Writing About Food. What this blog is all about.

Since beginning this blog – and the course at UTS – just three years ago, the world has changed dramatically. Back then, it seemed necessary to remind people that food was a political subject. Today, with 800 million people hungry and over one billion overweight, with food riots in the Middle East and Africa, and crops that could be used to feed the starving being diverted to make biofuel to keep the cars of the wealthy on the road – it’s bleeding obvious.

Which makes writing about food in all its forms a rapidly growing and increasingly important branch of journalism, a discipline that demands the contribution of the senses, the intellect and the enquiring and sceptical mind.

The course is designed to increase students’ sensual appreciation of food and their ability to communicate this; to understand the political and social implications of food and –increasingly importantly – agriculture in the twentieth century and to offer a brief introduction to the historical background. And to help those who need it, to develop their journalistic skills:  assume nothing, ask everything.

The course also includes a component on critical writing, especially as it relates to restaurant criticism, recipe writing, and an all important session on how to sell your writing.

“It is possible to imagine” writes Felipe Fernández- Armesto in his book Food A History, “an economy without money and reproduction without love, but not life without food.” It is an all consuming subject, one that refuses to stay in a single box. Food, its distribution, depiction and effects can also be found in the study of such disparate disciplines as economics, medicine, science, increasingly politics and, often, art.

Food is a political topic because it covers health, human rights (culinary philosopher Michael Symons has pointed out that two most basic human rights are, one, the right to eat, and two, the right to choose what we eat), the economy, culture, and tourism. How many wars have been started from squabbles over land? Land to grow food.

All this means that when the next thing that you put in your mouth – or don’t – could kill, maim, sicken or delight you, the food writer can never ever say “I don’t know what to write about.”

If, after reading these posts you would like to register for the next short course, follow this link to UTS:

http://www.shortcourses.uts.edu.au/code/coursedetails.php?&sc_code=HSS36

Alternately, email me, John Newton, at jnewton@newtricious.com.au

Yogurt: Colouring In the Numbers

I’m like the four year-old who’s just found out how to activate adults: by sneaking the word why into every sentence. And why am I so empowered? In a few days, I’ll be taking a course – not of antibiotics but a recommended antidote to help avoid illness. I’m to learn about food. Precisely, a short course on food writing. I’m hungry for how the many dishes of meals are processed from raw to print. How media cooks up itself. And back to why. Why am I eating what I’m eating now?

After reading only part way through the set textbook, I’m already deciphering the reverse label on my latest yogurt purchase, French Vanilla. The font size is best suited to eyes on a bacterium. A food with the fabric of liquid silk is now a mass of numbers and technical words like thickener and preservative.

Already I’m ringing a toll-free number to enquire what proportion of the sugar component is fructose, that sugar not triggering an insulin response in our bodies, that sugar which has been linked with the current diabetes pandemic. After graciously allowing my call to be monitored, I then forget to ask whether their fructose is from corn syrup. The operator consults his computer which is acting unfriendly. Sometime later he informs me, in plain vanilla, that the sugar information is commercial-in-confidence. I have rung a hotline which is running cold.

Of course, I could ring again but being served an empty answer and eating yogurt out of a fridge on highest cool, I am becoming cold on corporations. My atmospherics are later affirmed when, during discussion in the food course, even established journalists gripe how “Big corporations don’t want to talk”. If they won’t talk to journos…

But right now, I’m pre-course reading. This textbook is almost shouting at me, “Become hyper-aware of each mouthful.” Down past tonsils that survived childhood go fructose, whose origins I know not and Acidity Regulators keeping bacteria kicking. I’m listening to my inner clock ticking the reasons I choose industrial silk.

Firstly, yogurt is healthy, being strong in calcium punches to fight any shadow of osteoporosis. Secondly, it’s high in GI meaning it only sashays the intestinal tract rather than hiphopping. The final reason is … low food miles. My pedometer hardly registers when I open a tub of yogurt compared to when I walk to the fridge to remove cheese and tomato, untie a loaf of bread, find plate and knife, toast bread if stale, microwave bread with cheese, then pepper the lot with what appears as a minute dice of ants.

Please don’t misunderstand. I regularly eat melted cheese. It’s just that yogurt is a convenience food of low food miles, time and surprise. On certain days, foods need to be completely reliable. Supermarket yogurt will be just what the packaging projects and protects. A brandname. A corporation. And so remembering only a fraction of this textbook’s detail but much more of the taste, I greet my fellow eaters on the first day of the food course.

