The most expensive thing about a stay in hospital these days is not thr drugs or the bandages or the bed or the surgeon or the anaesthetic or the drips and tubes and things - it is the car parking fees.
During the day, the only sane place I have found to park at RPA is a gravel pit next to the maternity section. J mentions that she first went into RPA about 11 years ago, and the gravel pit was a dust bowl with a scattering of gravel over the top. It is still a dust bowl, but with a slightly thicker coating of gravel. I am glad I have the Disco, as it would be quite easy to get bogged, even in the dry season. I have never seen a sports car in there, as there is no way they would be able to cross the corrugations just beyond the entrance.
The sneaky bastards have laid tar from the entrance to just past the boom gate at the entry, so you think you are entering a smoothe, well surfaced car park. It is only after you have taken the ticket and gone beyond the boomgate and the gate has closed, thus denying a rapid exit in reverse, that you find that you are in fact parking in part of a tank driving school course. No kidding - the ruts look like a squadron of Abrahms and Leopards have been spending a few hours doing a waltz around the gravel. Speed limit signs are a waste of time, as no vehicle with low range gears can go that fast in low first.
The beauty of the car park is that no matter what you are visiting the hospital for, they will always sting you for more than an hour of parking. It's $5 an hour, but I bet very few people get out of the place in under 59 minutes.
For starters, it takes about 5 minutes to crawl from the gate to a parking spot in low gear, negotiating wadis and gravel dunes as you go. Then of course the car park is positioned about a suburb away from the rest of the hospital, so it takes about 15 minutes to walk to wherever you need to go. By the time you've done your business, made it back to the car park and then ground out of the place across a cratered moonscape, you've been there for 61 minutes, and the attendant is adamant that you owe him $10.
I'm sure that even if you got to the gate with 10 minutes to spare, he'd run away for 11 minutes just to take you over the magic hourly limit. After all, they need all the money they can get to..... pay for car park improvements?
Ha ha ha.
If I sent the little monkey down there with his beach bucket and plastic shovel, he could probably do more maintenance to the road surface in an afternoon than they have done in 10 years.
I wonder if they'll get upset if I turn up next time driving a road grader?
Friday, 23 February 2007
The wind in my hair
Eeeeek! What's going on? I look in the mirror and there are two big sprouty hairs growing sideways out of my ear! The things are so long, they have extended out past the edge of my ear. From whence did they sprout? Did they just pop out overnight after incubating beneath the skin for a few years, or have they been surrepticously growing a little bit at a time, hoping that I won't notice like a frog in a pot on the stove?
I don't care what the little buggers were thinking - they have been plucked and flushed. Ear pubes I can do without. Curly ear pubes would be even worse. From now on, my morning routine includes a search and destroy mission on the ear holes.
Funny thing is, given how much they stuck out, why didn't I feel the breeze on them when I was cycling? They were that long, I must have looked like a fruit bat. I wonder if I will be able to detect radar if I grow a few more?
I don't care what the little buggers were thinking - they have been plucked and flushed. Ear pubes I can do without. Curly ear pubes would be even worse. From now on, my morning routine includes a search and destroy mission on the ear holes.
Funny thing is, given how much they stuck out, why didn't I feel the breeze on them when I was cycling? They were that long, I must have looked like a fruit bat. I wonder if I will be able to detect radar if I grow a few more?
Bugger the patients, I've got paperwork to complete
If there is one thing the media will not stop printing, it's stories about how hospitals need more money. Budgets are stretched to breaking point. Patients are left stuck on trolleys in corridors because of a lack of beds. Blah blah blah.
Bollocks to the lot of them.
The strongest impression I got this week from RPA is that the staff spend all day doing nothing but paperwork. I walked into a ward of 30 beds, of which maybe 24 were occupied, and at the nursing station there were six nurses filling in paperwork. That spared maybe one or two to actually walk around the ward and do things like feed, change, clean and generally help out the patients. It was the same story every time I went past. On one visit, I spotted 10 nurses and doctors doing their paperwork. They were quite dilligent about it, and seemed to be doing it as quickly as possible, but they were dealing with mountains of it, and there aren't enough hours in the day (or a shift) to get it all done and deal with the patients that are bleeding to death in bed 9.
I guess litigation has brought us to this sorry state of affairs, plus the fact that stupid medical dramas teach people that doctors can save everybody, even those suffering from hideous injuries or wierd diseases. No, that's bollocks - that's just TV. TV stations also broadcast shows about aliens, Atlantis and movies about a kid with spider powers.
