal and least mucus-inducing subjects. Always pay attention to cheese, milk, butter, the quality makes so, so much difference. 

Herbs and Spices and Cocoa Beans and other gorgeous and exotic things to bake sprinkle roast and flavour with come in bountiful brown paper packages. Don't shy away from something you haven't heard of or tried before, there's a lot to play with here. And rest assured, everything on the shelves looks fresh, both shops have a high turn over, even the spices have a deep, intense colour that declares their freshness and potency. If you enjoy market shopping, this is a good mid-week fix, much more curious and rewarding than shopping from your standard grocer.

A few doors up, back at Operation Mothership, it's still a weird and wonderful kitchen these guys are rocking. Pete whipped up this quirky pancake for me to try. Another sprouted creation with currents, fresh young coconut and seeds, it has a gingerlicious twist to it and was a beautiful, spicy treat for a hungry girl on a cold Sydney morning. Gluten free, Soy Free, Dairy Free, Egg Free, Yeast Free, Sugar Free, Tap Water Free, Nightshade free and actually free (ie. I didn't have to pay for it). It's flavour is reminiscent of the wonderful nice in spice twist and sprout porridge that happens when currents nuts seeds fresh young coconut water and coconut meat cinnamon maca licorice root and ginger all get together and do their crazy thing. Kellogs, who? Even if that's not how you make porridge, it rocks all the splendid same.

The Crepes remain a crowd pleaser, these wraps are made with sprouted quinoa and buckwheat and you decide whether you want them filled with vegetables, lamb, chicken or marinated sardines. Go figure. Their zipply little sidekick is some tabouli with apple cider, vinegar and lemon. You can even order a half serve (not a bad idea for small eaters, these things are huge).

Stew on it. Hard. Stew. Stew. Stew. Stewart Not So Little. Check that stuff out. Mother Theresa after quadruple bypass surgery couldn't be heartier than that! Deep, nutrient rich full of coconut oil, lashings of organic veges and you can add lamb, chicken or sardines to it, for a bit of protein power. This is serious stuff, full of fiber and herbs, it'll give you pollyanna cheeks and keep you warm and full all day, and with an appetite like mine, that's saying something.

The sprouted bread (the recipe for which is in the original Suveran piece), is still a slice of heaven for coeliacs and gluten haters alike. You can buy it fresh from the fridge or get it toasted with some stew. If you like a rich, moorish hit, try it with some coconut oil and avocado or nutspread. It's a dense, filling, chewy, bread with flecks of crunchy seeds throughout, unlike other gluten free breads, it isn't a texture pushover and is beautiful to sink your teeth into. If you have had brown rice bread, you know the flaccid gluten free guck that most coeliacs have to call bread.

Pizzas, Pies, Salads, Burgers, and all good for you. It's a world gone mad. It's interesting to watch how the clientele has evolved from your usual hippies to lots of Bondi Junction Bunnies and mothers and local suits. People usually head here straight from the gym to get a meal that isn't going to ruin a decent workout. I really hope those of you who aren't used to eating in this way don't find this type of set up too exclusive or intimidating to check out. Even if you've never heard of Buckwheat and you think Quinoa is a small state in South America, come and see if you like the flavours, you don't have to know what's going on under it all or why it's good for you. I really care about eating well and letting other people know that it's never too interested to learn about how to or why you should. Understanding the qualities of food and how it can change the way you think and function is empowering stuff. Jesus! It was just this once, I promise I won't go all sentimental on you again.

Is all of this talk making you thirsty? You can even drink fresh young coconuts straight from the fridge, they'll hack them up for you and plonk a straw in and Bob's your uncle. It's an instant $3 nutrient rich hydrator, why are you still Diet Coking? Herbal teas are also up for grabs, they can be whipped up with coconut water and are good for cleansing and energising frustrated Bondi Junction Parkers. Smoothies can be coconut based or goats milk based, they contain magnesium and maca, and will make a Bob Marley Nervous System out of one that was formerly Punk Rock.

Fudgey Wudgey, we meet again. [censored].....smoother than they used to be, it's like heaven undergoing renovations to install an extra level and a hot tub. Jesus. Fricking. Christ.

Veggie Patties.

and.......a Crepe Action Shot.
I am exhausted. Just to make sure we understand ourselves, all of Suveran's food is: sprouted (that's good), dairy free, flour free, gluten free, wheat free, egg free, legume free, tap water and nightshade free. The deadly nightshades aren't a Penrith Biker Gang, that's the botanic name given to tomato, eggplant and potato, highly acidic foods which compromise sensitive systems. It's not just what they've taken out, they've put in magnesium (in which Australian soil is notoriously low), maca (food for the pituitary), good veges, clean meats, medicinal herbs and spices. And they make it all fresh as you order for about the price of a Big Mac Value Meal, minus the delayed onset of morbid obseity.

Still at 244 Oxford Street, Bondi Junction. The website is here. 

Suveran, so dynamic and alive it makes most other food look about as real as Michael Jackon's epidermis. If that didn't kill the sense of salivation I was slowly building, then Get Thee to The Junction, it's like yoga for your taste buds!

Tsukasa (AKA The Immaculate Collection)...

Ever have those people in your life... you know the ones i'm talking about, no matter how hard you may try/scheme/plot to do outdo them, you just can't? Now, i've never been a girl with that many strings to my bow, I know a few things, and I know them well. I know where to go to eat well, but Tatsu, God Bless Him, puts me to rotten, foodie shame. There isn't a place in Sydney that he hasn't tried, once, twice, gotten over already. Not a place that he didn't know about first. I am the Newman to his Seinfeld. All of my Culinary Eurekas are a mere rerun for my Tats. Apparently, he's been Tsukasa'ing from way back when. It's just down the road and it's Madonna's pick for Japanese when she's in Sydney. What the...why wasn't I told! Well, let me say I am glad not another god given day expired before I discovered this little subterranean Hole In The Ground. It's happening and it's Jappening. Tatsu, who finds Japanese food in Australia okaaaay at best, likes it, I, love it. I have eaten here twice already in 3 days, and I have Lived to Tell you Beautiful Strangers precisely how much of an experience this is to Cherish.

It's a loud late night kind of scene they have happening in this saloon type set up. Tourists, cool locals and Japanese people themselves all come in droves for fresh sashimi, not just your standard tunas and salmons, they have bonito sashimi here! General Restaurant Rule of Thumb: if it's Lebanese food and Lebanese people eat there, good sign. If it's Italian and Italian people eat there, good sign. So you're catching my drift about the fact that lots of Japanese people dine here (if not, just Nod and Keep Smiling). The Menu, a line up of all your usual sushiudonsukiyakisashimimisso suspects, reflects this authenticity with a few delicious and traditional curve balls you may not have had the opportunity to sample elsewhere.

Begin with some magic in miso. Because the enzymes in miso become denatured when they're heated too long, most places serve you lukewarm miso, like something disappointingly flaccid when what you really wanted was something sharp. Good miso is hot hot hot, it's light and beautifully brothy, salty and dancing, never too heavy, and the shallots should be very thinly sliced. The miso here is bang on, and like a restaurant that serves divine bread, good miso is usually your cue that they know what they're doing.

Salmon with spinach is a sparkling starter. The sashimi is fresher than adolescent predilections towards being jaded, richer too. It crowns a splendidly crunchy and verdant bed of blanched spinach (ohitashi), dressed in a beautiful sauce, a maddening mess of soy and mirin, sweet and sharp and almost syrupish. It's a wonderful dish, light and healthy but really flavoursome, the little flecks of sesame seed throughout give a nice nutty texture to the smoothness of the fish and the crunchiness of the greens.

The Seaweed Salad here is a tad Jitalian. The usual aramewakamesesamesweetsoyoily mass of wicked weed sits atop some lettuce and tomato in an old school Mamma Mia wooden salad bowl, but I shouldn't knock it if it works. And it does. The plainness of the lettuce and tomato are a good reprieve from the saltiness and sweetness of the seaweed, going back and forth between the two tastes is good mouth tennis.