Back at home, I continue reading and eating. But I now know there are people, like myself, questioning foods. We may be links in the food chain but we’re not just consumers. Like shareholders, we are participants in a company’s life force. I return to my yogurt and list every ingredient. Then, using an Approved Additive List I had shoved sometime into a folder, I translate every number into a word. Additive number 440 is pectin. There’s a familiar word. Something in fruit, its cell walls. 330 is citric acid, 406 is agar. The yogurt is becoming a new, old friend.

With courage to investigate further, I ring the free line. Not wishing to provoke call centre staff into thinking “It’s that yogurt woman needing a preservative again”, I ask about colour. A female voice informs me there is no added colour. Later she corrects this, finding that ingredient 160b is Natural Colour or Annatto extract. The label states “No Artificial Colours”. This means the added colour is natural. I ask about fructose and no, she doesn’t know where it comes from, “It’s the sugar found in fruit”. I don’t correct her but glucose is also found there, in roughly equivalent amounts. Then I realise it’s all about how much of any one ingredient, proportions, portions.

A tablespoon swathed in vanilla silk with French connections confidently makes an entrance. Into my mouth. My brain. Passing as many visual and oral tests as I can imagine. All 20 ingredients, including live feed. The various media reporting from my stomach should be satisfied. I’ll be the grown-up four year-old in class next week, able to report for “show and tell” with no embarrassing bits. Well, not many.

Written by Margo Ruckert

Write into Flavour

All around me the sounds of sip, gargle, multiple gargles, spit, are becoming increasingly acceptable. I’m here at the Writers’ Centre with tutor, John Newton, and 13 other tongues, to do food. “In all aspects” as the course contents detail. Over three Saturdays. A task of similar proportions to a degustation menu you might think. So I’m taking this course, bite by bite. Today we are focussing on turning flavour into words. And it’s not until my first sip of olive oil that I realise how unprepared my flavour brain is for this event. Thesaurus, where are you.

John helpfully assumes our virgin status with an oil tasting, for meta-learning, and provides some associative words for positive experiences. Words like fruitiness or “good level of pungency”. But is the fact that there are many more words for negative experiences, like muddy, earthy, winy, rough, greasy, a sign that this food is judged mostly from an absence of negative qualities?

With my first sip, I write down – grass, oily and sunshine; apparently relying more on colour, with a primitive realisation of smell. Confessing to another course participant that I rarely use olive oil, I realise that the part of my flavour brain processing olive oil is probably still in its infancy. Agricultural and grassy are two words I find for the second oil, whilst the third is very bitter and again grassy. Immediately afterwards, John provides feedback. Oil 1 is slightly fruity, grapey, with a bitter aftertaste. Oil 2 is lighter and Oil 3 has a burnt or smoky appeal. Apparently many of my co-sippers found all these qualities. Yes, they agree, nodding their heads like true gastronomes. I can only take another sip and watch my brain cells slide mysteriously into a micro-sleep.

I berate my consciousness for being so insensitive as we slip into honey tasting. But this time, no hints. Here again is a food I rarely meet on its own. Perhaps once every three months. While Honey 1, an insipid wheat colour, swirls around the cavern of my mouth, the only word I can think is “smooth”. It’s true. My flavour brain is still in a Kindergarten class with honey. Honey 2, the deepest colour of the three, reminds me of wood panelling in fairy-tale mansions while Honey 3 is timber and railway sleepers.

At lunch, I remark to John about my observations and he replies “when was the last time you ate a railway sleeper”. So, to turn flavour into words requires words of taste. I’m being trained to think: sweet, sour, bitter, salty, umami for a start. I’m starting to taste the bigger picture.

I will not discuss my exploits with the four chocolate samples other than to say
that, fortunately, the packaging of each provided invaluable insights or rather intastes. Certainly, I missed floral notes and an exceptionally long finish but I leave the course today with a rich after-taste and I’m sure no other Kindergarten word list looks like mine.

Written by Margo Ruckert

Oils ‘aint oils…

Olive oil is an essential ingredient within many cuisines and treasured around the world. We love to use it to cook with, dress salads, dip our bread into it at the table with a little bit of balsamic.

However have you ever just taken a sip and really got to know your olive oil au naturel?

As part of a tasting session within my food writing course, with food writer John Newton, my mission for today was to explore the sensory virtues of 3 extra virgin olive oils from different parts of the globe.  The “Rosto” an Australian blended olive oil, the highly rated Italian olive oil Colonna from Molise and Gaea fro Sita in Crete.

Like wine, terroir, varietal, processing method, age at picking all give their own unique stamp to the olive oil and have an effect on the colour and flavour of the oil.