It makes you wonder whether they'd be better of deciding to just pay all the litigation rather than fighting it, and abolishing all the paperwork. Everyone wants to save money by not paying for litigation, but no one counts the cost of doing all the form filling that might mitigate some, but not all of the costs of a lawsuit. If they have to employ 10 nurses per shift rather than 3 because of all the paperwork, what is that costing per year? Especially when that floor had 4 wards like that one, and I think there are wards on 3 or 4 floors.
The best thing the Greenies could do for the health system would be to strictly ration the amount of paper that a hospital can have each year. Give RPA say a million sheets of A4. When it runs out, tough - no more forms to fill in. If they run out of A4 in May, I guess they can spend the next 7 months being productive until the semi-trailers arrive with the 2008 shipment of red tape. If you limit how much paper everyone gets, people might start to prioritise and only fill out the stuff that absolutely needs to be filled out, then binning all the not so important stuff.
Why am I not a CEO?
Bollocks to the lot of them.
The strongest impression I got this week from RPA is that the staff spend all day doing nothing but paperwork. I walked into a ward of 30 beds, of which maybe 24 were occupied, and at the nursing station there were six nurses filling in paperwork. That spared maybe one or two to actually walk around the ward and do things like feed, change, clean and generally help out the patients. It was the same story every time I went past. On one visit, I spotted 10 nurses and doctors doing their paperwork. They were quite dilligent about it, and seemed to be doing it as quickly as possible, but they were dealing with mountains of it, and there aren't enough hours in the day (or a shift) to get it all done and deal with the patients that are bleeding to death in bed 9.
I guess litigation has brought us to this sorry state of affairs, plus the fact that stupid medical dramas teach people that doctors can save everybody, even those suffering from hideous injuries or wierd diseases. No, that's bollocks - that's just TV. TV stations also broadcast shows about aliens, Atlantis and movies about a kid with spider powers.
It makes you wonder whether they'd be better of deciding to just pay all the litigation rather than fighting it, and abolishing all the paperwork. Everyone wants to save money by not paying for litigation, but no one counts the cost of doing all the form filling that might mitigate some, but not all of the costs of a lawsuit. If they have to employ 10 nurses per shift rather than 3 because of all the paperwork, what is that costing per year? Especially when that floor had 4 wards like that one, and I think there are wards on 3 or 4 floors.
The best thing the Greenies could do for the health system would be to strictly ration the amount of paper that a hospital can have each year. Give RPA say a million sheets of A4. When it runs out, tough - no more forms to fill in. If they run out of A4 in May, I guess they can spend the next 7 months being productive until the semi-trailers arrive with the 2008 shipment of red tape. If you limit how much paper everyone gets, people might start to prioritise and only fill out the stuff that absolutely needs to be filled out, then binning all the not so important stuff.
Why am I not a CEO?
Is it that hard to get an iced coffee?
Gloria Jeans had a special promotion the other week on a drink called "voltage", which was some sort of iced coffee derivative. I paid my $3.95 or whatever it was and gave it a go.
It was sticky, icky horrible muck, and it went straight into the bin. It was by far the worst "iced coffee" that I have ever had. It had very little coffee but a huge amount of sugar. It was more like a Coke slurpee than anything else.
So I gave them a second chance this week by asking nicely for a "very plain, unsweetened iced coffee". The woman looked at me kindly, and explained that they did one that was just a shot of coffee, milk and ice - and definitely no whipped cream on top. I forked over my money and had a go, and was pleasantly surprised. It was quite good. Thumbs up to that franchise of Gloria Jeans.
Either that, or the franchise owner is sick to death of all these iced coffee addicts coming back to the counter going, "My God, what is in this? It tastes like crap. I want my money back".
From one franchise to another - from Gloria Jeans to McCafe, I tried to get history to repeat itself. I bought a "normal" iced coffee from McCafe, and it was easily the second worst one I have ever had after that initial Gloria Jeans muck. One slurp and it went into the bin. I know there is no point in complaining. Just bin it and never try it again.
On my next visit, I changed tack and asked for a "very plain, unsweetened iced coffee" at that same McCafe. No dice this time - the manager just looked at me like I had dropped in from Uganda and tried to explain in simple words of few syllables that all their iced coffee was made from syrup, and even though they had a big flash coffee/espresso making machine, and bags of ice, and gallons of milk, it was impossible to make a shot of coffee, to add milk and top it up with ice cubes. Somehow, that would violate many inviolatable McDonalds rules, and the Universe would come to and end before the day was out.
For crying out loud, I can make a bloody iced coffee in my kitchen using nothing more sophisticated than instant coffee, hot water, milk and iced cubes in a big plastic glass (that has enough room for vigorous shaking). I don't know what the bloody world has come to when people feel that drinks can only be made from syrup, rather than producing the "real thing" from original ingredients.