Chef's Shoes is the name of the next starter, and it's about as close I have come in my rather innocent life to a Foot Fetish. A delicate sashimi mix dances around little strands of rare mushroom, it's a balmy flavour, gentle and deep all at once, dressed very lightly. Mix through some of the dried seaweed on top as it lends a saltiness that contends very well with the oiliness of the fish. This is a gorgeous Japanese Classic, but it was quickly (almost) forgotten in the fateful moment that was soon to descend upon my baffled buds.

Eggplant with sweet miso and shallots, I believe Signor F. Flinstone phrased it best: yabbadabbadoo! It's dishes like this that make you want to just hang up your gloves and retire. Why keep looking for love when you've already found it. This heady little vixen consists of a slab of baked eggplant, gooey and steaming and smothered to ecstatic eggplanty death beneath the richest sweetest most beguiling miso sauce, the first bite is The Prince raising Sleeping Beauty from an ancient flavour slumber. So Good! The freshness of the shallot bounces off the richness of the miso and eggplant just like it ought to. Little spoonfuls of this will make your eyes roll into the back of your happy head. I couldn't even pretend to be sympathetic when Tats professed he was allergic to eggplant and that a spoon was all he could have! I will order this on every subsequent trip, its so deep. So supple. So tender. So giving. Succumb to its gentle, flavoursome folds and dissolve willingly into the serendipitous sigh it emits from you.

The Prawn and Vegetable Tempura with Dipping Sauce was great, but Cat Stevens knows the first cut is always the deepest. My heart belongs to that eggplant. Tsukasa is a good, rollicking night out, and at a reasonable price. Sukiyaki, Udon, Sushi (hand rolls as well) and most of the usual favourites can all be had. A noisy place, much more beer with a crowd than wine with another. Good, unpretentious Japanese.

It'll make a Bay of Pigs of the lot of us. 

Tsukasa happens at 200 Crown Street East Sydney, Call them on 9361 3818. 

A Snail of a Time (AKA Le Gobelet, Leura)...

Truth be told, the French have always had a bit of a...réputation. They know their food, and, well, they know they know their food, if you know what I mean, and Le Gobelet, Leura, is no exception. This is hallowed Blue Mountains Dining Turf, a down right institute of French Culinary Genius, the French food is the best I have ever had, in Sydney, and in Paris. The food, however, is only half of the fun. Husband and Wife team, Chef, Rene and Host, Mirelle, have been running this fine establishment for years. When I think of Mirelle and how to describe her, what begins as a small, unassuming smile, has grown rather large and unbound on my very amused face. 

This very French lady befits beautifully, a very Australian phrase, she's a: Bloody Classic. Mirelle is inadvertently hilarious: indomitable, temperamental, dramatic and full of mock derision for the husband she clearly loves. She is a lovely spirit who takes great enjoyment indulging in the flamboyant and dizzying histrionics of those who incline towards being a tad bit Mad, in that very European way. Think: muttering to yourself over God Knows What and shaking your head. She is more entertaining than  Cirque De Soleil on Speed, but slower and closer to the ground. Mirelle moves at her own pace and with her own whims, she will not be rushed by hungry crowds or the furrowed brows of impatient diners, and at times she disappears from visibility for what can seem like little endless oceans of time. Talk to her a little, once you coax her out from behind a shyness that masks itself as indifference, you will find yourself beaming with delight as she generously regales you, in a heavy provincial French accent, thick with mock plaintiff sighs and gestures, about everything from how hard she works to how her husband doesn't always listen to her. She's simply precious, and the slowness of the pace here is something you just account for, set aside an hour extra than you normally would for lunch and dinner. After all, very good things come to those who wait...

Escargot and Amanda had never once crossed paths until this fateful day. With a WhatTheHey I tucked into some salty, squishy, buttery, garlicked heaven. These are delicious. If you have never tried Snails done in this way, or at all, they taste not entirely unlike garlic prawns, but a little richer and more exotic. Pop them whole into your eager mouth and let them gleefully detonate there. With some hot, buttered bread on the side, they are a great rejoinder to chilling mountain weather, even though they arrive as quickly as they would have done if the snails had made their own way over to your table, they are so worth the wait!

...Just like Goat's Curd, lighter and frothier than baby's breath, like a rich creamy cloud with sharp and dreamy flavour resting on some crunchy french toast, beautifully contrasted by the saltiness of the pickles and olives. It's a very rich and satisfying entree, so fresh and gorgeous, it's nice to dwell on it while luxuriously sipping on some good wine. It might be an incredibly childish admission, but I never feel quite so suave or adult as when I am eating a cheese dish in a restaurant, something very undeniably sophisticated about the whole damn thing. 

My favourite entree, however, has to be these divine garlic prawns. My family and I have been ordering these for years. Renee finishes fresh, luscious, fat prawns beautifully with a tomato based herb, shallot garlic paste. They are much lighter and livelier than your usual garlic prawns, which, like dating Antonio Banderas, can usually be an incredibly oily affair. The garlic is gentle and not too heavy (good for you non Arab garlic amateurs). This is a dancing dish, it balances all of its flavours seamlessly, I order it every single time.

Rare, slightly bloodied, damn fine steak is a beautiful thing to behold, sorry Vego's, it is. Always has been, always will be. Cooked to a bare tender perfection and smothered in some brandied sweet and creamy peppercorned sauce, trust me when I say you'll be moo-ved. If Eye Fillet doesn't do it for you, splash out on the Chateaubriand, and let the cow tip you. If it's been a while since you have relished a truly epic steak, then the experience will justify the price. Order a beautiful little vege side to go with the steak, some rat-a-tat-tat-atoullie, wonderfully spiced and jazzed up with heady sharpsweet tomato, paired with some devilish good roast potatoes, it's a classic, tweaked to Frenchection.

Poisson? A delicate, thinly sliced Salmon, not at all over cooked, moist and tender, dressed with some buttered parsley and slivered almonds proves a very moorish fish main. Salty and Rich but still a with a delicateness of flavour, it has a very provincial taste, and Renee always uses the freshest Fish. Mum orders the fish when she isn't too tempted by the sublime Coq Au Vin, which is good enough to leave you speaking in (French) tongues. The standard here is set, and they just meet it time and time again. I have never had any of these dishes even slightly off, Renee's is not a rushed kitchen, he takes the time required to bring every dish to its absolute finesse, it is incredible food. Unlike other French fare I have tried, they don't rely on too much oil, cream, cheese or butter, the food is rich, but is never excessively so. 

Or at least that's what I tell myself in order to justify dessert, not that dessert every really needed justification. Creme Brulee is a wicked little invention that I am finding myself more and more enamoured with as the years kick on, and this burnttoffeedvanilla tooth dream does not disappoint in the least. The gentle lusciousness of the cream collides maddeningly with the burnt sugared crunch, it's a decadent-in-saccharine punctuation mark to a perfect succession of salacious savouries.

But nothing says francais like a Crepe. Crepes - the thinner, cooler older sister of the pudgier pancake - are divine. I have gobbled more than a few with nutella and banana in Parisian Backstreets. I like my crepes served with a heinous amount of hazelnuttishchocolateness. Bulging, velvety chocolate gooishness, heavingly ensconed in some thin crepe membrane does it for me in ways I won't pain you, or myself, to imagine. But the old schoolers still swoon over the lemon and sugar, and this, the orange and grand mariner. I am not a fan of liquor in anything, so, like Mel Gibson mid anti-semitic tirade, this treat was a little boozy for me, but still lovely with its shy glaze of syrup in citrus. It comes to the table, a gift horse for your suspicious mouth, like a little Troy that fell for a mesmerising Helen, all fabulously and furiously, a flambe. 

True desire always always involves consuming flames.

Mirelle confided to us that they are considering retiring soon. Ouch. I doubt that any new owners could match a standard so consistently and uncompromisingly maintained for so many years. Let the distance be no excuse, if Blaxland, Lawson and Wentworth got this far on horseback, you should be right to cruise for a little over an hour in your snazzy automobile down the M4. 

A Great Dividing Range of dishes awaits you, but perhaps not for long.

Le Gobelet at 131 Leura Mall, Leura. Phone: 4784 1919.

ps...I would like some commendation for not once resorting to use of the very hackneyed 'bon appetit' during this entire Francophilic piece, you have no idea of the resolve that courses through this blood.

Oui?

the cake + the knife is 1!

