After work, I went down to this butcher in Randwick to check out his Jamon, which looked alright. The thing is, in Australia, they’re so fussy about food safety and the Iberian hams are notorious for being “unsafe” such that they can only be imported here without the bone. Just so you know, raw foie gras isn’t available either. Its either the terrined stuff or the blanched stuff. What a waste.
So anyway, I promised I’d be back on friday because I’d be buying some to bring home and was assured when he said he’d let me sample a bit then decide what to get and then he’d cryo-vac it for me. Awesome. The butcher in question is Terry Wright Finest Premium Meats and they got featured in the Sydney Morning Herald before. Some of the meat aside from the jamon looked really good too, some rabbit and beef but anyway…
After that, I took the bus back to town and had to stop to changeover and my stomach growled so I popped into DJ’s and got tempted. The Fine Cheese Co. hails from the UK and its basically a store that sells everything cheese related. What caught my eye were their crackers. They come in delightful packaging and the ones that really got me were the Charcoal Crackers. I had to consume. But what with? So I asked the guy behind the counter to also cut me up some Rouzaire Brie de Meaux and Cropwell Bishop Stilton. Pretty sure although DJs labelled the Brie de Meaux as such, its probably Fromage de Meaux because the Brie is made of raw milk, which would warrant a death knell at Oz customs.
I’d been on a bit of a cheese kick as well, making up small platters at work and sandwiches and tasting this triple cream brie that was more akin to mayonnaise. But I wanted something real, something traditional and bankable. Basically, I wanted to know what a really good brie and a really good blue was supposed to be.
I’m pretty sure the carcinogens in the crackers will get to me one day but at least I can eat in steez. They taste really good too. I can’t seem to stop at the moment. Oh so’s the cheese. The Brie’s got this smell I can’t quite place. Its very mildly sweet smelling and almost veered towards pandan-ish. Almost. Although I think its meant to be mushroomy and earthy. I just get that slightly green/chlorophylly note somehow. It tastes nothing like the “Brie” I’ve tried thus far, full flavored, rich and creamy, kinda gray if it were a taste.
The Stilton, is surprisingly mild, to me at least. I suppose the only other time I had “Stilton”, it was torrid and just plain stank. This one smells good and actually tastes really good. The blue veins lend a really interestingly bright acidic bite that’s juxtaposed against the creaminess of the cheese overall. It doesn’t cut the back of your throat like some blues do. Just feels perfectly balanced. I’m also looking forward to having some bizarre dreams* tonight.
Does this remind anyone of Settlers?
*The link gets its info from a study done back in 2005 by the British Cheese Board.
Mangalitsa is the new black. I’m talking about some beastly piggies from Hungary. Big, fat, black and hairy, their name actually means hog with a lot of lard. Currently on the menu at The French Laundry amongst other top tier restaurants, its the latest bit of the new craze, which is basically eating a touch more fat than you’re used to.
These pigs belong to the lard type class, which is apparently, some new Pokemon sub-grouping. What we’ve been unfortunately eating all our health-obsessed lives has been the meat type instead, which translates to dry tasteless bits of cardboard. They’re basically more fat than meat and the raising method plus their genealogy means that they have lovely, marbled bits of meat or maybe lovely chunks of fat marbled with a touch of meat.
I for one, welcome our big, fat, black and hairy hog overlords if it means more flavor. Its really exciting to see that the word “lean” is now taboo and the word “marbled” is met with glee. Hope it stays that way and I can have my Dong Po Rou with Deep Fried Lard and Bak Kwa served on a mousse of whipped pork fat and lightened with a lard foam.
Here’s lookin’ at you, babe.*
pic and info via NYT.
Every morning this past week, I got up at 4. I showered, got dressed, glanced at some pleasing footie scores before rushing off to catch the 4.42 train to Springwood. I go to the same place, right by the escalator, where the door to the cabin always is when the train stops. I hop in and get off 2 stops later. In the cabin, perched at the same handle/support thing near the doors is this old guy in the same hat, wearing the same pants and the same boots and the same l/s tee under the same polo. He stinks. I’m always in the same jeans wearing the same cap and some random tee.
We get off at the same stop, St. Leonards, and right where the door opens is the escalator. It seems we have the same idea about efficiency. We go up and the same sequence keeps playing out. First up is the Indian dude on the opposite side. Then, there’s this girl that works at Coles walking up the steps, 15 metres behind him. Then the old man exits the station and pauses. I walk past the gantry and behind me are this couple that kiss goodbye and say hello/how are you to the old man. The woman then leaves left whilst the man converses with the old man, who is now braying the same sigh I’ve heard a zillion times.
Repetition is the process that has served humanity well. Particularly in the realm of food, where its basically kept us alive through the reproduction of successfully edible foods. Those of us unfortunate enough to consume inedible foods, would have died off anyway. Natural selection through cooking.
