It is with great glee that I open up forwarded mails with titles like “This is a true story – forward on”. Rubbing my hands together, I know that soon I’ll be in the company of a delicious urban myth.

The greatness of the urban myth is that it always happened to a friend’s, sister’s boss’s wife. Its believability is greatly enhanced by constant repetition and our innate need to see a wrong righted. And the Neiman- Marcus Cookie Recipe did not disappoint. This David and Goliath email, all wrapped up in chocolate chip goodness, expounds one woman’s fight to right the wrongs of big business who has charged her $250 for a simple recipe.

The story goes like this…

THIS IS A TRUE STORY!
My daughter and I had just finished a salad at a Neiman-Marcus Cafe in Dallas, we decided to have a small dessert. Because both of us are such cookie lovers, we decided to try the “Neiman-Marcus cookie.” It was so excellent that I asked if they would give me the recipe, and the waitress said with a small frown, “I’m afraid not, but you can buy the recipe.”

Well, I asked how much, and she responded; “Only two fifty-it’s a great deal!” I agreed to that, and told her to just add it to my tab.

Thirty days later, I received my VISA statement, and the Neiman-Marcus charge was $285.00! I looked again, and I remembered I had only spent $9.95 for two salads and about $20.00 for a scarf. As I glanced at the bottom of the statement, it said, “Cookie Recipe-$250.00″. That was outrageous!

I called Neiman’s Accounting Department and told them the waitress said it was “two fifty”, which clearly does not mean “two hundred and fifty dollars” by any reasonable interpretation of the phrase. Neiman-Marcus refused to budge. They would not refund my money because, according to them, “What the waitress told you is not our problem. You have already seen the recipe. We absolutely will not refund your money at this point.”

I explained the criminal statutes which govern fraud in the state of Texas. I threatened to report them to the Better Business Bureau and the Texas Attorney General’s office for engaging in fraud. I was basically told, “Do what you want. Don’t bother thinking of how you can get even, and don’t bother trying to get any of your money back.”

I just said, “Okay, you folks got my $250, and now I’m going to have $250 worth of fun.” I told her that I was going to see to it that every cookie lover in the United States with an e-mail account has a $250 cookie recipe from Neiman-Marcus…for free. She replied, “I wish you wouldn’t do this.” I said, “Well, perhaps you should have thought of that before you ripped us off!” and slammed down the phone.

So here it is!

Please, please, please pass it on to everyone you can possibly think of. I paid $250 for this, and I don’t want Neiman-Marcus to EVER make another penny from this recipe!

I tried it out; the recipe is delightful but be warned that with this 112 cookie recipe you basically need a caterers oven. I guess that just adds to the authenticity of the story. I made a half batch and we’re still working our way through them.

Even more charming than the resultant trays of steaming cookies, tickling my nose with wafts of melted chocolate, were the fruits of my internet search.

Snopes.com opened my eyes to two great facts; 1) there are no “Neiman Marcus Cafes” at any of the three Dallas-area stores and 2) Neiman Marcus never used to sell cookies. They do now, thanks to some marketing genius. Oh and they give the recipes away for free – you just have to ask.

I bite into the crunchy cookie and savouring the chocolaty nuttiness I read on about the origins of this little piece of urban mythical magic. Although I have no experience with the American department store it seems I can find a version from my favourite store back home. The Woolies Biscuit recipe (Woolworths, South Africa) has the same ingredients, and again a poor sod was charged 250 Rand. And before the internet took over from old snail mail it seems that dastardly Mrs. Fields was accused of the very same crime.

So if you’d like to ‘stick to the man’ and make them ‘regret the day’ they ever charged that poor woman $250 – go ahead and make these cookies. Or if like me, a good old urban myth warms the cockles of your heart – go on, indulge. Either way you’ll be safe in the knowledge they’ll never see a cent from selling this biscuit recipe.

Word count: 798 words

NEIMAN-MARCUS COOKIES
The following quantities make 112 cookies, for smaller batches the recipe can be halved.
Ingredients:
2 cups (500 ml) butter
2 cups (500 ml) brown sugar
2 cups (500 ml) white sugar
4 eggs
2 tsp. (10 ml) vanilla essence
5 cups (1250 ml) oatmeal, powdered
4 cups (1000 ml) flour
1 tsp. (5 ml) salt
2 tsp. (10 ml) baking powder
2 tsp. (10 ml) bicarbonate of soda
680 g (24 oz.) chocolate chips
500 g (18 oz.) chocolate bar, grated (Hershey for Americans, Cadburys for Australians, South Africans and British)
3 cups (375 ml) nuts, chopped (optional)
Preparation:
Preheat the oven to 180° C (375° F)
Blend oatmeal with a blender until it resembles a fine powder
Grate chocolate bar
Chop nuts
Method
Cream the butter and both sugars.
Add eggs and vanilla, mix together with flour, oatmeal, salt, baking powder, and bicarbonate of soda.
Add chocolate chips, Hershey Bar, and nuts.
Roll into balls, and place two inches apart on a cookie sheet.
Bake for 10 minutes at 180° C (375° F).
Remove from oven and allow to cool.

Enjoy with a steaming cup of tea or coffee.