Hip, hip, hooray! Thanks to everyone who deserves it, especially DCG x.

Forty Fun! (aka Forty One Restaurant, Sydney)

Money has been getting a very bad wrap lately, what with recessions, property prices, petrol prices, the cost of living, the cost of having children, the cost of dying, the cost of calculating the cost of it all...The Australian Financial Review and The Economist aside, it seems absolutely everyone has something bad to say about it: 1 Timothy 6:10 claims love of money as the root of all evil, personally, that's an accolade i'd reserve for Slow People Driving in the Fast Lane and dishes containing cumin, but that's just me. Even that chirpy little British quartet, sunny-yellow-submarine-on-penny lane-under-a-sky-with-diamonds with something nice to say about everything derided all that this lovely stuff has to offer, simply because it couldn't buy us love. Enough, already! I won't have another bad word said about money, not here, and certainly not in front of me, Money may not buy you love, but who needs the heart, especially when you have the stomach?

Oh, yes...it may now be entered on level 42, but this is 41 Restaurant, and this is how we do Good Old Fashioned Excess, Dynasty Style. Forget sustainable development, recycling, global warming and camper brand shoes, this is another philosophy all together, so don some fur, put on a knuckle buster of a diamond (or two), and join me way, way, way up above all the working people...Up above the ground and just below the heavens where it's always dizzyingly divine to be human, and have a hellishly good time of it. The spirit of the 80's is well and truly alive and kicking up here. Shush...I won't hear a word about cost, cause it is, always has been and always will be: worth. every. cent.

That's Tristan, New Zealand born and sourdough bred. This is probably the last place in Sydney you'd expect to find a mad League fan, but that's exactly what he is. Tristan is the man, cool, calm, collected, always ready with a witty comment and a bang on recommendation from the menu, if you're lucky enough to have him waiting on you, don't jip yourself of the opportunity to chew a bit of the old (wagyu) fat, especially if you're a Warriors fan. Tristan is one of the reasons that even though i'll try every snazzy dig that opens its gilt doors, nothing ever excites me more than looking forward to a lazy lunch amidst the drunken view, sipping on an expansive red in the other worldly ambience that 41 dishes up better than any where else, I had my 21st birthday here, and I just keep coming back. No risks, no flavour contortionists, just the solid classics, with a spike of Asian and a Smack of French. Most top end lunch places are too busy trying to impress that they sometimes forget you're there to be fed, not this place, come one, come all, and most of all, come hungry.

Like a temptress cavorting scantily clad at you from a bluging glass, this little wonder involves some Vine Ripened Tomato, Buffalo Mozzarella, Olives and Crisp Zucchini flower. D is for delicate, D is for Delightful, D is for Delicious, D is for Don't you dare expect to share any of mine. This is just a tongue bound dream to behold. Wonderfully sweet and supple tomato writhing against some achingly creamy buffalo mozzarella, it's honestly enough to drive you mad. The lightness and coolness of the tomatoycheesey swirl is under the impressive command of the hothothotsaltiness of the zucchini flower. This is one to relish. 

Or perhaps mademoiselle would prefer some Oriental Duck Conssome? A steamy, yielding broth of weaving asian flavour, light and salty, with some crunchy enevlopes of succulent roast duck spring rolls on the side. These aren't the kind you'll find at your local takeaway chook shop next to some Chiko rolls, they're the real, glorious deal. Danny ordered these, generously gave me a teeny taste and took the photo.

Like three little piggies waiting for they're house to be blown down, these Grilled Sea Scallops pretended not to be quaking in their boots as I menacingly snapped away at them before devouring them AND their Cauliflower Puree, Tapenade and Green Apple Reduction. Yum, Yummier, Yummiest. Beautiful flavour, a nice oiliness tempered by the sharpness of the apple.

At this point, the ladies of the group went to do a bit of a proverbial nose powdering. The Ladies Loo just makes you rethink the possibilities of what a bathroom can be, peeing can wait, this view has to be taken in at once. That's the view from the front window, fellas, almost worth getting Sex Reassignment Surgery for, isn't it? There's a lovely little table with two little seats, just perfect for resting after you've freshened up, basking in yet another of the God Given advantages of being female. But don't rest too long, those mains are probably waiting.

That's the Grain fed Fillet of Beef with Baby Spinach and Creamed Potatoes, and the Pepper Jus which Danny decided to pair it with. I have tried better steak at 41, but this was still divine. I was very annoyed that Dan was sitting at the other end of the table and that his creamed potatoes were beyond my easy grasp. Potatoes at 41 are divine, whether they chip them, mash them, or roast them. Someone in the kitchen knows more than I will ever know about what to do with Potatoes.

...And also with Salmon. Slow Cooked Tasmania Salmon, this was simply delicious, this is one of the other places besides Garfish where I never hesitate to order the fish, never overcooked, always delicate, always swimming with flavour, it's melt in your mouth fish. It was some kind of risotto that this came with, I can't remember, I was very polite and didn't yank any to try off Joelle's plate (if you really want to know what kind of risotto it was, I guuuuess I can make another trip for you)...

But i'd have a hard time, a very hard time not ordering this Barramundi again. I am a sucker for Barra, my favourite fish, this was just beautiful. The well grilled skin was salty and rich against the delicate juicy Barramundi flesh, the fish literally flakes apart when you put the fork to it, that's how subtle it is. The little wilted greens under the belly and the lovely creamy reduction gave just enough added headiness to a very delicate meal. I am drooling looking at this picture and remembering.

Dad loves 41 more than anyone I know, maybe even more than me. He is five foot two, so imagine his joy at being 42 levels above most other people in Sydney, it's a Short Mans Ultimate Revenge. He adores the food, I have taken Dad to Tetsuya's a couple of times, while he enjoys it, he always jokes that he needs to stop at McDonald's drive through on the way home. 41 is his favourite because it's seriously good, unpretentious food, in wonderful proportions and with a view that makes an eagle of your heart. As we waited for dessert, Dad did what Dad always does, the little sugar bowl that came out as a precursor to dessert comes laden with white and brown cubes. To Dad, this isn't an accompaniment to the tea and the coffee, it's a little pre dessert all in itself, every single time without fail he palms one brown sugar cube, two brown sugar cubes, four five six brown sugar cubes and sucks on them like a lolly when he thinks no one is particularly noticing. Sucks to be his pancreas...

...Rocks to be mine. Dessert at 41 is isn't quite taste bud sex, it's taste bud orgy. Order dessert here and those little bastards will never know what hit them. Luscious, sticky, rich, creamy, minty, steaming, crunchy, smooth, dripping...jesus christ. I hate white chocolate, but that could not restrain me from ordering the Dark Chocolate Fondante with White Chocolate Ice Cream and Caramelised Banana. The fondante is hot-olately dreamy, close your eyes, roll back your neck, relax your shoulders, sink in your teeth and DIE. Can you imagine the restraint it took to snap away for your photographic pleasure when all I wanted to do was claw maddeningly at my plate. But the fondante was NOT my favourite dessert of the day:

Cake + the Knifelings, I solemnly give you: Pecan Tart with Roast Corella Pear and Poire William Gelato. I am shaking my head. This is the ferrari of all desserts. A heady, dense, dark Pecan job, all sticky and chewy, nuttier than my Arab Relatives, sweet meets spice meets crunch meets caramelishiousness. Its too much. And the beautifully burnt roast sugared pear with a spike of the sharpest mint to shake you back into your senses. Dad and I played some Fork Hockey over the Gelato, this Gelato can not have come from normal milk, the milk cannot have come from normal cows, it is the richest deepest most sinking lull your mouth will ever know. Everyone who tried this plate of pure joy was absolutely smitten. It just makes you happy.

Being a glutton, I am a big fan of places that don't consider dessert the last course. Petit Four me up! Petit fourty one's are just divine. Richer than Rupert Murdoch chocolately truffles, some little biscotti type things, a pinkish marshmallowish delightish mouthspin and a little spiced friand job. Dainty does it. I took more than my fair share and delightfully snacked while I poured some fragrant earl grey from a heavy silver tea pot....ahhhh. This is the life.