As I poured each sample I could see the variation in hues of each oil. The Australian oil was golden yellow brown in colour, the Colonna oil a vibrant lime green, and the Crete oil was in between exhibiting a more yellowy green hue.

First step is to absorb yourself in the aroma, deeply breathing it in and let my nose and mind interpret the smells.

Only then can you place the oil to your mouth, yet be warned tasting oil is certainly an art in itself!

Firstly you need to take a slurp the oil into your mouth and keep it there as you swirl the oil around your mouth while with an slightly open mouth simultaneously suck in air so it can flow over the oil and allow the flavours to not only coat the tastebuds but also tickle your ‘retronasal’ senses so you experience the full extent of the oil.   Then you can then swallow or spit thought personally I think you really need to experience it all as allowing the oil to slide down your throat and into your stomach which then allows you to see if there are any particular lingering flavours or aftertaste characteristics.

Now although this sounds similar to tasting wine it was much more challenging. Olive oil is a viscous, slippery and difficult to swirl around the mouth without swallowing it or having it ‘oh so elegantly’ spill out your mouth, and then when this happens its hard not to burst into laughter …making you spit it all out in the hilarity!

However as I was here to learn I continued to work on my technique and eventually got the hang of it without making too much of messy mockery of myself!

First sample on the block was the Rosto. I put the glass to my nose and breathed to get woody, grassy, oaten hay aromas.  I could also smell hints of toasted almond, boiled green vegetables yet also got a hint of fruitiness almost like green banana.

On tasting it was greasy, thick and cloying with a mild pungency, or spicyness, at the back of the throat. I found the fattiness of the oil unpleasant to taste in this raw state so wouldn’t use this on a salad however perhaps it would be fine to cook with perhaps tossing some onion, garlic and chilli to before making a tomato pasta sauce or perhaps spaghetti with alio & pepperoncino!

The Colonna sample had a strong fruity aroma of fresh green apple yet also noticed a floral note with hints of lemongrass.

As I tasted the first slurp I got a floral fruitiness almost citrus taste but also some herbaceous and yeasty notes like pickled green olives. It was extremely pungent almost spicy, like chilli hitting the back of my throat. This was soo strong that it made me cough and splutter and my throat felt itchy for a little time after, it also had quite a bitter and astringent aftertaste.

For some this is a prized oil and one of the best, and it certainly has a price tag, yet I found it unbalanced.  Perhaps it may be better with a little bread or drizzled over salad as it was too overpowering and inequitable for me.

The Gaea oil from Crete had a pleasurable fruity green apple aroma with a slight grassy aroma like freshly cut grass or lush green lucerne.  It exhibited a pleasing pungency or pepperiness that slightly tickled my throat just enough to give it some piquancy without making me cough and splutter.  Interestingly I also noted a hint of smokiness like fermented dried black olives.

Out of all three this would be the one I’d be willing to have in my kitchen. It would be perfect for many things be it drizzled over some freshly sliced tomatoes and basil or in the pan with some delicate blue eye cod or marron or just to dip chunks of fresh crusty pane di casa.

So next time you pull out your olive oil put a little into a small glass and truly taste it…..you may be surprised what you learn!

Written by Sonja Bernyk

Pendolino

I have arrived at the fashionista mecca – the historic Strand Arcade in George St, Sydney.

Yet I am not here to shop (though would be seriously tempted if they were open at this time!) but to sample the food of renowned Nino Zoccali and his team at Pendolino.

Nino has a delicious reputation from his days at Otto and Nove, however he has left the Terzini stable to begin his own Sydney venture.

Pendolino not only features a restaurant, yet it also functions during the day as a café, wine bar and an olive oil enoteca.

It is, however, not the easiest to find. If I had not known to head to the top floor, I would have needed some assistance beyond my navman.

After heading up the ancient Victorian lift I am greeted by a large, yet unattended, concierge desk. Although I could see the chefs creating behind the glass window, and waiters busily a wander inside, no one was there to see us arrive which was a little disconcerting as we were on time for our 9pm booking.

Eventually someone swept by, and although not too long, it was long enough.

Yet all discord disappeared as we were welcomed into the dining room.

Strolling through I noticed it abounded with the energy of people talking, eating and drinking with pleasure and enjoying their night. It was quite a bustle for a Monday, which was certainly pleasing.