Yet, we cannot stand the routine. Eating the same food everyday. It tastes the same, it nourishes the same. It smells the same. It looks the same. I once thought I could survive entirely on chicken rice for all eternity. Then I realized that’s not entirely true or possible. Whilst I love the dish and in itself, it purports a particular amount of choice and variety, I realize that I will never do the same thing over and over forever. I would change something small here and there. Resulting in 100 different chicken rices over 100 days. Yet this experimentation would be useless if I were unable to repeat any one of the 100 methods successfully.
What repetition does is allow us time. To observe and notice the infinite minutiae that make up a simple dish. Like the scrambled eggs I make every morning. What are scrambled eggs anyway? I had this idea that its pretty much an awful mistake where some dude haphazardly threw some eggs and made an overcooked custard but broke it up instead and like the semi-cooked smell and texture enough. It just seems so proletarian, so arbitrary, so casual, so accidental. I prefer intention and knowledge to blind darts.
The way I was shown to cook eggs, I had a pot of simmering water and a bowl over it. The eggs cooked because of the steam below. Its essentially a bain marie and you stir the eggs with a whisk constantly, so that you scrape the sides off since that’s the bit touching the hot bowl. The proteins coagulate and with enough time and whisking, you get a mass of coagulated egg protein, mixed with cream in a 4:1 ratio. Depending on the frequency of your whisking, you get a different globule size. If you leave the eggs alone entirely, you’d probably get really dried out sides and a thick skin on top. with a liquid centre. You’d then have to break that all up and redistribute everything but texturally, you get some slightly rubbery, gritty bits and some uncooked liquid. The eggs cook best when you whisk more frequently, resulting in a finer, more even globule size and also distributing the heat evenly through convection since the egg/cream mixture doesn’t move much otherwise due to its viscosity/lowish heat.size of bowl. At the end, I remove the bowl from the pot, add some salt and a bit of grated nutmeg and taste it before adjusting to finish. Hopefully, I end up with this pile of yellow slop that looks wobbly and creamy and doesn’t smell too raw.
If I cook scramble for one/two or three people, I use a pan/pot and direct heat from a stove instead, stirring quicker than I would in the bowl which serves 40 people. This method runs the risk of overcooking bits of the egg and undercooking other bits and the need to scrub a pot. But the result can be more precise if you whisk/stir it well since the quantity is smaller. It always feels like its properly cooked this way. Not slightly soggy and raw with the en masse method. Yet, there’s always a over-arching rubberiness that is what my head chef doesn’t want.
Either method feels like pissing in the wind, trying to augment the situation till you hopefully get a satisfactory result.
I then wonder what I want my scrambled eggs to taste like/be. Cooked through but moist and mushy. Looking at the methods above, I deduce that the basic idea of the dish is a dissipated mass of egg white and yolk proteins that is created through the application of heat and stirring/whisking.
What if I could break down the recipe into 2 parts? The cooking and the breaking up of eggs. What if I steamed the eggs chawanmushi style? What if I cooked them sousvide at the temperature at which the proteins are known to firm up? Then I’d take it out of the bag and scramble it later. With a potato masher or a mallet or a wild bear on ice skates? I would get tofu level scramble without those bits that seem too bouncy because they were stuck on the sides of a pot/bowl and all the liquid content was forced out by the proteins constricting. Yet, I would get a mass of eggs that is perfectly cooked, especially if I used the right size and shape of the bag. Would I still need the cream?
Plus, I could also introduce some interaction for a customer, who would have the option to scramble or not to whilst reducing my workload immensely. The drawback? Time and quantity. I need a massive water bath to make sousvide scramble for a 100 and it might take a few hours to complete. But I’ll never overcook it/dry it out.
Filed under: Australia, Drink, Food, Sydney, Thoughts | Tags: cedar/pine, mark e. smith
I just thought I’d share a bit about the suburb where my workplace is, a place called Manly. This is where real Sydneysiders go surfing, not Bondi. (Even realer Sydneysiders go anywhere along the Northern beaches, Dee Why and up.) The southernmost of the Northern beaches, its still quite touriste, especially if you’re walking along the main street, called the Corso. At some point, you’ll be confronted by 2 sidewalk cafes fighting for business. Figuratively and literally. There’s also plenty of crappy fish and chips shops and every single Aussie “surf” label, and shops selling tees that say Bondi. Haha.
Just so you know, the best fish and chips is to be found at Benbry burger, which I mentioned previously. The best food at Chat Thai, an offshoot (I think!) of the Haymarket one which I’ve also mentioned before. The best coffee at a joint called Barefoot and there’s even a microbrewery here, 4 Pines. There’s also a Max Brenner for the chocolate plus a decent patisserie cafe in Laurent. Movenpick also has a nice little shop where they used a weighing scale to make sure I got my money’s worth in ice cream. My friend’s workplace, Hugo’s, affords the best views of Manly harbor with some nice cushy seats, if you can afford it. There’s also Garfish which was like one my earliest posts on this blog. I’ve somehow managed to come full circle sorta.