Next time I am going to ask for a latte in a plastic cup, then ask for a handful of ice cubes. That'll fuck'em.
It was sticky, icky horrible muck, and it went straight into the bin. It was by far the worst "iced coffee" that I have ever had. It had very little coffee but a huge amount of sugar. It was more like a Coke slurpee than anything else.
So I gave them a second chance this week by asking nicely for a "very plain, unsweetened iced coffee". The woman looked at me kindly, and explained that they did one that was just a shot of coffee, milk and ice - and definitely no whipped cream on top. I forked over my money and had a go, and was pleasantly surprised. It was quite good. Thumbs up to that franchise of Gloria Jeans.
Either that, or the franchise owner is sick to death of all these iced coffee addicts coming back to the counter going, "My God, what is in this? It tastes like crap. I want my money back".
From one franchise to another - from Gloria Jeans to McCafe, I tried to get history to repeat itself. I bought a "normal" iced coffee from McCafe, and it was easily the second worst one I have ever had after that initial Gloria Jeans muck. One slurp and it went into the bin. I know there is no point in complaining. Just bin it and never try it again.
On my next visit, I changed tack and asked for a "very plain, unsweetened iced coffee" at that same McCafe. No dice this time - the manager just looked at me like I had dropped in from Uganda and tried to explain in simple words of few syllables that all their iced coffee was made from syrup, and even though they had a big flash coffee/espresso making machine, and bags of ice, and gallons of milk, it was impossible to make a shot of coffee, to add milk and top it up with ice cubes. Somehow, that would violate many inviolatable McDonalds rules, and the Universe would come to and end before the day was out.
For crying out loud, I can make a bloody iced coffee in my kitchen using nothing more sophisticated than instant coffee, hot water, milk and iced cubes in a big plastic glass (that has enough room for vigorous shaking). I don't know what the bloody world has come to when people feel that drinks can only be made from syrup, rather than producing the "real thing" from original ingredients.
Next time I am going to ask for a latte in a plastic cup, then ask for a handful of ice cubes. That'll fuck'em.
I'm sick - can I bum a fag?
Here is a fascinating little observation about RPA. I went through a ward of 30 beds this week and noticed that every bed contained what used to be called a "white person", now known as someone of European descent. Most of them were in their 70's or 80's, and they were there because they had some kind of old age ailment.
This was contrasted with the scene outside Emergency (or more properly, outside the general entrance next to Emergency). The general entrance is where all the smokers congregate, and the amazing thing is that 30-50% of the smokers were Aboriginal. I went in and out of that entrance half a dozen times at various times of the day and night, and it was always the same. Five or ten blackfellas smoking Winnie Blues or hand rolled smokes. I know that they were smoking Winfield Blues as ground was littered with empty fag packets - no one could be bothered wandering over to one of the bins to get rid of their empty pack.
The other thing is that all the blackfellas were youngish - certainly younger than me, and most seemed to have various bandages and casts on their legs and arms. They didn't seem to be suffering from cancer and stuff - they seemed to be suffering from falling over drunk, getting punched whilst drunk or whacked with a fence picket by another drunk. None of them looked like they'd be reaching the age where they'd be lying with the white folk in the beds upstairs.
I had to spend a bit of time in the Emergency "sub-acute" ward, which is a parking area for about a dozen beds in the Emergency section of the hospital. I guess it's where you end up if you are sick, but aren't suffering from say a gunshot wound or stab wound or have just been in a major car crash and have 50 broken bones.
One of the beds was occupied by a bloke that had suffered a nasty blow to the head. He was seeing double, had blacked out and crapped his pants and had obviously been concussed nastily. Even though the curtains around his bed were drawn, I could work that out from overhearing what the doctors and nurses were asking him and his partner. He seemed quite nice.
His woman was something else. All I could see was a pair of white trainers beneath the curtain, and very skinny calves. I didn't spot the calves for a while, but I could hear her talking to her man behind the curtain. She was calling him a dickhead and an idiot and a fuckwit and generally being not very nice, and at one stage even slapped his face. I guess that was her idea of tough love. She was trying very, very hard to be a very tough individual - too tough to be gentle with him and tell him that everything would be ok.
I also overheard part of her story to a doctor, which was thus - they had gone outside (a pub by the sound of it) for a smoke and he "fell over". Right.
Some time later, the curtains were pulled back to reveal a young bloke, maybe 20, wiry and with a totally blue shoulder and upper arm from a tattoo, and his woman. Sad to say, but they looked about 25% aboriginal, even though I am probably darker at the moment than either of them. The calves are always a dead give away. I presume he "fell over" because he was either quite pissed, or he "fell over" after he got into a fight and the other bloke clobbered him. It was easy to imagine him getting into a fight because of something his girlfriend said or did - she looked the nasty type that would start a fight and then get someone else to fight it for her, and then get mad if her guy didn't win.