Passing the intimate private dining room you see a large cellared wall of wines and olive oils and a wrought iron ‘curtain’ dividing the room. It is quite a graceful restaurant featuring exposed brick walls, wrought iron olive leaf shaded lights, dark timbers and carpets which are contrasted by the beautifully crisp white linens, romantic timber chairs and comfortable leather banquettes. A restaurant that signifies elegance yet also heartfelt Italian warmth that I hoped the food would match.

Our waiter, in his handsome designer Farage suit, produced our menus. We were mesmerised, not only by his fashionable attire, but also with his romantic Italian accent….he could have been reciting the alphabet and we would have still been enamoured!

A good wine list with mix of Australian and Italian wines, however unfamiliar with some of the Italian varieties we asked for some recommendations it was hard to go past our sommelier’s innate passion for wines from the homeland. So we followed his heart and ordered the Tuscan blend of Sangiovese, Shiraz and Merlot

Then we carefully examined the menu ….so many choices tickled our desires. Twice our waiter asked for our choices yet still the crew and I weren’t undecided. A menu like this needs time to savour and ensure a good decision making process.

Although the Pappardelle con ragu di vitella ($19) tempted me I decided upon the Fegatini D’anartra con le amarene ($19). Duck liversperfectly seared and lightly browned on the outside yet still softly pink and tender on the inside and drizzled with a sour cherry jus. The first bite of each lobe oozed a meaty indulgence yet dissolved in the mouth almost like foie gras. Served on the side was white polenta which had been fashioned into a log then pan-seared to give it a golden, crusted top yet still retained an inner gentle creamy texture and some deliciously crisp pancettta.

My dining counterparts had fallen in love with the idea of the Proscuitto ‘bianco e rosso’ ($19) a divine blend of red and white pork served with crisp light rosemary infused grissini and Sardinian flat bread. The ‘rosso’ is prosciutto from San Daniele a mass of rich, deep pinky red curls of earthy cured pork meat. The ‘bianco’ is actually pork belly fat which has been cured in the style of Colonnata meaning that it has been traditionally cured in marble tanks. To me the ‘bianco’ was the enchanting part of the dish wafer thin slices of lard with a gentle smokiness and yeastiness that just melted on the tongue and although Rosemary Stanton may be horrified – trust me it is worth every wicked mouthful!

The Spaghettia chitarra ($23) or ‘guitar pasta’ named so as it is cut with a guitar like cutter, was certainly an exciting entrée. The house made saffron infused pasta added visual vibrancy to the dish which abounds with the flavourful robustness of garlic, chilli and capers blended with the stylish sweetness of barrumundi and prawns and good splashing of pinot grigio.

As for mains they were even harder to decide on! We had already ‘tested’ the kitchen’s pasta and so had to test their risotto skills, and thankfully were delighted. Risotto di asparagi e fave ($34) is an ample serve of tender, velvety risotto comprised of al dente carnaroli rice dotted with small cuts of fresh asparagus and crushed fava beans. Yet it still retains that traditionally desired slight brothiness in the dish. Though although my Italian counterpart adored this, I found it all a little intoxicating as was too heavily infused with parmigiano reggiano and truffled butter which overshadowed the delicate asparagus and natural creaminess of the rice.

Porchetta al finocchio ($37) paired slowly cooked Krobuta pork belly with a rosemary and fennel flavoured crust. Quite a pork lovers delight as the the pork belly sat atop slices of rich garlicky cotechino sausage which certainly charmed my inner carnivore. However it was let down by the rather dense bed of white bean and potato puree and tart salad of blood orange and fennel. The confusing flavours were further intensified by the blood orange oil which was a little overpowering. I felt the overall finish of the dish was a little too hectic for my palate and would have preferred enjoying the purity of just ‘fennelled’ rosemary pork with potato.

The Quaglia all griglia ($37) the quail although supposedly to be chargrilled tasted like it had only been waved over the grill and then steamed. Besides a few grill marks its skin was quite soft with a boiled like taste and texture. It left a heavy fatty taste in the mouth and the meat was a little on the pinker side. It was overloaded it even more by the slurps of olive oil on the plate the quail was unctuous enough yet exaggerated by the Piccardy Olive Oil from Permberton. I know that this is a feature of Nino’s menu highlighting the olive oil however on this occasion I felt he could have left it out. Thankfully the perfumed dried black olive sauce and perfectly cooked thyme & garlic potatoes with their crispy outer skin and creamy inner flesh saved the dish.

The Bistecca al Ferri ($39) was the piatto forte of the night. An impeccably chargrilled piece of tender, grass-fed beef sirloin resting upon a pillow of creamy, malty oxtail and pearl barley risotto with a dazzle of sweet baby pearl onions . This was more like it – a rustic italian dish became an elegant ‘affare’ as the quality ingredients cooked to perfection and their delicious simplicity glowed – belissimo Nino!