Another name for Manly is little Brazil, given the swarthe of Brazilians that live and work there. According to my Brazilian friends, they chose Manly on account of the fact that the weather is just like back home. Amazonian rainforest wut? Well the beachside bits of Brazil at least. Like Porto Alegre. And I meant caucasoid Brazil-ians. They aren’t the only ones who’ve made Manly home. Japanese, Brits, Swedes, French and Germans are also plentiful in supply.
The following are paragraph shaped recollections of things that fluttered through my mind as I’ve traipsed around the beach side locale that I have come to love and loathe.
- I swear Mark E. Smith works in Manly. I see him like every other day on the bus home. Straggly, unkempt hair framing a wrinkled, pasty face, he’s always drawing out a fag real long right before we step on. That or some Fall track just always seem to be playing when he’s around. I swear its Mark E. Smith. I want his autograph but I’m shy and afraid of commiting hipster faux pas.
- Today, a fat man was walking down the hill. He appeared at the very top, dressed in a white shirt that postively glimmered against the dark of the dawn. It was all seemingly normal until he went past me. His deodorant came alive and smacked me in the face. I keeled over and gasped, only to inhale more toxin and sputter endlessly. It smelt like mace and musk, artificial and metallic and also in excess. Like a rusting nail drilled into a piece of rotting wood pulverised into a fine smoke and piped into my nostrils without prior consent. Sounds like a scent that would be awesome with a CdG logo plastered on a solid bronze bottle called “Rusting nail drilled into rotting wood”. $345 at select stores from the soon-to-be defunct, ultra rare, one-time release only Haiku series.
- I hate the physical labor and the sheer amount of time wasted in walking up a hill to work. I do enjoy the quiet solitude, the dark, the cuddly creatures and most of all, the amazing smell of pine as I walk past this school. There’s some trees that smell absolutely incredible in the early morning, before the sun smokes the ground and the vapors get lost in a pile of sweat and grass. These are Norfolk Island Pines that are a symbol of Manly. I wonder what pine smoked bacon would taste like? Or maybe smoke some bacon with pine and serve that with the edible seeds and a jus made of pine oil and searing juices. With a slice of caramelised apple.
- There’s a busker that always breaks out a ukelele and chugs along some Beatles choons or something. He wears these short shorts that are so in vogue amongst local kids. He’s like a skinnier Morrissey with naff hair and suspenders. And short shorts. I have never placed a coin into that ukelele case of his. Because of the short shorts. It’s quite simply too offensive for me.
- This dude takes the same bus with me. He happens to wear the same nudies as me. Only he’s skinny and they fit him better. I am insanely jealous. Plus he has a cool beard. Thankfully, he spoils his fit with some ugly ass Asics. There is a god.
- A hospitality school is on the way to work. It is crammed with fobby Koreans and Chinese. They are hella noisy. At least I have something to look at. They are hella noisy. The engrish is cringe worthy. They are hella noisy.
- Shitty fish & chips + crashing waves + ugly ass women + crying babies = nightmare gastronomic experience. Go to Benbry’s people, it costs less, you get barramundi, the chips are gud and you don’t have to pay $0.50 for a tiny tub of Masterfoods tartare. You get fresh robotcoupe enabled dill tartare or aioli instead. For free. You just walk another ten steps to get to the beach.
- Why is the best food in Manly Chat Thai? Its Thai! And its a takeaway joint! I think its because a couple of the girls look cute. Until they speak. I’m not partial to the high pitch. The guys sound worse though. Why do all Thai guys speak like sopranos? Its shrill godamit! Pad See Ew is sweet Beef Hor Fun. Also, Chat Thai, you owe me money for describing your Pad Gra Pao as arrabiata basilico to a coupla I-talian ladies.
- Girls wearing tees at Manly beach should be outlawed. This behaviour should not be condoned. It is utterly despicable and uncalled for. Whatever happened to decorum? Please undress yourselves ladies.
- I wish I could look like Hiroshi Fujiwara with a wild long mane tamed into a ponytail with a beard halfway between scraggly and neat, and be decked out in beesbeems. Then I could steez on all the J-dudes at the beach and pull all the J-beezies, like that super cute one with the glasses and short hair.
New Yeah Yeah Yeahs is a grower. Give it a chance I was told. Skeptical. Then find myself constantly listening to it. Ok, so its lost all the edgy, fuzzy, sweeping effects laden guitars and the frenetic drumming. But it’s pleasant. People change things change. The album’s basically got this rather dancefloor friendly, clubbish sorta vibe. There’s a few tracks that sound Maps-sy and uh one track rips off Iggy Pop’s Nightclubbin’.