Despite my early proclamations, lunch at 41 is beyond reasonably priced. Two courses with coffee or tea are $65 per person, three are $80 and an additional cheese course is $20. I have had the cheeses on past visits and they are always beautiful and unusual. Dinner is a very high brow affair, but lunch allows you to take in the most of the pre dusk view in a way that allows you stop the day, the week, your life, and to revive your senses with a place that knows how to make an experience enjoyable in every way it can be.

For Drinkers among you, the wine list is fearsome, and the in house sommelier is just a call away. For a special occasion or just because you feel like it, grab some people who make you smile and make a day out of it. I'd rather a good lunch at 41 every now and then over almost any dining experience. The service is attentive but always relaxed and never haughty. I know there are much trendier places in Sydney to drop some big lunch money on, but this is still my pick for classic good food that doesn't have to shock me to please me. The ambience is something that just can't be explained, you'll feel it as soon as you walk out of a lift and are taken to your table. So many special moments have been had here, it makes me think of laughing and talking with Dad especially.

Forty One Restaurant, The Chifley Tower, 2 Chifley Square, Sydney. Phone: 9221 2500. The menu changes seasonally, check the current autumn menu here.

Bliss. This is probably the closest a hedonist like me will ever get to heaven, and as long as I have a confirmed reservation, there'll be no Saint Peter type at the door to tell me I didn't make the cut.

Try it, if only once, it's Capital Dining.

the forbidden fruit...

I will spare you the details, but studying law was never very gratifying for the soul. Judgments, statutes, commentaries...Your Brennans and your Dixons and your Dennings and your Wilberforces, and your courageous little Kirbys, disagreeing with the whole bloody lot. Law: the last remaining bastion of fricking fine print. Alas, soul has definitely been lacking and Canberra is the last place I thought i'd ever find it again, but anything is possible, especially when you have a friend called Rowan.

Rowan is more worthy of being deemed an enigma than life itself is. An amazingly good natured Griffith raised Ph totin' chess playing, Chemist-Physicist who has a penchant for doing Wheelies on his motorbike, being refreshingly welcoming to life and all its possibilities, while either flying planes, or missing them. R is for Rowan, and R is also for Random. A cross between Christ and Kramer. One of Danny's best pals, Rowan is like an endearing mushroom of a person that pops up in life every now and again, the results are almost always fun, and very rarely fungal. He lives in Canberra, and when Dan and I headed down for the weekend, we were a little suspicious about Rowan's spontaneous offer to take us to a little apple orchard just outside of Canberra city, not the least of which because it sounded a bit first date-ish. Rowan has a very laisse faire attitude to life, plans and timing. Normal concerns about space and time are all completely anathema to this man: what road map? so imagine our surprise when Rowan's haphazard directions actually landed us at Loriendale Orchard, where, under a waning sun, we spent the afternoon remembering how to forget ourselves.

The aimiably named Owen Pidgeon has lovingly tolled this tiny apple farm into a boutique operation that now boasts over 110 varieties of apples, can you honestly imagine? Rowan discovered this fanciful patch of green on Loriendale's annual Apple Day, which draws hundreds of people in from all over the land. The intention was to stop by for a moment and pick up a few apples, but after watching Owen for a few minutes I knew there was a story that wanted telling. Owen is one of a dying breed of old schoolers, among my favourite kind of people, they appear serious, firm, resolute, but underneath it all there's a cheeky and half-hidden playfulness that if you tease out in just the right way, beautifully betrays the expanse of a truly giving and happy nature. Owen is my kind of foodie, too, he's excited about what he's doing and he wants you to be excited too...after all, it is all about the apples.

Unlike most other fruit, it's hard to find an organic apple that isn't decent. I am a bit batty about Granny Smiths, sour and tart in a good way (like Dylan Moran), a good face scrunching sourdoursmartintartbitesinkcrunchitycrunch Granny is up there with my most hallowed of food experiences. Now, I don't mean to brag, but I just might have gotten buying the perfect Granny Smith down to an almost infallible art. It's a bit of a formula that can be extended to other members of the Clan Apple, and if you promise to keep it on the down low, i'll let you in:

Firstly, I only buy small apples, not only are small apples usually organic, but they give you a more even skin to flesh ratio which is texture heaven on fussy molars, if you have too much flesh and not enough skin it can get a little bit too sweet and soft, the skin gives an otherwise innocent fruit that little bit of rock n roll, think Doris Day in spiked leather with a pierced tongue. The next thing I look for is a skin that isn't too smooth or shiny, you want an unwaxed green that has little white dots on it and a generally uneven texture, if you can see the markings and textures, it's usually the result of more authentic growing. Green apples especially should have a slightly dull skin, if they're too bright then you're allowed to make the same conclusion as we all do about Sly Stallone, if it looks that big and shiny, it can't possibly be real! On the road to the Perfect Apple there is only one more step:  look over both shoulders, not once, twice, check if the Evil Fruit Shop Man is watching (trust me on this, I got abused once), and if you get the all clear,  place a plump little ball of potential appleish delight into your shifty little paw and ...squeeze, just a little, not a lot, and if it's firm, it's sold. If Owen's Granny Smiths were a Nicole Kidman movie, they'd be To Die For. I devoured six in the first hour. They remind you why crunch is an example of onomatopoeia.

Listening to Owen talk apples though, drove home how little I actually know (even though this is a general point of which Danny is at constant pains to remind me). With his sources coming from over 20 countries, I was delighted to sample some kind of French Golden variety that was so subtly sweet and elegant, almost like a not sickly honeyed taste with a bit of spice. He spoke as well of a lovely Hungarian variety, sweet and spicy. Beauty of Bath, Summer Strawberry, Lodi, Red Free, Summer Red, Gravenstein, Earligold, Ginger Gold, Royal Gala, Galaxy, Summerdel, Spartan, Cox's Orange Pippin, New Gold, Hi Early Red Delicious, Pomme De Neige, Belle de Boskoop, Smoothee. Sounds like a Melbourne Cup line up, but, no, those are all apples! Cheeses Christ. I think I have to visit 'Linc UK' one day though, if those kids actually christened an apple 'Peasgood Nonsuch', then it is my new life's purpose to wander among whatever kind of madness it is that dwells in those quirky old Linc UK minds...Adam would've definitely given Old Eden the boot if he ever got wind of Loriendale.

And it's not just apples. By a replica wooden antique juice press, Danny and Rowan laboriously picked and cored apples (while I kicked back munching and watching) to feed the old turning wheels of this amazing juicing contraption, I think it was only $2 a liter for the best apple juice I have ever tasted in my 29 years. Not too sweet, fresh, and with undertones you just can't find in commercial juice. It was beautiful and cloudy, begging to be mixed with some hacked Mint and Ginger.

Now, I am so sad to say that I didn't get to try, in the cosy impromptu afternoon tea that was gorgeously whipped up for us at the last minute in the solar powered farm house, the Famed Loriendale Apple Pie. They were all out of pies when we came, Rowan swears these are maddeningly good, he got to try one at Pie Day. Can you imagine, the cruelty... the degradation of hearing about the existence of perhaps the world's most wholesomely luscious Pie brimming with steamed spice Loriendale Apples...and not a crumb of it in sight to try. My strategy when I was three and stuff like this happened was to chuck a major tantrum, but you just can't pull that kind of thing off if you're cankle stage is more than 5 years behind you, so alas, I pretended to take this news with good grace. Make sure if you ever visit this orchard, you make it your yummy business to procure for yourself one of these coveted beauties. They are apparently so good that Canberra foodies put them up there with the tart and cake range being cranked out from the Stunning Silo Bakery.

Apples, Juice and Pies not enough for you? Come at the right time of the year and there are nectarines and the sweetest strawberries I have ever had, they are so small and so, so red, like little perfect exclamation points of sweetsharp taste love. Jams in CherryPumPeachFigEtc, Relishes and Chutneys are available all year round, as are other pie varieties. I even bought a copy of the Fruits of The Orchard Recipe book, flicking through it has just made my fingers itch to be away from law notes and into the cinnamoned embrace of some cosy baking mittens. There's a crumble recipe that is begging me to make it in maple syrup.

Come, Talk, Eat, Pick your own apples, Make juice... If you can handle what is sure to be apple overload, get in for apple day. 