My gag reflex is in good working order.

I gag easily. The usual suspects are public toilets, food that’s gone to the fridge to die and leaking rubbish bags. Even I, with my vast history of retching did not expect olive oil tasting would lead me to the precipice of the ‘almost vomit’. Sure, if the oil was rancid, but this oil was fresh and I’m guessing pretty fancy too. It’s not the first time I’ve tasted olive oils, I relish squishing fresh squares of sourdough bread into the silky yellow liquid; feeling the bitter sweet oil flood my mouth. I’ve never had this problem before but that’s because I was doing it all wrong. Tusk! Tusk! The amateur, skimming the (oily) surface of flavour and texture. The professional approach is different. Very different. And it makes me gag.

The little plastic cup crinkles, oil gliding from the neck of the bottle. Scooting back to my desk in the food writing course I am prepared to identify what I smell and taste in three olive oils. In silence, using the ‘Oil Snarking’ technique. First, a smell, a sip – civilised enough. To really appreciate the oil, its true essence, I must leave the realms of the layperson and drive the oil into the back of my mouth and with a snark-sounding motion, launch it up and into my nose. Unpleasant. I see and hear things of my fellow classmates I’d rather not but I’m relieved I am not the only one choking and coughing. In my case you also add the retch. Mental note to self: never go oil tasting on a first date.

Oil swirls softly in little puckered plastic cups around the room. Smelt, savoured and sipped as if at a cellar door. Everyone jots down notes thoughtfully and easily. My pen doesn’t know what to write. It’s hard to concentrate as the back of my throat is burning from the ‘Snark’, the oily mess ejected into my nose now succumbing to the forces of gravity, running hot and bitter down my throat.

I cough the slick debris into the rough white serviette and listen. Herbaceous, peppery, salad greens, nutty, smooth and floral are some of the descriptors. Could there be a right and wrong way to snark? I mostly tasted the bitter burn at the back of my throat and the fatty warmth in my mouth and seem to have missed out on the farmyard notes of sweet grass and moist earth.

I placate myself with the honey and cheese to follow. There is no professional trick I must master and as the honey glides over my spoon, I twist and twirl catching the messy drippings with my fresh, crisp serviette. Grainy, fruity, floral. Is this really what I think or what I think is expected?

The honey is a warm amber and in this, my third honey tasting I taste Jasmine. Jasmine tea to be precise. Fragrant, floral Jasmine Tea. I’m so pleased with myself. A real description, on the paper, in my scrawly writing, circled excitedly. But guess what? No-one else mentions Jasmine at all! For them it’s all fruit and caramel. Caramel? A world away from oriental tea.

On the final tasting the butcher’s paper is torn revealing the oozy, mouldy cheeses that would have been too confronting for me last year. But now I can ‘do’ blue and I rather enjoy the first two samples. The last one spilling its blue-green guts all over my spoon is too much for me. I nibble, I smell, I taste a gooey centre piece and I gag. Note: pungent, tongue-numbing and decomposing.

I am resigned to the fact. I am no super-taster and I’ll need practise before I’m even an ok-taster. While my sense of taste is neither well-trained nor well-defined I don’t feel bad about it because I have a super-something that others don’t. This wasn’t something that thrilled me before, it wasn’t something I was proud of, but after the less than delightful oil tasting experience I’ll shout it from the rooftops.

I. AM. A. SUPER. SMELLER.

I’m so good at it, it makes me gag. Smelly feet and rancid, reeking cheese are daily reminders of my aptitude. I’m going to celebrate my talent, weaving it into my own childhood superhero games. I may not be able to freeze time, walk through walls or fly but man I can smell. I’ll save the day by sniffing out evil in the air, my gag sounding a warning bell to the people of the city. We’ll all be saved from impending doom… and the people will shout ‘that kid’s got serious gag-ability’.

She rubs the glossy egg mixture, speckled white and brown, between her fingers. ‘More matzah meal, it’s still too runny.’ ‘Slowly’, she adds ‘just little by little – too much and they’ll be too firm, we want them soft and fluffy’.

Standing together in the kitchen, chicken soup bubbling away on the stove, we began as we did each year. Each egg cracked privately into a glass, examined and approved – we are looking for the tiniest blood spot that will render the egg, and therefore the rest of the mixture, un-kosher. All good. Plop, into the mixing bowl where the others are already mingling. A song sung softly under her breath as the whisk keeps time, beating air into the eggy goodness.

Next, a big spoon of chicken schmaltz. Schmaltz. I feel the air around my tongue and palate as I say it. Schmaltz. A fragrantly greasy Yiddish word for the rendered fat that is so popular with Ashkenazi Jews. Schmaltz. We are by no means a low fat, low cholesterol people.

We add the matzah meal, little by little as directed; a magical consistency must be achieved. She dips the spoon in, lifting it as the mixture splatters back into the mixing bowl. More crumbly matzah meal. And again. The spoon dips in, assessing, adjusting like an alchemist. Of course there is a recipe – and you can find variations online and in countless recipe books. Ours is recipe of sorts, a list of the ingredients, quantities and directions that we begged for over the years. But the light, fluffy Kneidlach integral to the Pesach Seder cannot be achieved by following a recipe. It must be felt, the mixture intuitively tweaked until the mixture thickens, firm and soft in your hands.