It’s Blitz!
Late pass but. R.I.P Number (N)ine. 12 years on, Takahiro Miyashita decides to shut up shop. Here’s hoping for Number (T)en then. Or maybe Good (N)ight.
via scoute.org, pics of the FW’09 collection A Closed Feeling via slamxhype.
For the first time in 7 months or so, I woke up late. Real late. Which is bad if you’re the breakfast chef. Which I am. So it was bad. Stuff is supposed to go out at 7am. I woke up and took a cursory glance at the window, slightly beaming with the morning light. Strange, since I’m accustomed to the darkness that is 4am. I throw myself up and check the phone. 6.50.
7. I’m entering a cab and telling the driver in a mangled voice that I’m heading to Manly on the double. I keep trying to ring work but no luck.
7.15. I get a missed call from my head chef.
7.25. I manage to get through to work and let them know what’s up.
7.30 I call the head chef back and receive a free aural cleaning.
7.35 Breakfast is already out, thanks to my “apprentice”. Thank god. No one got their food late. I’m still in the shit.
This lengthy, blow by blow rant is purely to tell you not to rely too much on technology or at least on a single source. What happened was my phone didn’t ring more or less. Bless the cab driver, who kept me feeling cool thanks to a conversation that ranged from Singapore (he picked up from my accent) to Thai food, Kings of Leon, soccer and the gem that I should get 2 alarms. Just in case.
So I did. The best that I could at least and I’ve just tested it out. Its not a physical one although I plan to kop one of those with the annoying bells. This one is the iTunes Alarm Clock. Still relying on tech that failed me perhaps but I also got a couple people to ring me just in case.
Hopefully, I should be waking up to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ Hysteric off their latest LP, It’s Blitz at the right time tomorrow.
Also, don’t stay up late making blog posts or doing random shit like flipping through cookbooks. You get tired like that. Oh crap. I think I just did it again.
Right, mate comes back from the land of lahs and we’re all raring to meet up so what else to do but have some lunch. Everyone else’s plan was basically to get me to think of where to go.
In times like these, its tough to find great meals at value prices. I certainly didn’t expect to find Sydney’s best burger at just $10. Plan B, right next to Becasse (they’re related) is basically a hole in the wall cafe that sells a coupla sandwiches as well as coffee from Single Origin. What’s special is their $10 Wagyu burgers, which presumably has to be made of offcuts from the restaurant. An example of which you can see below.
First up, the service was brilliant. Yea its Becasse but its not quite is it? They could have just as easily been as gruff as any other sandwich joint in town. Instead, we had the loveliest lady serving us, helping us move furniture and setting our plates and cutlery… For $10.
Now the burger. Its offcuts, probably a little old but still, this isn’t any old mince anyway. This is 600 day grain fed wagyu, mixed with some ground cloves and vinegar and seasoning. Its good. Bloody good but not bloody at all. The meat falls apart nicely and is flavorsome. Its economical and amazing. $10. Its soft, moist and tender. The seasoning is spot on and you’d probably have to fork over 2 to 4 times as much for anything even close to this anywhere else.
The best bit for me though, was the bread buns. Which I’m assuming are baked in house, because they looked like they popped outta a mold, got cut in two and were then grilled just so. The flavor was superb. Good and crispy shell but a firm, strong centre fluffed up by baking soda, as evidenced by a lack of yeastiness.
Combine with some melted cheese, a bit of greenery and some beetroot and never mind best burger in Sydney. This was probably my best meal in Sydney $20 and under. You would be forgiven for thinking a $10 wagyu burger is gonna be tiny but its substantial enough that I didn’t feel like I needed more. Probably because it tasted so good.
With all the talk of recession, I was actually surprised not to see more suits chowing down with us. Bizarre given how good it really is. Perhaps its because not many people know about it? I’m just thankful my peasant ass manages to sneak a taste of the divine that would otherwise end up in Justin North’s trash heap.
WWD.com reports that Jil Sander is set to return to fashion design, as creative head for Uniqlo. This isn’t like the periodically changing designer’s collaboration projects like the current Opening Ceremony one which is totarry hot hot hot, but a longer term partnership.
My opinion? Better kop dem neon skinnies now! And look forward to 3 billion shades of black! Its an interesting thing to happen. Especially at a time like this, where doubts arise all around.
Tired of old desktop so I changed it and added some new programs as well.
Clik for big.
The background is the New Order cover for Temptation. The iTunes player is Bowtie. The contact list is Adium pinned to the desktop with Afloat and using full transparency and Wordsworth from Fontalicious as the font.
Ps. Hit me on MSN if ya want. the.kpnv@gmail.com