Loriendale Orchard, along the Barton Highway North of Canberra, turn right at Spring Range road, (2k's north of the NSW border), or alternatively, discard directions and have Rowan lead you haphazardly, but fruitfully, toward this little patch of organic heaven. The website is here.

Thankyou Owen and family, for the time and the talk and the tea and the apples. Thanks Rowan, for being Rowan and for reminding us that fun is always waiting to be had.

2010 Apple Day will be the 27th March, it's always a fundraising activity, even with a Commerce degree behind him, Owen is all about the giving!

No matter how great Owen's apples are, nothing will ever replace the apple of my eye*. Aww, shucks. 

*airsickness bags are stored in the pocket beneath your tray table.

Pea Arthur Soup..

[this piece comes with a CPD (crap photography disclaimer) poor lighting and general distractedness have resulted in these shoddy illustrations, please ignore]

i dont believe in much, but i believe in soup. its taken me a couple of years to figure out how to make this most cunningly simple of concoctions translate from uh-huh, into ooh la-la. even when i think of the most elaborate meals i have ever had: dense, warm, wicked belgian waffles with organic hokey pokey and spiked caramel almonds, dracula-rare 40 day aged beef with obsequiously pleasing mashed potato and porcini butter, an earl grey infused dark chocolately Dessert Thing, really roasted chicken, succulent and crisp, and mum's roast garlic potatos, tessa-touched moist, yielding organic carrot cake with maple syrup, pecanwalnuts with a richrichrich dream in heavy cream lemonesque vanillaed cloud floating densely and velvetly above like a honeyed whisper from the distant heavens... soup, simple, unassuming, bountiful, beautiful, brothy frothy creamy soup, still releases from somewhere deep within me, the stillest, the most nostalgic, the most resolute, the most guilelessly golden of glorious sighs. all together now: 'ahhhhh'. 

the quest to produce perfection from the pot has taught me most of my cooking cardinals, so much so, that i believe that if you can make a really fantastic soup, you can make almost anything. soup, real soup, is never a cheats meal, it takes time, a slower mind, steady hands and knowing how to layer kindred souls of flavour into and on top of themselves into a warming bowl of perfect union. soup is all about patience, which is probably only why it feels like so recently that i have come to grips with its subtle ways. like a composer who can make the music of an instrument reveal itself in a new way by timing it and pairing it with other sounds, conjuring the release of an entirely unique music, so too, should you be a little bit of a schoupbert (the jury was out on whether to embolden those letters or not, but hey, im almost 30, if i cant embrace my inner retard now, then when can i)? much like many of the beautiful things in this world, it all begins with the light of a match. soup is a meal that remembers the flame that it was made with. without getting too technical on you, gas flames really are the best to cook with. cancer studies (admittedly, Hippie Cancer Studies) have revealed how detrimental it is to cook with an electric flame, gas top cooking is said to produce a much more nurturative and steady heat that energises and heals. so if this is the type of cook top you have, great, if not, do what Posh Spice does and ignore the dodgy flame, keep going on with your life as is, (not) smiling (at all, ever). the strength of the flame is something to be mindful of throughout the whole process, in the earlier stages of infusing the herbs a heavier flame is required, but after that, i always take all the time i have (not so long now, when you think about it) to draw out the cooking, a very gentle flame left to warm a heavy pot will release a much more subtle and true flavour, no biggie, just crank it low, sweet cherry, and (if you're not ben, who tells us he has burned 3 pots of stew this month by falling asleep) go and do whatever it is you do when you're at home with something spicy a-cookin' on the stovetop.

the pot is the next thing to think about. Dan has bought me a gorgeous, thick, french oven style pot in fire engine red (The Best Colour Of All Time), i have had to dub it my Little Comrade Marx for reasons two: firstly, its red and secondly, much like our Karl intended, it effects a very even distribution of resources (resources being heat) throughout the whole pot, so rather than just being overly hot in one place (a la Paris Hilton), your soup is heated evenly, all the way through (a bit like Anthony Kiedis circa Californication). i'll do a piece on pots soon (when exams are really close and i desperately need to procrastinate). if you have a crap pot, you can get a heat diffuser for about ten dollars, its a little thing you stick on top of the flame on your stovetop that spreads the heat out so its not so concentrated, otherwise, ignore me completely and move to the next step. 

with the best ingredients you can find, select a simple medley. the biggest mistake i think i made with soup was an anything goes policy, if you chuck it all in it can taste okay, but i have had much more success when i choose just a few ingredients that i think will mosh it out quite happily together, and in they go. i have two main combinations, the second one tasted good in my head when i thought it up, actually trying it out was the birth of the best soup me, dan and dad have ever had (ask them, if you dont believe me). the first time i ever made this it came out the best, every version since then has suffered slightly from my propensity to be a bit of a zealot with ye olde ginger, beyond this, it is just about the best thing you could ever put on a spoon!  because it is a wholesome, hearty soup, with a strong kick of spice and sass, erin and i dubbed this baby Pea Arthur soup. we are both golden girls nuts, and, very saddened by death of someone so wonderful, this eponymous broth was born. its as good for you as Rose, gives you a hell of a Blanche kick, and you feel like a total Sophia whipping it all up!

Pea Arthur Soup goes a little something like this...

Pea Arthur Soup:

3 creamy potatoes

3 bunches of asparagus

1 large packet of frozen baby peas

2-3 liters of chicken stock (best you can afford, use vege stock if you are a vegan/egetarian)

1 small red chili

ginger

2-3 bunches of coriander with long stringy roots attached

2 leeks

1 brown onion, medium-large.

olive oil and/or organic butter

lots of cracked pepper

on a medium flame warm a good slosh of olive oil with some cracked pepper, some finely chopped coriander root, sliced chili and fresh grated ginger root, up to about one tablespoon for this amount is quite firey. the heated oil releases all of the favours of the herbs and spices, if its extremely cold weather or you would like a more warming soup, a knob of organic butter doesn't go astray either. after about 5-10 minutes of simmering, add the chopped leek and onion and turn the heat up a little, stir as they brown well, you don't want to add the stock until the onion and leek are very browned, otherwise the soup has too much of a tangy taste. by building the soup up in this way and sauteeing the leeks and onions you actually create much more depth of flavour than you would if you just chucked a bunch of veges into a broth. after the leeks and onions are hot to trot, i drown them in about 2-3 liters of low sodium chicken stock, freerange stock is preferable, but we have an economic crisis on our hands, so cambells stock'll do. escoffier (snobby french culinary god) said that stock was essential to cooking, indeed, its the soul of any good soup. soup made without stock or with a poor stock lacks depth and body, it tastes thin and leaves you wanting something more substantial. good stock lends so much character and life to vegetables, homemade stocks especially are great way to get more nutrients. 

annnyway, turning the heat down very low, into this i add roughly chopped up, non skinned but thoroughly scrubbed potatoes (skin gives more texture and nutrients). this is the part where you go and wash your hair, watch some tv or 'read' the telegraph. leave it on low for as long as you can, ive simmered this for up to 3 hours, when the potatoes start to soften and to crumble up, i add the asparagus and turn the heat up a little more. 20 minutes or so later, i put in my whizz bang stick whizzer and puree the bejesus out of it all, while also adding  some more cracked pepper. when everything is smoother than Vanilla Ice, i add the frozen peas and leave them to defrostify for only five minutes before i commit baby pea infanticide to the third degree with the silver blades of my evil whizzer. not overcooking the peas gives a pure shock of green to the final soup, its like the english country side in a bowl, and it also allows the liveliness of babypeaness to shine through. peas are very subtle, they should never be mushy and dull green. a final crack of black pepper and lovingly ladled into a willing bowl with a neglige of fresh chopped coriander cavorting on top, and your taste buds will stop, collaborate AND listen. its so yummy and so rich, deep and light at the same time. a small bowl of this leaves you feeling full and energised, and the colour makes it so beautiful to eat. if gumby drowned in this soup, youd never find him! these measurements make enough soup for about 10 people, i leave some in the fridge and take it heated in a thermos for lunch, or have it cold, its a great way to eat your vegetables, much more interesting than on the side of some crucified slab of overcooked steak. especially as the weather becomes colder, having very warming ingredients like ginger in your cooking gives you a long lasting heat that seems to seep into your bones. like traumatic childhood memories of peeing in your pants, it really is a warmth that stays with you. its so comforting and protective, i feel great when i have good soup in my belly and im all rugged up and outside or inside on a cold, cold day. you feel so insulated, so beautifully aware of everything that you are in your own space. this is also a great meal to share with friends, having a few people sit around with soup and good chunks of bread and wine is a nice way to hold a thoughtful, deep space together, soup draws people in in a gentle way. eating pizza with a few people is so different from sharing soup together. i think i just made get togethers at my place seem both awkward and morbid. you guys are craving pizza right now, right?