Now you would think that by this time the crew and I had come to our digestive limits yet we had to at least sample one dessert and our senses were delighted.Semifreddo di torrone alle mondorle ($15) is a creamy milky ice cream interspersed with almond nougat, sweet floral Ligurian honey and crispy caramelised dots of candied almond. Intensely sweet yet totally sensual – the perfect ending to dinner.

So like its name Pendolino takes you on a tilting journey between delizioso to confusione yet overall she settles to become a delight.

Pendolino
Shop 100 – 102, Level 2, The Strand Arcade, 412 -414 George St Sydney

Open Mon – Fri for lunch 12 -3 pm and dinner Mon – Sat 6-10pm.
Chef: Nino Zoccali
Owners: Nino Zoccali & SG Foodservice Pty Ltd
Entrees:$19 – 26
Mains: $29 -39
Desserts: $12 – 17
Wines: Selection of Australian and Italian wines with 21 available by the glass.

Written by Sonja Bernyk

Red Squirrel Dining, 177 Carrington Rd, Coogee

Having just moved to the area I was on a mission to find that dependable, reliable nearby restaurant- one for Tuesday night dinners, moments of indecision and last minute dining. That’s when I encountered Red Squirrel.

Upon entering the white cubic room, the first thing you notice is all the squirrely ornaments lining the shelves. We are promptly seated by the pleasing waitress who takes us to our equally cubic table with white table cloth and pine deck chairs.

“We’re ready to order when you’re ready” says the women at the table to our right in her most polite annoyed voice to the waitress. Her husband is tapping his fingers and I come to notice that not many people are eating.

But no one seems to mind and in fact the mood is quite relaxed. Its like going to an aunts for dinner, ceramic ornaments, a wonky table which the waitress crouches down to fix-twice- and the refrigerator at the corner of the kitchen, clearly visible from our table and dotted with pictures of children and good times.

By the time our entrée arrives my date has spilt his red wine twice (the table’s fault). The goats cheese tart is picturesque, cupping pieces of feta and roast tomato, curls of parmesan balance carefully on and around it. Dotted with swirls of truffle oil and balsamic, finely chopped shallots laze about the outside of the plate, waiting to be swept up by a full fork. Admittedly, there’s a lot going on and it somehow works; the warm crispiness of the pastry, saltiness of the feta and sweet tang of the tomato and caramelised red onion. But sometimes more is too much and the balsamic tended to subsume the other flavours.

Some forty minutes later my ravioli arrives and so does my date’s steak. The colours on his plate are playful and the food is looking delightfully tall. On a round hill of potato a robust piece of eye fillet relaxes and around it are green beans, asparagus and sundried tomatoes. I watch his seasonal feast in envy as I prod through my ravioli, each pocket filled with a pureed substance and small shards of lobster. At an entrée size it priced at $22. It was described as “lobster tail ravioli”. You do the math.

I order desert even though I know I won’t be seeing it for a while. A bronzed reclining Buddha lazes beneath the stairs, “Relax…” he says. It arrives quicker than I expect and my date asks the waitress for the bill just as she puts it down. Lemon panna cotta with strawberries and lemon sorbet- the menu does not lie. Each spoonful is politely smooth and creamy, the flecks of vanilla bean offering some reassurance after my main. I bite the strawberries but leave most of the gelato which exceeds the sourness of the pond of lemon syrup on the panna cotta and is frankly too much.

As I refuse to share the last of my desert the room is ahumm with casual Saturday night diners and some rowdy celebration upstairs which seems to be testing the pace of the lone waitress. A cool young couple walks in and is seated. The waitress crouches down next to them and fixes the uneven table legs. The young girl blushes and proceeds to coo over the porcelain squirrel clutching an acorn on the mantle piece. All is well at Red Squirrel.

Written by Bridget Cormack

My life as a Vegaquarian

When I lived in London, the best thing about Mad Cow Disease was that the whole of the UK suddenly became vegetarian friendly. When there’s a chance a steak could turn your brain into a sloppy sponge, an asparagus quiche quickly becomes a more attractive option.

I’ve lived in Sydney for ten years, and for such a metropolitan city, Sydney has a surprising lack of choices for vegetarians. I’ve lost count of the times that I’ve gone for a pub meal only to find that the only option is a bowl of chips, which are generally fried in animal fat or smothered in chicken salt.