Kneidlach (kuh-nay’d-lug-ch), or matzah balls, are dumplings predominately eaten on the Jewish festival of the Passover which commemorates the exodus from Egypt. In this festival we eat matzah, a hard, cracker-like combination of flour and water with a flavour and consistency reminiscent of cardboard. It could have been bread but its growth is stunted – watched until the moment just before it rises and promptly removed from the heat. In the biblical story, the Jews fleeing from Egypt did not have time to wait for their bread to rise. They had a one time opportunity to get the hell out of there and they were not going to miss it waiting for the literal bun in the oven.

We commemorate by recounting the biblical story at an event called the Seder, followed of course by that which holds all Jewish festivals together – food. A lot of food. And throughout the festival there is matzah. Matzah in its various forms. Smeared with butter, jam or avocado. Combined with mince meat and vegetables in layers creating a Passover friendly lasagne called Mazanya. Matzah, roughly ground and transformed into breakfast porridge or finely ground and made into Kneidlach. My Bobbe, my Yiddish grandmother, was a master Kneidlach maker. Every year, we gathered in the kitchen to learn from her. To one day re-create her dumplings. Those simple Kneidlach, lightly seasoned with salt, pepper and chicken schmaltz and greedily devoured in a big bowl of chicken soup.

To the untrained eye there may be only one way to eat a dumpling but we have each developed our own way to savour and experience them. Around the table the steaming bowl is placed down and attention is focused solely on your own bowl, your soup, your Matzah ball. Some Kneidls are ceremoniously quartered, some quartered again. Swirled around the bowl so that each mouthful

combines both. Soup and dumpling. Soup and dumpling. Down to the last scraping. Another is left in its entirety. A small spoonful cleaved from the whole, sometimes with a spoonful of soup, other times on its own. Further down the table, another Kneidl friendless on the side plate. The soft, subtle ball to be eaten on its own – too tantalising to be shared with soup.

The water in the big metallic pot sings its readiness. First we separate a small portion to which we add more matzah meal and cinnamon. This will be the ‘Nashoma’, the soul of the Kneidl – firmer and darker than the surrounding the dumpling. We wet our hands so the mixture won’t stick and roll our matzah balls, inserting the Nashoma in the middle. Each spoon full, rolled between the palms of our hands, rounded and cupped before it is slid softly into seasoned, simmering water where it grows rotund, delicate and feathery. Left to boil and swell, we move on to the next item for the Seder, each one thinking of the way we will eat our kneidl later that evening.

I am round; vary in colour from pale tan, dark brown to black. I am 2.5-4cm in diameter and my exterior is hard, sundried, old and shriveled. For the uninitiated I am unappealing to the eye, but if you dare to scrap the surface and venture to see what is inside, you will discover a unique and delicious flavour sensation that will leave your taste buds craving more.

Break me open and I consist of black sticky pith on the inside and a pungent, fermented citrus aroma is released. I can be found in most Middle Eastern food stores in the spice section and when you take me home you need to crush, pierce and pulverize me for maximum impact.

I am the “Loomi” which means Lime in Arabic, I also go by the name of Black Lemon or Lime, Leimoon Basra and Leimoon Amani depending on which country you are from.

My first encounter of this “Loomi” was when my customer recently requested a Black lemon flavour for an upcoming product launch. Much to my disappointment I did not have a suitable flavour to meet the brief but I made it my personal mission to find out all I could about this unusual ingredient.

The Loomi are preserved limes which are typically used in Persian and Middle Eastern cuisine, although my background was from the Middle East this was unfamiliar to me as it was not commonly used in the Lebanese food which I was accustomed to.

To be honest, my naïve perception of Middle Eastern food is linked exclusively to Lebanese cuisine. This was not the case as I soon discovered “Khaleej” cuisine, Khaleej means Gulf in Arabic which refers to the Persian Gulf Arab states including Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Iraq, United Arab Emirates, Bahrain and Oman.

The countries within the Gulf share a regional culture and cuisine (Khaleej) which is different and a little obscure in comparison to the Mediterranean countries of the Middle East which consists of Lebanon, Syria, Israel and Jordan.

Most would be familiar with the conflict associated with the Gulf region primarily as a result of international interest and control of oil reserves but that story is for another day. Prior to the discovery of oil reserves, the Persian Gulf played a key role in the spice trade with India and in addition its history as an occupied territory under Persian empire followed by the Ottoman era made Khaleej a significant influence of Indian, Persian and Turkish food.

Getting back to the Loomi, I read that they were originally dried whilst still on the tree, a unique and beautiful taste discovered by accident after the hot scorching sun had dried the neglected crop. Today these fruits are harvested when they are quite ripe, boiled in salt water then stringed up to dry in the sunshine. They are dried until the outside becomes brittle and the insides turn black.

Tasting the Loomi for the first time was confronting, I removed a portion of the sticky pith and unconsciously inhaled the aroma. It was earthy and fermented with an obvious preserved character. On taste it was tangy, sour, citrusy, fermented and slightly bitter. It transported me back to my childhood when my siblings and I would roam around my Dad’s orange orchard. There would be many stray oranges on the ground that was already starting to ferment. On these occasions, more often than not these oranges would become weapons of choice for the fruit fighting that would follow. The same sweet, musky aroma is reminiscent of the smell in which the “Loomi” evokes.