Pea Arthur Soup, slurp it up x a

ACH-taliano!

there are lots of odd combinations in this world: strawberries and balsamic, roast chicken basted in coca cola, dark chocolate and pale pink peppercorns, O.J Simpson and a not guilty verdict. some of them work, some of them don’t. adriano matteoni works. this scottish-italian hybrid human is truly one of a kind: rollicking, speedy, nervous, cheery, cheeky, moody, energetic, styled, furiously flirtatious briskquickquickhowdoyoudotakeaseat have a coffee type lad. a cad. a chap. a lad’s lad. a ladies man. a jolly, smile-inducing whatthefuck smack-in-the-ear to early morning coffee seekers. a fella. hes like a trailer for a guy ritchie film, but he’s no fiction.

the boy knows food. the boy knows coffee. the boy knows why Danish furnishings are the only kind to buy. the boy knows his business. the boy knows he knows. the boy has an opinion on bread. on property. on cars. on bicycles. on where to live. on how to dress. on exactly how I should be living my life. oh, ardri. his mouth is a mile a minute incomprehensible litany of god knows what, i hardly understand a word he says, the accent is thicker than his velvety lattes and twice as frothy! that has not, however, been any impediment to a friendship that has grown itself out of awkward run ins since I first met him at the UNSW coffee cart in 2001 (like me and my uni degrees, this one gets around a fair bit). 

ardri manages to greet you, to flirt with you, to insult you, to serve you to gossip with you about your friends and make you smile while nervously dashing in and out of eye contact and leaving you with an overwhelming impression that hes just about the most likeable person you are ever likely to meet. hardly anyone ever walks away from an encounter with ardri without smiling a little to themselves in a gentle coffeed confusion. to appreciate the enigma that is ardri, you need to understand something quite fundamental: he is a grown man with the soul of a four year old little boy, really excited about what he’s done and really eager to show and tell, let him regale you with his words and his coffee and your day will be that much buzzier.

he’s got that killer scottish accent and tightwadedness with a good, strong double shot of the italian love of food and coffee, as well as the mediterranean arrogance and disdain for anything that is not simply smackyourlips be-liss (imo). he has measured his competition, and he has come out on top. in his head, the whole world is a bit of a cafe-special olympics, and he is always winning gold. mr matteoni was always going to succeed, having owned some fine cafes in balmain, the entrepeneurial firecracker set his restless, twinkling brown eyes on the much needed foodie revamping of Glebe. hallel-bloody-lujah. cake + the knifers, meet clipper coffee, The Place To Be.

there’s no elegant way to say this, but clipper coffee is as charming as shit. its a whitewash little establishment with green shutters and a deep, earthy wooden table filled interior (‘i’ve had the tables and chairs custom made’). open from 6am to 6pm, it’s even on the right side of the road to catch the reclusive morning sun. so quaint, so charming, so cheery and neat and small and nice, it should have been made out of ginger bread! it’s home away from home to macbook pro toting uni students and tech geeks, also to the builders from next door and the sweet mother and daughter who come in most mornings for brekkie, and to the couple with the adorable son that has the afro, the smile and the curious gymnastics of the very truly young. greg, a thoughtful, smoking vintage car nut who’s followed ardri all the way from balmain can usually be spied out front in the sun with his little dog and the auto section of the paper. the whole set up is a bit of a beatles song, really.

clipper takes its name from a scottish cigarette lighter, and it has already, in its very recent beginnings, set a steady and promethean flame to the glebe point road coffee scene. back in the day, i was a well connected gal, my misspent youth occurred within the grungey surrounds of that classic coffee hole, studying and just being an aimless, caffeniated student, concerned entirely with ideas and not at all with the world. my, my, how far we have come. several years later and i am all the way across the road, doing pretty much the same thing. 

across the road, and a whole world away. glebe needed a place like this, most of the glebe point road cafes are much of a muchness, hard to tell apart. ardri, however, has the ambience, the menu and the coffee, down. bloody. pat. this cafe is the classy mastermind of a man at the top of his game. the law group all meets here almost every day for our pre 4 hour seminar splenic tirades (don’t let that turn you off), which are way more appetising when accompanied by potent long blacks, dense gourmet paninis and baked goddamn eggs with HOME MADE napoli baked beans and hella good halloumi...with zartaar toast. yum. dad adores clipper, he is using it as a prime arena for his newly acquired habit.

dad, at the tender age of 70, and with true arab-father cluelessness, has just discovered the wonderful and curious world of Banana Bread. he gleefully smears it thickly with butter and honey, though you’d do much better to try the ardri version which is fresh, not frozen banana bread (it makes a difference, kids), heaving and golden toasted under the bacchian bounty of some sinatra smooth ricotta, honey and berried fruit. its as pretty as a picture in pink AND it turns your mouth into a bit of a Breakfast Club. erin was laying into these a few days a week, but that was before our pre-exam health kick. is banana bread too low brow, too gloria jeans, too run of the mill for some of my more genteel gastronomers?

then get the same decadent topping balancing upon some salacious sour cherry sourdough, not only do you get a delicious breakfast, but you get to quietly condescend to all others as you smugly digest. arabian style bircher is also up for grabs, arabian in that it is laced delicately with cream, pistachio and poached-spiced-fruit and because its the bomb, eating it is like dreaming with your mouth. if brekkie isn’t brekkie unless a hen has laid it out for you, then ardri has some very creative things happening on the very ho-hum egg front. I am continually disappointed with Sydney breakfast menus, they’re very uninventive when it comes to giving you the most important meal of the day. not at clipper, nu-uh. gorgeously bright oranged yolked free range eggs play a starring role in the baked eggs, which come out in a little piping hot glass dish and can be had two ways: with halloumi, beautifully spiced napoli and spunky baked beans or lebanese sausage, fetta and spinach. ardri is a gem with eggs, he knows frying them is a foodie no no, the taste is much richer, deeper and also cleaner when you have them boiled or poached, boiling and poaching also allows you to better taste the freshness and quality of the eggs, which are quite easy to conceal with heavy frying. so why baconandeggroll when you can proscuito tomato chutney pecorino and boiled egg panini? oh yes. you’ll be up at the cocks crow for this stuff. 

lunch is a long lineup of luscious lovelies. free range chicken salad with walnuts? smoked salmon salad with boiled egg and spinach and lashings of intense olive oil and lemon? anyone? anyone? any of these beauties will Save Ferris. the sandwich list will simply blow your mind. erin and chad scream over the salami baba ganoush red onion jam spinach fetta job, whereas benji gets his kicks from the open faced smoked salmon with wasabi mayo mix and wedge of lemon to boot, and benji has to get his kicks somewhere. simple food, done so, so well. 

rich, true, uncomplicated ingredients. sharp sandwiches and salads. generous, comforting servings, so cheap, so filling, so delicious you’ll rub your tummy, and maybe even the person next to you, in glee. ‘it’s good food’, in that way Scottish people say goooood. the sweets cabinet is an old school boiled lolly shop show case of cookies, brownies, friands, little kisses, little oohs and ahhs of dessertish delight, little naughty shapes and sizes of sweet spiced indulgence. take your sticky pickity pick and settle in with some of the best brew i have ever had.

now, you know i am a tea fiend, and i fiercely remain so, but law (contract law in particular) has driven me to 3 or 4 moments of givemecoffeeandnoonedies in the last few weeks, and this belluciain blend of five single origin coffees is beverage elysium: it is smooth, balanced, nutty. i don’t find george clooney attractive, at all, but it tastes the way his eyes look. dreamy, deep, sweet and inviting. never bitter. never too sharp. never too hot. never too cold. its the holy grind, and clipper is rocking it. all the gang agrees: long black ben, capuccino gill and the occassionalatte, amanda. they even have bonsoy, my first born son of non milk alternatives... the way it drenches your soul.