“A hamburger with the lot, no meat” sounds like the punch-line to a bad joke but it’s usually all I can eat when I’m in country towns.

I’m not sure why Sydney doesn’t cater to vegetarians. If I had to guess I’d say it’s because meat is cheap and plentiful in Australia and it’s part of our national psyche to enjoy a good steak. The nation developed on the sheep’s back, so it seems natural to turn around and eat it.

I’m not a true vegetarian, which does make eating out slightly less arduous than following a strict vegetarian diet (I could never follow any eating plan described as “strict”). I eat fish and seafood, I just don’t eat animals or birds of any sort. The reasons are bourgeois rather than ethical – I don’t like the taste, texture or the way digesting meat makes me feel.

The thought of eating muscles and flesh is as incomprehensible to me as cannibalism probably is to meat-eaters; I’m sure the majority of omnivores couldn’t imagine gnawing on a human thigh, no matter how perfectly marinated in red wine jus.

A lot of omnivores, especially chefs and gastronomers, pity vegetarians as they get so much pleasure from meat – pleasure they think we’re missing out on. They think of deprivation rather than enhancement. I personally think I get more enjoyment from eating vegetables, tofu and legumes than they could ever get from meat.

The combination of rocket, parmesan and pears can make my eyes roll back in my head. Chickpeas with roughly chopped mint, a squeeze of lemon juice and Murray River salt-flakes can induce a temporary loss of speech. I like to think that with a lack of meat my taste-buds have had to evolve to be more sensitive to subtle and delicate flavours.

My biggest gripe about the meat culture in Sydney is the way some Australian men take being vegetarian as a personal attack on their manhood. I dread revealing my proclivities  at BBQs as invariably some boofy bloke will make it his mission to show me that I’m wrong about not eating meat.

Now, the said boofy bloke is usually ten kilograms overweight, sweaty and red-faced, and so unfit that he’d be gasping for breath after a walk from the BBQ to the fridge, but he’ll make damn sure I understand that I’m the unhealthy one in denial.

The conversation inevitably follows a template; I will be told that we’ve evolved to be at the top of the food chain and our bodies were designed to eat meat. I’ll be informed that cavemen ate meat and it’s completely natural. Then I’ll be told about how much iron meat has and how I can’t possibly be getting enough vitamins and minerals from vegetables.

I usually sigh at this point because I know what’s coming next. The crowning argument, which every person believes to be original. Here it comes. Hitler was a vegetarian.

Yes, believe it or not, this is something that people really believe could change my dietary decisions. A psychotic megalomanic who died 65 years ago didn’t eat meat, thereby invalidating every single vegetarian’s personal gastronomic choice since then.

It seems pointless to counter that the majority of serial killers (nay, most evil people in the world) were carnivores.

So Sydney, you’re a beautiful city, but you drive me crazy. You have so much bountiful farmland, fresh produce and mild seasons yet you insist that I can only eat chips or a deep-fried cardboard vegeburger. You have a vast melting pot of Asian, Middle Eastern and European immigrants but you still think that chicken is vegetarian. Your men will work the BBQ but they will insist that it has to be meat, and salads are for poofs. And your hamburger-with-the-lot-no-meat will occasionally include bacon.

Written by Cheryl Gledhill

Phamish Vietnamese Cafe

Phamish – the name says it all really, and in many ways….

Obviously it is a humorous play on words – hinting at the fact that this is a modern take on Vietnamese food.

But perhaps more importantly, if you are ‘famished’, you are more than likely too tired to cook, crave multiple tasty dishes, and would be happy to endure whichever system efficiently provides relief from this predicament. I say endure, as endurance is something you will come understand as soon manage to get a seat.

More on that later…

Phamish first opened it’s doors in 2002 in a custom-built space just down the hill from the ever popular Bills Cafe and Onde Bistro. It quickly found friends – the sort of people who eat out a lot, but spend their pennies wisely. At the time, I was one of this happy brigade, and often went there for a quick meal before a movie up the road on Oxford St.

I was never disappointed.

The place looked slick and ran like clockwork. The thick concrete walls punctured with frameless openings seemed to give it a certain balmy authenticity. Likewise, the inventory of portions remaining being scratched off in real time as you ordered, made you feel lucky to have got one. It also reinforced that the place was being run by seasoned professionals, confident in what they make and how much of it they will sell.

This was not a eatery waiting for customers, it was customers waiting for a table. There was a nervousness amongst the patrons as they jostled from their cars to the door. Once seated though, a sense of intimacy (afforded by soft lighting and natural ventilation) prevailed despite the squashed table plan. With its recent relocation to the forecourt of the Darlinghurst’s Republic 2, have things changed for the worse? No, but perhaps, maybe yes.