The Loomi can be sourced in whole or in dried powdered form with a variety of uses; soups, tagines and stews or to flavour rice or as a rub on meats particularly complimentary to fish and chicken.

When researching for this article I discovered quite a number of tempting recipes many which I didn’t have the ingredients readily available so I opted for an alternative to Lemon Ice Tea.

1.     Crush eight Loomi in a Mortar and Pestle to accelerate flavour release

2.     Boil the fruit in 1.5litres of water for ~ 10minutes

3.     Cool and strain the liquid (The entire lime can be eaten except the seeds)

4.     Sweeten  with sugar to your taste

5.     Chill and add ice to serve

The flavour may not appeal to everyone, but all can agree that it packs a punch. Now that I have access to Loomi and some Khaleej recipes on hand I look forward to discovering the taste of the Middle East.

One weekend away in Melbourne that already feels like too long ago, I was surprised to encounter shankleesh on the menu at two of-the-moment restaurants. Cumulus Inc had a side dish featuring grilled zucchini, mint, sumac and shankleesh – a winning combination, while Birdman Eating offered a baked eggs special with spiced pumpkin and spinach, topped with crumbled shankleesh.

Having never tried it on a hot dish before (it’s traditionally served cold as mezze) I was delighted by the changed texture, softening so it melted forthwith in my mouth. Apparently, this was the new ingredient du jour and I was thrilled to see this old world delicacy about to become food fashion.

So what is shankleesh? Where did it come from and how are these tantalising balls of yoghurt made? Or, are they actually cheese?

Being a specialty of Northern Lebanon, and having family originating from there, my grandma or Sita as we called her, was trained in the ‘art’ of making them. I say art because the method by which they are made, step-by-many-steps, is long and laborious, but anyone who’s ever tasted one will agree it’s well worth the trouble. Painstakingly, she’d dry out the herbs – a mixture of dried thyme and oregano usually from her own garden – mixed with toasted sesame seeds. Meanwhile, the yoghurt is left hanging in a muslin bag above the sink, awaiting the transformation from laben to labneh.

The resulting labneh is then formed into tennis-sized balls and dried in the sun until firm. The balls are then stored in jars until a layer of mould (yes mould) forms and they soften, become more fragrant, and, of course, delicious! When ‘ripe’ the mould is rinsed off and the balls are ready for rolling in the dried herb mixture.

In our family, these balls were a specialty to be savoured, and beyond words, except for maybe one – unforgettable. It wasn’t so much the taste that was memorable; as a child I didn’t appreciate such ‘exotic’ fare, but the pungently strong aroma that wafted out as soon as Mum took a fork to it and crushed the ball into small chalky pieces, ready to be drowned in olive oil and mopped up with bread immediately.

I might not have loved it then, but I certainly do now. If you don’t happen to have a Sita to make you shankleesh, you can buy it ready-made, marinating in a big bucket of oil at your local Lebanese grocer. I say local in jest, they’re not exactly on every corner. My ‘local’ is in Granville, Abu-something-or-other. The drive from Bronte isn’t short, but what makes it enticing is that a bucket costs around $12, significantly less than the fancy labneh balls sold in David Jones, and definitely more delectable, making the long drive worth the effort.

You could enjoy shankleesh in a sandwich with some soft boiled eggs and spinach leaves, or you could try mixing it with eggs, diced tomato and parsley for a deliciously healthy omelette. Personally, my favourite way to eat shankleesh is to make it into a salad, like so: take one ball, some finely chopped onion and tomato and then crumble the shankleesh on top, drizzle with olive oil and lemon juice. Finally top with fresh herbs: parsley and oregano. Devour! Not only will shankleesh liven up the simplest salad, and revamp it into a Phoenician taste sensation, but I think you’ll be seeing more of it on menus soon.

That said, I still can’t work out if it’s yoghurt or cheese …

I don’t do Vietnamese…usually anyway. Not for any lack of respect towards those humblest of family run, no frills, but flavoursome eateries, specialty, and now so trendy pho noodle, and nouvelle style restaurant houses increasingly about town. On the contrary, I am what I eat, and conscious of the fact that my formulative taste bud years were left in the hands of my mother- who can only be described back then, as the Vietnamese Martha Stewart, and at times, Heston Blumenthal… While most kids had vegemite sandwiches and Wham! “Choose Life- Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” fluro-Tees, I had a scrumptious, labour intensive Banh Mi roll, and very bad perm! Nowadays I have to cue a block just to buy the homemade Vietnamese pate, mayo, pickled carrot and daikon, salad and 3 ways with pork filled baguettes, only to measure the quickly, mass produced gem against Mummy-Blumenthal’s original , days spent in the kitchen, sub.  Not to mention an over compensatory approach to what has historically been the livelihood of the battling refugee- struggling immigrant (run establishment), sufficient perhaps, to positively skew some aspect of my critical and palatable objectivity.

