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.