this is the hardest coffee to say nay to, but i’ve managed to do so by leaving some of my favourite earl grey (hampstead biodynamic loose leaf) with them, which they are kind enough to make up for me! the quality of the water ardri uses in his tea and coffee is purer than the pope in fresh driven snow, so smooth, so light, clean clean clean, it is the perfect pool for some diaphanous leaves. Calmer Sutra chai is on the menu, I am on ardri’s case to smarten up the tea range, but, being a typical (half) italian, he has a very anti anglo disregard for this most incredible imperial institution of insane delight. he’s all about the clipper coffee. as Christian says (in an arnold schwartznegger accent, which is his real voice) ‘you looooove it’. 

he’s right, i do. absolutely flawless. welcoming, comfortable, anonymous and friendly. ardri knows his business well, he never rushes or shoo’s out those of us who enjoy cosying up with a laptop or a book in a quiet corner and whiling away a few hours, you are welcome to sit and drift as much as your heart pleases and and as much you’re directionless soul allows. a fabulous reading selection includes monocle magazine (ardri’s favourite), marie claire, all the goss mags and newspapers. clipper has such a community feel, you know the regulars, you smile at each other, you cramp in and up close on days when the uni crowd practically swarms all over the cosy confines. 

despite the bustle i still find it quite peaceful when i am there on my own, the music is played a little louder in the morning and wraps around you and makes it so thoughts just spill into and out of eachother. the charm is in every nook and cranny, ardri has milked the ‘look’ for all its worth: old school tea pots and bicycles mounted on the wall, little empty italian mineral water bottles packed tight with honey coloured brown sugar, empty coopers bottles filled with water (the Canadias are pretty upset to get a beer bottle filled with a non alcoholic substance), little potted smiling flowers, high sturdy stools and cosy corners, merry smiles and good business all around. awww, shucks. i think i have a crush.

At 16 Glebe Point Road, Glebe, seven days a week, 6 til 6. come and kick back, coffee, tea, breakfastbrunchlunch. shoot the breeze with ardri, say hey to joe, listen to gill’s thankgoditswednesday shenanigns that leave us howling. at clipper coffee, law degrees do themselves and the most useful days of your life pass you by in a beautiful social blur, near a gentle park with a lulling loch...and not a smidge of tartan in sight. 

crazy busy some days, if you have lots of friends, ring ahead and book on 0410 688 954 (that's also his personal number, girls). ardri himself does not understand why you would frequent any other place than his when in glebe, he is as pleased as punch with his latest venture and is hearing his two favourite sounds a lot more these days: cha and ching! thanks ardri xx

special mention to joelle, erin, gill, dana, ben, ash, michael, chad, sean and larissa, even if we never graduate we would have had some lovely breakfast on the way.

Free at Last! (aka Suveran at The Junction)...

Okay...Stiff Upper Lip. We don't need to make a scene about it. I missed you too. Our time away has taught me not to take you for granted, I was afraid to commit (to a solid, sturdy, bountiful internet service provider). Our painful respite has allowed the knowledge to dawn upon me that this fear of commitment was really holding back our relationship. One month i'm there, the next month i'm not. We have trust issues, you and I... Find it in your heart to give me a second chance, I have changed. Really, I mean it. I have changed (to a server that offers all the gigabytes money can buy)...Jesus Christ!!!

I am SO glad to be Back with a Big Bloody Beautiful B! - And what a fortunate happening that our reconnection has been so timely, something internal was going to irreparably rupture if I had to hold this piece back for another day. I am going to tell you, in a chocolately warm whisper, about a little, quiet, almost clandestine operation called Suveran in Sydney's Bondi Junction, and I am going to tell you why it puts the "AAAAH" back into Health Naaaahzi. Making up never tasted so sweet...

Suveran is seriously good food, but where it differs from most other cuisine is that it is an entirely liberated cuisine. Liberated, you say? Right on, it's: Free From Soy, Free From Dairy, Free From Gluten, Free From Flour, Free From Yeast, and [insert imaginary drum roll] FREE FROM SUGAR! You had a bowel movement just from all that sudden excitement, didn't you! Yes, I am very proud to present this most unique foray into the Sydney Dining Frontier, so decidedly delicious and so good for you that if your gastrointestinal tract does not subsequently form the spontaneous ability to produce human speech which it then uses to decorously lavish verbose lashings of gratitude upon you as a result of the favour you've done it, then it really is a rather shitty old thing. Now, I pride myself on going above and beyond the call of duty, eating here and telling you about the food was not enough, so, I enlisted a couple of hungry buddies and enrolled for the three hour thirty dollar cooking class, and, on a Sweltering Sydney Saturday Afternoon, admist other salivating foodies, this is how it went down...

That's Clare: Frank, Funny and Full of slightly irreverent social musings, what's not to like! Clare doesn't really do Hippie food, she's a proud yuppie who likes the finer things in life. Much more Cristal-and-caviar-on-pointy-toasts than she is a lentil pattie on gluten free rice bread kind of gal. Going on the principle that it's far better to preach to the unconverted, I figured if this place was able to do it for Clare, then it'll definitely do it for the rest of you. Now, Suveran is right opposite the well known Macro store on Oxford Street, that said, it took me a few minutes to locate the very unassuming shop front which is like a wall between two entirely different modes of time:

Outside, fast-paced-parking-inspector-induced-eastern-suburbs-grind-hell Inside, easy-breezy-but-not-at-all-cheesey-any-thing-goes-you-know. This is the exact kind of place The Fonz would have walked into, looked around and paused inside of, before exclaiming with approved abandon, a deep and drawn out: "Ehhhhhh". It's very cool, very laid back, very lounge around and have a read about why acidic food is bad for you while you sip some herbal tea type thing. Equal part Fonz, and equal part Richard Cunnigham: In fact, the food is so wholesome Mrs C won't have to worry about you getting all your vitamins from her pork chops with applesauce. All the seeds used here, such a Buckwheat and Quinoa (red and white) are sprouted before they're allowed to feature in luscious bread, gorgeous pies, pizzas, crepes and burgers.

That's a sexpot of a loaf of About To Be Baked Suveran Bread. It contains coconut, magnesium, neem, licorice, seeds and sprouted Buckwheat, Millet and Quinoa, three beautiful alternatives to Evil Lord Wheat. Sprouting is basically a process of dunking some (preferably spring) water on top of some seeds/grains/nuts and leaving them to sit for a while in a glass, time depending upon temperature, until the germination process starts to unfurl within them (usually about 5 to 6 hours later). Heat is produced as the seeds become active, you can move them around a little with your keen paws to keep it all a-kickin. This process is so simple anyone from the cast of The Hills could perform it, unaided. The benefit to you is a more nutritional, easily digestible food which won't be so enzymatically depleting. Now, most of the guys who I know read this are not ones for overly giving a stuff about the dynamism of their alimentary canals, but keep an open mind, fellas, sprouting creates delicious textures, tastes and new baking and non-baking possibilities that could leave you so sprightly that erectile dysfunction will be a thing of your sordid, sorry past!

While the rest of us have been over-working, over-consuming and generally wearing away any of the remaining luster from our flailing, God-foresaken souls, the smarties at Suveran have been concocting: Ze Mix. The Mix is like long legs or a big bank account, it gets you very far and can be used in so many different ways. Slight adaptations of the mix create the Suveran bread, their crepes, their pizza, their pie crust, and even a delectable raw porridge. "Tell me more, tell me more". This mix is a sprouted nutrient powerhouse, it contains macca (a hormone regulator that acts as a precursor to the pituitary gland - which is basically, along with with Signor Hypothalamus, the Lord of your hormone feudal system), magnesium chloride (for the nervous system), bi carb of soda (for moving things along), himalayan salt (nothing from the himalayas except climbing them is bad for you), coconut oil (the magical metaboliser) and the sprouted seeds. Jesus, And you're still having vegemite on Tip Top fluffy white, what am I going to do with you lot...

The folks at the Suveran are all about sharing and all about the love, so here's The Mix, Straight Up, let's call it....