Bipolar biases and humanitarian tendencies aside, I often yearn for the delectable phenomenon (of my childhood) that is, Cha Gio, (pronounced Jay-yore), the original Spring Roll of the South.  And with Mum-B’s kitchen now closed, I find myself, with hungry dinner companion in tow, heading towards the nearer than Newtown strip of Vietnamese restaurants along Illawarra Rd. Marrickville. Surely, there would be something of a comparable, preferably commendable standard of crispy, chewy, salty caramelly-bubble crunchy fried, but not too greasy, rice paper roll encasing a succulent, perfectly balanced seasoned mixture of pork mince, crab/prawn meat, wood ear mushroom, glass noodle, carrot, garlic and spring onion?

We walk past a mix of homely restaurants and soup style kitchens, with overwhelming menus and bustling tables before circling back and settling for the one with the most appealing restaurant like restraint. A cutting of a local newspaper review is posted against the glass window exterior next to a half page menu of Chef’s recommendations. Going on the principle of less is more, and quite taken with the eye catching, modern, almost, edgy (for this sprawl), orangey red walled interior and not so vinyl wooden floors, we enter Yen for Viet.

We are immediately greeted by one of the two friendly female waitresses and shown to a  simple table underneath a set of three traditional, yet contemporary minimalist line drawings, reminiscent of a felt tipped armed Rolf Harris or Mr. Squiggles clever creation, capturing the more often than not, national costume attired cyclist and motor cyclist common in  Southern Vietnam.

Of all the grand or grungy Cha Gio joints around town, and the entire world, Yen for Viet isn’t one of them. The full A4 page menu slipped under a hard plastic protector turned out to be more extensive than first thought, with a list of 43 dishes grouped under easy to interpret headings such as Grill And Wrap It Up, Noodles and Soups, amongst the usual suspects of Entrée, Salads and Mains/ “Chef recommendations”.  As we peruse the standard fare of entrees, we are suddenly interrupted by the whiff of an intensely concentrated caramelly, but distinctly fish saucy smelling clay pot dish placed down at the table of Anglo-diners in front of us. Impressively, the pungent pot is devoured without a twitching nose in sight. You have to respect a truly authentic Vietnamese, home-style-on-the-side- of-upscale restaurant (for Illawarra Rd.), that isn’t afraid to include, and recommend no less than two offerings of the stinky, smelling, but delicious clay pot cooked, Caramelized Fish or Pork Kho stew on the menu.… I’d like to see Red Lantern brave the breaths of fresh air and, do that!

We opt to share the usual fresh rice paper rolls, Gio Cuon, and Cha Gio for our entrée, followed by the house special Banh Xeo, crispy pancake, Goi Du Du Tom Thit, papaya pork and prawn salad, and Hu Tiu, stir fried vegetable with seafood and rice noodle dish.

Our fresh rolls arrive first. These simple rolls consisting of prawn and slices of pork, rice vermicelli, lettuce and Vietnamese herbs are designed to be dipped in a complimenting sauce that accentuates, and enhances the full flavour of each component. Often though, the sauce can be too peanutty, or too soy like runny, while the rolls can be over powered by too much vermicelli. Thankfully, this is not the case with ours being a perfect balance of vermicelli, and safer choice of traditional lettuce, chive and mint combined well with the succulent pork and prawns, cooked to juicy perfection. The sauce too, was just the right marriage of garlicky, sweet, sour, peanut, Hois-sin magma. I also loved the addition of the crunchy caramelized dried onion.

Next up, the spring rolls. Disappointingly, the chef had opted for the Chinese influenced egg flour pastry instead of the far superior flavoursome, rice paper encasement. Granted, rice paper when fried is not as aesthetically pleasing to look at as the perfect cigar like rolls that were presented before us, but its distinctly different crispy, taste more than makes up for it. That aside, the filling is piping hot and difficult as a result, to differentiate the ingredients. The dipping sauce was the traditional Nuc Cham, on the sweeter side of fishy, with just the right amount of chilli.

No doubt the highlight of dinner was the green papaya salad. The delicate mound of finely julienned shreds of feather light papaya, almost meltingly translucent from the subtle hint of being bathed in dulcet, lemony, sweet caramelized garlic vinaigrette was a sensation in the mouth. Once again the prawns and slices of tender, moist pork were cooked to perfection.

Our crispy turmeric coloured, pancake arrived light, and sufficiently crunchy along its edges, though softer and more subdued in coconut flavour than I would have preferred. The filling of slices of fatty pork belly, prawns, mung beans, and fresh bean sprouts was once again brought to life by the required accompanying Nuoc Cham dipping sauce. The accompanying Vietnamese herbs and lettuce, in which pieces of the pancake are supposed to be wrapped in, turned this slightly oily pancake into a heavenly and so fresh tasting delight.
We probably could have stopped there, but my dinner companion had ordered the stir fried vegetable dish. Unfortunately the slabs of rustically sliced rice noodle seemed too firm and tasteless amongst the quickly sautéed and too firm vegetables. The calamari and prawns were otherwise tender and well cooked as expected.