Nothing except the decor and context has really changed. The owners tell me they now have more seats (and bigger cool rooms, a larger kitchen, and better rear access – hence the move), yet the queue to get in is just as long. Phamish still doesn’t take bookings.

The food is still of a high standard. Old favourites like kaffir lime prawns with snow peas do not disappoint. The flavours subtle, the prawns fresh and lightly cooked, and the snow peas crisp. The sesame lamb fillets are superbly tender, laking only the same textural counterpoint peas give to prawns. A special of soft shell crab crumbed and fried is delicious and almost nutty, but leaves a slightly greasy after taste.

The entrees were even better. The little spring rolls surprise in that they are moist inside and out. The blue swimmer crab dumplings arrive crispy – looking like something out of a tired bain marie, but also surprise with their beautifully steamed contents. The duck and prawn pancakes in comparison look and feel enormous. They reek of freshness and flavour, and share none of the oiliness often associated with Vietnamese pancakes.

So what has changed that I don’t like? Well I’m sure I won’t be the only one to complain about the new tripod chairs. They look so sweet until you need to use one. Let’s just say they must be a dream to stack away at the end of the night, and their lack of comfort probably saved you at least 5 minutes waiting for a table.

I am a big fan of this forecourt – it is especially good for kids to run around in while you finish your desert and wine. However, I think it is a little sad that Phamish now looks like the white-Sydney-box we have been trying to crawl out of for about 10 years.

It’s quite a contrast to its upstart neighbour – Christine Manfield’s Universal. The neon lights here are more ironic. Their customers share the same nervous look, only on the relatively quiet night I was there, I think it was for fear of not being noticed as they spent their hard-earned so tastefully. In the time I wait between ordering and receiving our first entree at Phamish, a customer at Universal may have just finished reading their menu. To be fair though, they may take home with them much more than just food…

You see, the only thing I really don’t like about places like Phamish is what I call the ‘empathy factor’.

I mean I really don’t mind waiting ages for a table. I don’t even mind lining up at a counter to order everything at once (and pay for it at the same time). I know that all will come out as it should, and if not, help will be at hand to make amends. It’s just that I like these guys, but never really get a chance to know them. They are just too busy. And even though the service is fine, I’m not sure why as I have no sense of anybody being in charge. There are no personalities here, and at a place this good, there should be.

Details
Shop 109/50 Burton St, Darlinghurst (enter from Forbes St)
Tel 02 9357 2688
From 6pm Tues-Sat, and 5.30pm Sundays
No bookings taken
BYO wine
Cards accepted
Price: Around $60 for 2
Tip: Get there early for a seat and before the daily specials run out

Written by John Molloy

Foodie links

Hey guys,

Here are a few links you might like.

1. Cooking for Engineers

Each recipe has a photo of every step, then an at-a-glance table. Check out the recipe for ratatouille.

(click through to the site, it’s much bigger and easier to read).

2. Start Cooking.com

This site is very American and it’s for teaching the basics (microwaved bacon anyone?) but they do the most amazing stop-motion videos. (Stop-motion is video using frame by frame photos so objects appear to move, even though it’s using photographs).

This is my favourite – Guy Kawasaki showing you how to make Teriyaki sauce.

It’s the perfect use of photos, to show technique without requiring expensive video equipment.

3. Chocolate and Zucchini

A gorgeous blog by a french woman who started it because she “feared her friends might tire of hearing about what she cooked/ate/baked/bought, though they didn’t seem to have a problem with being fed dinner.” She received loads of media attention from the blog and is now a full time food writer.

4. Not Another Food Blog

This is a friend’s blog that she started this year. Irena is an amazing cook and an even better photograper and she documents her cooking adventures. If anyone wants a blog like this let me know and I can set one up…

5. Cake Wrecks

This is a hilarious and snarky look at professional cake decorating gone wrong.

6. John Barlow’s flickr stream

John Barlow is an English writer living in Spain and he’s just published a book called Everything But the Squeal, about an attempt to eat every part of a pig.

He has all his photos up on Flickr and they are pretty amazing.

Ladies Cleaning the Entrails on Slaughter Day

If you have other links you think are interesting, send them through to Cheryl and I’ll add them here.

In defence of food tastings

I recently participated for the first time in a food tasting, and the only real conclusion I could come to is that I am not very good at them. All a bit too highbrow for a typical red meat Anglo Saxon like me. And who thought up all those adjectives like “earthy overtones” or “hints of juniper“, and my favourite – “wood chips” to describe food anyway?