God In The Food Processor
(NB: all measurements are rough, these dudes are very intuitive cookers, a Litre Cup is used throughout, so measurements are based on that, also Breville Seconds is a great recommended shop in Ultimo for those of you not in possession of a processor, they're new machines for about half the price that come in a damaged box! All ingredients are for sale at Suveran, so don't go on a Wild Goose Chase also, Pete says it's important put love in the food, cook with care and gratitude for the ingredients, if you're running a little low on the old love, redistribute it from friends and family into the buckwheat, eh).
About 1/2 L Clean H2O
3/4 L Sprouted Buckwheat
1/2 Tbspn Neem Powder (The Indian medicinal powder that'll make you party like it's 1999, Bollywood Style!)
1/2 Tbspn Macca Powder (Macca makes this a Hormone Happy Meal)
1 Tbspn Bi Carb Soda
1 Tbspn Himalayan Salt
4 Tbspn Slightly Refined Coconut Oil (Pure oil is too coconutty and dominates the flavour if used)
1/3 L sprouted Millet (good for chewiness)
1.5 L Red/White Quinoa

Turn Food Processor on (some times I honestly don't know with you guys), and let it do it's thing, don't mix this in too finely, too fine a mix creates too dense and heavy a loaf, the coarseness of the seeds also lends a great texture to the finished products. If the mix is too wet, some coconut flour can be added in cautious increments to dry it out. Bread will take about an hour in a lined tin, to bake in a 150-180 oven, you can paint some coconut oil on half way through the cooking process. For a pie, use the mix in an oiled pie tin to form the mould, add cooked veges/meat/whatever as the filling and top with some more mix which you can arrange dome style with the aid of a spoon. For a divine gluten free pizza, throw some garlic, oregano, sage, onion, lemon myrtle and little more bi carb to the base, load with topping and drizzle on some more mix to vary the texture. Crepes need a more watery, coconut oily, bicarby mix for fluff and volume.

Good for you, dense, of nutty aroma and wholesomely warm. Seriously guys, for those of you who have never baked a loaf (that includes me), what better way to go about it. They sell slices and slices of this great stuff every day. The pies are particularly good, eat them in house and then try making them at home, you wont be disappointed. It's a wickedly crusty crust, with a moorishness and depth to it that perfectly frames some beautiful roast lamb or veges.

That kinky looking thing there is raw Cocoa Butter. Jesus Christ. I had to stop myself from getting in the bowl with it and having open slather ensue. The Gluten free, Sugar free, Dairy Free, Soy free 'chocolate' that they sell in this shop is honestly satisfying enough to replace sex, good music, family, friends and classic novels in my life irrevocably and forever (Danny, Darling, look up: 'hyperbole'). My favourite Chocolatey Suveran Thing is the Fudgey Wudgey. It is like speeding in a Black Ferrari down a German Freeway while bitching about Celine Dion, so good it should be illegal. When ever I eat one of these things I am looking over my shoulder the whole time. Now, you guys know I am extremely sensitive to sugar, this is the first sweet treat I have enjoyed in years that left me feeling fine a few hours later, energized, in fact. I did make the mistake of having two medium sized ones the day after, a bith much, Go-Go Gadget Glutton!

If you're idea of a Choco Fix is still of the Genus Snickers, Check this out: coconut oil, coco butter, currants, neem, cinnamon, liquorice root, macca, magnesium, fresh young coconut water, carob powder, cocoa powder and some black strap molasses all rock it out in this sexy-dense-deranging concoction. So luscious. Like frozen little slabs of Bridgette Bardot (then, not now). Is it just me, or does black strap molasses make you gigggle when you hear it said? Sound like something reminiscent of bondage, eh? Well, if that's the case, this stuff could tie me up any day and have its chocolately, fudgey wudgey way with me. Raw chocolate, full of antioxidants, essential fatty acids and exotic herbs and minerals, tell me the secret of your ways....

The Devil In The Blender:
Process:
1/4 of a cup of Coconut Oil
2 Big Handfuls of Cocoa Butter
1 to 1 1/2 Handfuls of Currants
1/2 Tbspn Neem
Then Add:
2 tbspns Cinnamon (optional)
2 tbspns Liquorice Root
1/2 tbspn Macca
1/2 tbspn Magnesium
Water of 1 Young (sounds a bit Wicked Witch of the West) Coconut, meat optional.
Process then add:
A Good Dollop of Black Strap Molasses.

If you stop here and fridge this product, you have a white chocolate mousse, for those of you who like your Chocolate a little KKK, go no further. For the Black Panthers among you, get cracking on adding:
1/2 cup cocoa
1/2 cup carob
And slowly add water in increments to the blending if the colour is too white, more cocoa and currants can also be added to get the colour a nice solid black. Freeze this mix. Slice it. Eat it all. Share with no one. Even if a semi starved orphan child appears at your doorstep with welts and eyes that are all anemia, put out the stale tim tams and horde this one all for your greedy selves!

Fudgin' Hell. This is for all you moaners and groaners. Sample Fudgey Wudgey from the Self Serve Suveran Fridge. Thank God it's self serve, allow cool fridge air to billow over your anticipating mug while you pinion your gaze into all the available slices and detect the fattest, and therefore most sumptuous, little oblong of sugar free tooth sex. They melt if you leave them out for too long, so purchase ample slices for friends which you will, unfortunately, have to consume yourself because they will (not so sadly) melt on your way to meeting them. Amandus Ex Machina.

Suveran just rocks. Beyond chocolate and bread (and I didn't think there really was anything beyond chocolate and bread, per se), purchase amazing herbs for tea, ancient seeds and spices for cooking. For $3, which is the cost of a One-Foot-In-The-Grave-Flat-White, get a young coconut hacked to its milky death in front of you, sip its young blood lesiurely, like a tropical Dracula, before you return the dry carcass back to the Resident Hacker for the shelling of the inner meat: delicate, slippery folds of lovely coconut scented, ivory flesh, beckoning you to gobble it all up.

Order some herbal tea, buy some unpasteurized goat's milk, some beautiful raw porridge to take some, some house made guacamole or beautiful raw nut dips. Buy mineral bursting Himalayan salt, in pink or black, magnesium for your skin and for your cooking, beautiful oils and lotions and seeds.

The menu includes hearty lamb, chicken and vege stews, crepes, salads, burgers, smoothies, and other healthy treats, like muesli slices and muffins and brownies. It's all made fresh in front of you, all organic, all sprouted, all loved up cooking with spunky ingredients and little pinches of this and dashes of that to keep you smiling, glowing and knowing. Wellness water is free of charge to drink and used in all cooking, an energized and mineralized drop that high-drates you like nothing else. If you still can't chill out, let one of the friendly Suverans add a smidge of magnesium to your water to get you sipping it up sweet.

Good food, great products, great recipes and all so reasonably priced you'll think it's Bangalow and not Sydney. Massages, ear candling and nutritional advice are all available on request. There are $1 flyers for sale with info on everything from eating alkaline food to the facts behind carbon dioxide. A meal, an ambience and an education. Cooking classes run Saturday afternoon, twice a month, grab some friends and head down.

Pete, who runs the show here, is an interesting lad to have a bit of a chat with. He thinks we should be having about 3-6 bowel movements a day. I am going to stick to my meager daily tally, which is no where near that. 3-6 a day, where would we find the time to trek into the junction for our daily dose of fudgey wudgey? Priorities, Pete, Priorities.

Many chocolate toothed thanks to Jaimee and Megan S for the tip off!

Suveran, at 244 Oxford St Bondi Junction (Opp Macro), Ph 369 4040, website here.

Breville Seconds, at 46 Wattle St Ultimo, ph: 9660 8217

for the love of GOD...

Hey guys. My ability to get a consistently functioning internet service is about as successful as Whitney Houston's inter-nasal septum reconstruction surgery following her prolonged cocaine useage. I am trying to sort out the kinks, there are lots of pieces waiting to go, especially an exciting new Bondi Junction venture that is set to become one of the best healthy foodie finds I have chanced upon in the longest time. Give me another week or two to sort it out, then it's time to kick off twothousandandfine! I miss you. How are you all? Plastic Fantastic, are you still out there?

x a.