Overall, it may not be the Cha Gio joint I’m looking for, but judging from the multitude of dinners turned away from the constantly full 40 seated establishment, it is one restaurant that the locals are flocking to. With a very reasonably priced menu and tasty, smelly food on offer, Yen for Viet is a welcome breath of fresh air. The definite proof is in the papaya.

Score 7/10

Yen for Viet
296 Illawarra Road, Marrickville
Tel: +61 (02) 9558 2819

Opening hours:
Lunch Saturday and Sunday 11am-3pm
Dinner Tuesday to Sunday 5.30pm-10pm
Closed on Mondays

Licensed and BYO wine only (corkage $2.50 per person)

It’s war. This is not about the price of milk. It’s about the psychology of supermarket layout and design ─ and you and I, the consumers ─ are the targets.

Ever wondered why when you enter a supermarket, the entry gate instantly closes behind you and you have to traverse through a maze to reach the exit point?

Supermarkets are designed to force consumers to enter from the left and shop in an anti-clockwise direction.  Research has found that consumers spend an extra $2 per visit shopping in an anti-clockwise direction.

As soon as we pass through that gate, that portal of consumerism, we enter the ‘dwell zone’ ─ an area for influencing shoppers and dragging them deeper into the maelstrom of product purchasing.

Fruit and vegetables are displayed at the entrance. Fresh flowers seem welcoming. Innocuous enough you think. Wrong.  The smell of fresh fruit and vegetables is associated with feeling good and being healthy as is the colour green. It is an area where consumers are encouraged to linger, to acclimatise themselves.

Travelling along the supermarket’s designer route, the next point of contact is the bakery aisle. The smell of freshly baked bread and roasting chickens lure the shopper deeper within the maze-like combat area, but it is all so pleasurable.

Next you walk down the aisles. These are designed to draw shoppers into the centre. The perimeters are used to drop in and out. Those specials at the ends of the aisle may not be that special. Check the real price differential. They are eye-catching, but maybe that’s all. They have red signage because red is the colour we use to be noticed. They are aimed at a quick impulse purchase before we go deeper into the heartland. Those free samples, demonstrations and displays along the way, slow you down, while exposing you to new products.

In the centre of the aisles are the emotional purchases ─ things we engage with, things we will spend time choosing, eg baby food, coffee ─ things on which we intend to outlay our funds.

Notice that the dairy products/ eggs/ meat are at the back of the store. This is to expose the shopper to the maximum amount of product along the way. Those easy-to-see items on shelves two and three from the top are where the best sellers and leading brands are placed. These will not be lowest price items. Brands pay ‘slotting fees’ ─ premium price for these prime positions in supermarket chains. The top shelf will usually have smaller, more regional brands and the bottom, over-sized bulky items and private labels. Items that appeal to children will be placed at kids’ eye level.

The checkout point will be the last opportunity for an impulse buy. This is where the magazines, confectionery and small indulgences are on offer. Beware of the fast lane, it usually has more such items within easy grasp.

So, how can we navigate this minefield?

There are a few basic tactics to employ:

1. Always shop with a list.

2. Never shop when you are hungry.

3. Don’t shop with people who stress you.

4. Set a budget before you go and take a calculator (or app) with you.

5. Reach to the back or top to buy the freshest goods.

6. Be aware of the placement of impulse goods.

Don’t forget the role of brands in all of this. Brands are the new surrogate mums and dads ─ they define who we are ─ our new inner subjective worlds, and as such, are generals in the supermarket war.

Even if you think you are well-acquainted with your supermarket’s layout and can immediately go to the essential items you require, beware. Supermarkets frequently change the aisles of such goods to disorient shoppers.

It’s warfare and any psychological tactics can and will be deployed. So arm yourselves accordingly. Wear a smile but be ever vigilant. The enemy is around every aisle.

Food takes us on a journey but it’s the flavour of the food that writes the map. When a food enters ones mouth the outcome is not as simple as good or bad but an explosion of ingredients working together to form a cohesive yet layered flavour, from which the mouths agenda takes you in a direction of opinionated taste and classifies it accordingly.

I’m sure you don’t consciously think of these things when you eat but your mouth is in fact trying to tell you something. Tasting is unique to each mouth and nose for its incredible push and pull of sour, sweet, salt and bitter is a unique performance of flavour only found in that specific palate.

To define a flavour, we must dig deep into the ambiguous nature of our reciprocal senses, and understand that our senses are ambiguously natured and different to every individual. A taste can be accepted, rejected, loved, repulsed, savored or Spat OUT! But a taste is always a taste and its process is a science worth talking about.

When we eat our sense of smell and taste are at work, from the overpowering flavour to hidden subtle background performers they all play a role in the overall taste and flavour of a dish. To take an example of blue cheese, some palates can’t handle the sharp, salty, yeasty, bitterness of the cheese, alternatively others crave for it smeared and tucked into anything. When tasting three different types of blue cheese it was apparent that my palate favored the more creamy alternatives and less for the grainy strong crumbly Roquefort.

Demonstrating that my palates’ agenda is more for creamy cohesive flavours and less for sharp determined ones. Flavour is the curriculum of the taste buds. Over time they learn salt from sweet, bitter from sour, and begin to evolve with traits of dislike and manifestations of fondness and love all triggered and promoted by culture, food availability, choice and education.