To be fair, I could be better at it. After all, I possess most of the skills required – my taste buds work fine, my grasp of English is sufficient to provide myriad adjectives, and anyone who knows me is aware of my keen interest in food. So what is the problem?

Recall.

Confused? Well to understand, you must crawl back to when you were a little child. Do you remember any of those early food milestones? The first almond, pancake, fairy floss, sausage, spaghetti (or the foodies’ favourite – the quintessential olive).

Remember the rush or trepidation as you bit into this new morsel only to discover a whole new taste experience? Suddenly you were confronted not only with a flavour not previously experienced, but a lack of tools to properly explain it.

(Watch how funny children’s descriptions of new foods can be. My 5 year old still tells me all pasta tastes “twirly whirly”).

Without trillions of life experiences to tap into, it can be very difficult to impart to another what a flavour is really like.

One could, like a child, simply state that a particular olive oil tastes “yummy”. A little better might be “fruity” or “nutty”. But if told “this oil is reminiscent of the smell of apple and cinnamon pie cooking in the oven”, you may be interested enough to buy a bottle. And by the time you get it home, you might even have a few ideas about what to do with it.

Which leads us back to the reason I am not great at food tastings.

Sadly, the Anglo Saxon diet often includes wine in questionably large quantities. They say in wine there is truth – the truth being we are born with a finite number of brain cells, and unfortunately once gone, they don’t grow back.

Trawling through a trillion life experiences trying to snatch that exquisite taste analogy in the time it takes to swirl a snifter of oil around your mouth before the stomach acids hose away all trace of flavour takes serious RAM. The laptop in my head runs a little slower than some – ideally configured for spitting out witty dinner-party anecdotes in a timely fashion….. or so it has led me to believe.

So, talking about food in terms of pithy adjectives is not highbrow at all – it is just simply the best linguistic way we can express the sensations of taste and flavour. Go on, give it a go. It may take some time to develop your food vocabulary, but it will lead to a better understanding of why you like certain foods or brands of foods.
And while you are at it, appreciate the fact that although children may possess faultless recall, they have far fewer interesting memories to draw upon.

Written by John Molloy

One thing just leads to another

When I was very small I ate from a yellow dish in the shape of a rabbit. He had two compartments. I enjoyed the option for mixing or not that this afforded me. Some foods were separately delicious, others needed intercompartmental blending to help them down. Stewed dried apricots, for example, were far too tart unless actually bathed in the neighbouring custard.

Perhaps this toddler experience accounts for my enjoyment of the concept of the many-small-dish airline tray, but not of course its execution. Perhaps this also explains why I married someone from Japan. For what else is a bento box if it isn’t the culinary zenith of compartmentalized delights?

When a couple of lazy retirees who share an interest in Japan live round the corner from a cheap but pleasing Japanese eatery it is not surprising that they are to be found there most Friday nights.

The service is highly erratic but the chasoba salad is a vegetarian’s delight and I order it every week. Chasoba are noodles made of buckwheat but have green tea added which turns them from pale brown to a beautiful pastel green. On my entrée plate at Sushi Bar Rashai they curl up against a mound of mandolined carrot and cabbage with a sprinkle of nori and sesame. And in commendable isolation, in its very own container which happens to be a silver gravy boat with matching spoon, comes the salad dressing.

Now it is that dressing that I am seeking to replicate in my own kitchen. And it is that dressing that has led to the abomination of wasted food in my kitchen on many recent Saturdays.

I examine its colour. It is quite a pale cream. I rotate the spoon around to check its texture. It coats the spoon yet is runny enough to cover every salad shred without imposing the need for any grotesquery with my chopsticks. I dip a finger in, lick, swish and swallow. There is lemon or its Japanese equivalent yuzu. There is something nutty too – a hint of peanut butter or sesame oil? Kikkoman, not salt reduced I would hazard, is also there and a pinch of sugar.

But has the chef squeezed into this mix a quantity of that quite passable mayo from the cute little kewpie pack or has he gone to some trouble out there in the kitchen. If he has gone to some trouble it’s not much wonder that my version just isn’t coming together.

So here’s a challenge for all my new friends at food writing school. Go to Sushi Bar Rashai, 241 Parramatta Road Annandale. Order chasoba salad. Send me your analysis of the dressing ingredients and if your recipe sends me into shredded cabbage ecstasy I’ll reward you with a packet of roasted wasabi peas. Not any old hot peas. Real ones, heated in Japan.

Author: Prue Gundelach