And it is these factors that make our taste buds develop relationships with food that can only be described through our reactions towards them, developing a mouth with an agenda in terms of what we would individually chose to eat, demonstrated in the above reenactment of a classic restaurant scene. Our mouths and noses have an agenda, they are constantly in search of that smell and taste that sparks memories unlocks happiness, precludes disgust and recognizes deliciousness.

Taste can be ambiguous and in constant alteration but it forms the basis of eating and the pleasure we get from it, so let the mouth do the talking and always be open to a new agenda. And when you do find a taste that pushes all the right buttons, remember it recognise it and for goodness sake savour it!

Upon entering the room for my second week of writing class, I was pleased to hear John Newton, my teacher, exclaim “tonight we’re doing tastings!” We were to taste a variety of honey, olive oil and cheeses to then write about them. Immediately I imagined loaves of sourdough bread to be broken and dipped into the oil and eat with the cheese. To dip into the honey.

This wasn’t to be the case. We’d be conducting tastings the ‘proper’ way without any kind of ‘props’. This is how the super tasters do it, apparently. According to my

palate’s love for anything bitter, especially a Negroni. I realised I wasn’t destined to be a super taster, or a

very good taster at all, but I was determined to do my best.

What you should know about honey, before we start, is that I absolutely love it. It’s part of my staple diet and one of the first things to enter my mouth in the morning in the way of a soy latte with honey. Divine. What I do notice is that the taste or ‘flavour’ of my coffee differs dramatically when I buy it from place to place, depending on the quality of the honey. Which is why I’ve got a jar of my own Himalayan Raw Organic Honey at work and at home. It’s flavour is sweet and rich with a depth that comes from bees high

in the Himalayas; preferring to add in my own honey than to suffer the substandard over processed honey

on offer at some establishments. Am I a honey snob? Probably.

The first honey on offer was jar of Organic Eucalyptus Honey from NSW. Dipping my spoon into the jar, somewhat overzealously, I tasted it trying not to spill honey all over myself. Too late. It was caramel and buttery, like caramel popcorn and of course sweet!

The second selection was J Friend White Clover

Honey from New Zealand. From first glimpse of the packaging I could tell this was a premium, specialty

honey. This honey was rich. I felt rich just tasting it. Viscous and grainy with a much thicker texture to the

first and much lighter in colour – almost milky white. I also noted a hint of jasmine, something soft and

floral. Already this was my favourite honey, and I hadn’t even tasted them all.

Which brings me, finally, to Lakelands Biodynamic from NSW – with a silky smooth texture it owned the most distinct flavour of all, tasting strong and aromatic immediately making me think of whiskey or bourbon.

Olive oil tasting was, unlike I imagined, and involved a swirling of the oil in the back of the throat – somewhere between a slurp and a gargle – to assess it retro-nasally. The Rosto Extra Oomph did as it’s name promised and packed a punch. It tasted strong, bitey and freshly aromatic, almost grassy. Oil tasting isn’t fun, this Rosto burnt on it’s way down as I swallowed it.

The Lakelands Biodynamic was more floral and fruity to smell, and tasted spicy – like some extra peppery rocket.

The Italian Colonna was much sweeter to smell, but tasted a little bitter. The actual texture of the oil felt softer and creamier, almost buttery.

Finally, we were onto the cheeses. With cheese not being my favourite thing I was happy to get this out of the way. Roquefort is a well known sheep cheese from France. The first thing I noticed was the smell, and what a strong smell it was. Telling me that this cheese was indeed ripe, probably too ripe for human consumption. I persisted and tasted it noticing the gritty, sandy texture and it’s salty long-lasting aftertaste that I wanted very much to go away.

The Strzelecki was a goat cheese from the Australian Gippsland, and despite me absolutely loving goat’s cheese (it’s the only cheese I eat) this tasted musty, like moth balls and salty too – it wasn’t for me.

The Gorgonzola Piccante from Italy – surprisingly – came out on top. It tasted sweet and fruity with an aroma about it that felt almost wine-y – like Riesling. The texture was smooth and creamy too. I liked this cheese it was a nice middle ground.

With the official flavour segment of the class over, we were free to nibble on the lovely jamon and ripe figs John had brought into class for us. I ate mine with the jamon wrapped around the fig and basically popped the whole thing in my mouth, delicately, of course! I was pleased to make a new culinary discovery that night – besides not enjoying to drink olive oil – I just couldn’t get enough of the baby tomatoes, half bitten off at Laura’s instruction, then dipped into truffle salt. So decadent, and moreish too. While I wouldn’t be rushing out to buy Roquefort anytime soon, I had already placed J Friend Honey and Tetsuya Truffle Salt at the top of my shopping list…

I have a thing for Morocco. Having never visited before (except in spirit while watching Casablanca) my penchant is fed, literally, with fresh mint tea, my chermoula spiced chicken and roast vegetable couscous – which I might add just happens to be really good – and outings to magical Moroccan restaurants which fuel my fantasy of a romance-filled Marrakesh honeymoon.

Kazbah on Darling happens to be one of these magical places. It’s a favourite breakfast haunt of mine and half of Sydney, if the relentless crowds are anything to go by. No, this is not the city’s newest hotspot – with four restaurants under their belt, the original Kazbah has been here for 13 years serving up wonderful North African and Moroccan cuisine to the masses. They’re obviously doing something right, if you happen to walk past on a weekend around about breakfast time you’ll see the place is heaving, with people spilling out onto the street in food comas, well-fed and smiling, delirious from their famous breakfast banquet.

So, what I decided to do for my last birthday was just that, do something different from the regular dinner and drinks and celebrate instead with the breakfast banquet or ‘feast’ as they call it at Kazbah. It’s such good value ($25pp) and works well for larger groups especially if they’re foodies with healthy appetites. It must be said that if you’re one of those “no room for dessert” people, apologies but there’s no room for you in this restaurant. Stop reading right now and find

somewhere ‘Modern Australian’ with servings to match.

Armed and ready with empty bellies, we enter the restaurant to find a few of our party already seated sipping on fresh watermelon and ginger juice ($6.50) and

pots of Turkish coffee ($4), the latter being not for the faint of heart. I opt for the juice which is sweet but not quite zingy enough; it could do with more ginger.

The restaurant itself is a large open space, decorated in beautiful artifacts and steelwork from the Middle East and Morocco. Seating close to 100 people at full capacity, it’s 11am and already abuzz. My party is made up of two large tables of 12, or at least it will be when everyone arrives. It’s a beautiful day and the large open windows illuminate the room with streams of golden light.

Before dining here I’d heard a lot about the enormity of the servings here, but not even that prepared me for what was to come. When the first of four courses arrives there is banana porridge with date compote and stewed rhubarb. There’s also sweet couscous, with mixed nuts and fruits and rhubarb, as well as a warm rice pudding with saffron poached pears and hazelnuts. All of these are served with a selection of condiments, brown sugar and sweet spiced cardamom milk, and are best enjoyed by mixing them in your bowl and devouring all together! The only downside is that they are all so good, I had to warn my friends to

‘STOP. Do not go back again and again for more. Guys, this is only the starter!’

The second breakfast course is a savoury eggs and sides platter. With something for everyone, you can choose from poached, scrambled or fried eggs served on a mix of breads.

Probably the most ‘generic’ of all the banquet offerings, the eggs are cooked well enough, but the poached eggs are not soft and gooey like they should be, so I go for scrambled instead. The sides are proper and plentiful consisting of Merguez sausage, bacon, roast tomato, spinach, hash brown, baked beans, mushrooms and – as if that wasn’t enough – haloumi. Then again, what breakfast would be complete without a side of grilled haloumi? Exactly!

Be warned, before you fill up with this wonderfully generous selection, leave some room on your plate (and in your stomach) for the two breakfast tagines – which take pride of place on this banquet table. Served in the traditional clay bowl with the iconic cone top, the first is lamb mince with sucuk, feta, spinach, roast capsicum, caramelised onion, roast tomato and eggs. It’s absolute heaven and seasoned to perfection. The vegetable tagine on the other hand is a sweeter mix of pumpkin, feta, spinach, roast capsicum, caramelised onion, roast tomato and eggs. This is great too and the soft, sweetness of pumpkin balances out the

spice of the mince tagine nicely. Both so different but as good as each other, there was barely a scraping left at the bottom when we were done.

When the next and final course is served, it’s the finale of traditional breakfast pancakes (and yes, on sighting them we mentally prepared room in our second stomachs). My day wouldn’t be complete without a Moroccan Mint Tea ($4.50), a nice accompaniment to the chocolate and raspberry with butterscotch sauce and chocolate fudge ice cream pancake. Quite a mouthful, not just by name but also by nature. There was also a banana, strawberry variety drowned in maple with double cream – enticing, yes, but by this point I had reached my limit so this was the only offering I didn’t get to taste.

We devoured more than an elegant sufficiency of food and by the time dessert was served we were running out of time. Because Kasbah are so busy they book their larger parties with two-hour timeslots, which is not unusual but not nearly enough time to sit back and relax to enjoy all that food without feeling rushed. In the end we were hurried out to make way for the next party, some of whom were already hovering about the table. The other inconvenience is when

confirmed numbers for some reason don’t show up on the day, you still need to fork out for them – which is unfortunately what happened to us.

I loved the Kazbah breakfast banquet so much, I’m organising another visit there soon to try the dinner menu. If, like me you enjoy copious amounts of good

food and mint tea, then I recommend you visit and experience this little piece of Morocco for yourself. Word of warning – bring an empty stomach and don’t expect to just show up, especially on a weekend, we made our booking weeks in advance. Even if you can’t make it you can eye-spy the menus and imagine yourself there, or on holidays in Morocco as I do. Here’s looking at you kid …

Kazbah on Darling

379 Darling Street

Balmain, NSW 2041

Sydney – Australia

Phone: [02] 9555 7067

www.kazbah.com.au

Opening Hours:

Kazbah is closed on Monday

Breakfast – Saturday, Sunday & Public Holidays – 9:00am – 3:00pm

Lunch – Saturday, Sunday & Public Holidays- 12:00pm – 3:00pm

Dinner – Wednesday to Saturday – 6:30pm – Late