It's amazing how tough it is to get into medicine. It attracts the brightest of the lot, and I was certainly impressed by the doctors that I met. I wonder how many of them would apply to do medicine if they got to spend a night in an emergency ward at age 17, dealing with drunks that required stomach pumping, drug overdoses, blackfellas that have beaten each other half to death and the other detritus that washes off the streets.
This was contrasted with the scene outside Emergency (or more properly, outside the general entrance next to Emergency). The general entrance is where all the smokers congregate, and the amazing thing is that 30-50% of the smokers were Aboriginal. I went in and out of that entrance half a dozen times at various times of the day and night, and it was always the same. Five or ten blackfellas smoking Winnie Blues or hand rolled smokes. I know that they were smoking Winfield Blues as ground was littered with empty fag packets - no one could be bothered wandering over to one of the bins to get rid of their empty pack.
The other thing is that all the blackfellas were youngish - certainly younger than me, and most seemed to have various bandages and casts on their legs and arms. They didn't seem to be suffering from cancer and stuff - they seemed to be suffering from falling over drunk, getting punched whilst drunk or whacked with a fence picket by another drunk. None of them looked like they'd be reaching the age where they'd be lying with the white folk in the beds upstairs.
I had to spend a bit of time in the Emergency "sub-acute" ward, which is a parking area for about a dozen beds in the Emergency section of the hospital. I guess it's where you end up if you are sick, but aren't suffering from say a gunshot wound or stab wound or have just been in a major car crash and have 50 broken bones.
One of the beds was occupied by a bloke that had suffered a nasty blow to the head. He was seeing double, had blacked out and crapped his pants and had obviously been concussed nastily. Even though the curtains around his bed were drawn, I could work that out from overhearing what the doctors and nurses were asking him and his partner. He seemed quite nice.
His woman was something else. All I could see was a pair of white trainers beneath the curtain, and very skinny calves. I didn't spot the calves for a while, but I could hear her talking to her man behind the curtain. She was calling him a dickhead and an idiot and a fuckwit and generally being not very nice, and at one stage even slapped his face. I guess that was her idea of tough love. She was trying very, very hard to be a very tough individual - too tough to be gentle with him and tell him that everything would be ok.
I also overheard part of her story to a doctor, which was thus - they had gone outside (a pub by the sound of it) for a smoke and he "fell over". Right.
Some time later, the curtains were pulled back to reveal a young bloke, maybe 20, wiry and with a totally blue shoulder and upper arm from a tattoo, and his woman. Sad to say, but they looked about 25% aboriginal, even though I am probably darker at the moment than either of them. The calves are always a dead give away. I presume he "fell over" because he was either quite pissed, or he "fell over" after he got into a fight and the other bloke clobbered him. It was easy to imagine him getting into a fight because of something his girlfriend said or did - she looked the nasty type that would start a fight and then get someone else to fight it for her, and then get mad if her guy didn't win.
It's amazing how tough it is to get into medicine. It attracts the brightest of the lot, and I was certainly impressed by the doctors that I met. I wonder how many of them would apply to do medicine if they got to spend a night in an emergency ward at age 17, dealing with drunks that required stomach pumping, drug overdoses, blackfellas that have beaten each other half to death and the other detritus that washes off the streets.
Institutional food
I have eaten food in several institutions (not including a loony bin or prison), and I have never seen such awful chow as that served up in hospitals. It's understandable - hospital budgets depend on people being sick, so serving up horrible food is a great way to keep people in longer with stomach disorders and the like.
Or it's a way to free up beds by making people desperate to go home as soon as possible. If it was me, I'd tell them to wheel me straight from surgery out to the car park, and they could just lay me out in the back of the Disco for the drive home. Bugger hanging around to get all the tubes and stitches taken out - that's why we have pliers at home.
One place at RPA that gets lots of custom is the McCafe just next door. It's not a full blown McDonalds, so there is no scent of frying chips as you walk out of the Emergency dept, but it does sandwiches and proper coffee and food that is reasonably healthy and half tasty. Whenever I have been passed it, it has been chockers full of nurses, doctors, patients and anyone else who has been able to walk, hobble, crutch or wheel themselves out in order to get fed.
The other thing is that they sold out of food by around 1pm. It's not often that you walk into a McDonalds and find no food, but this place was stripped bare by early afternoon every day.
Toast is a good indicator of whether a place can cook and serve food properly or not. When I was at school, they had a succession of big, industrial toasters that toasted about a loaf of bread at a time. You'd get your food on a tray, then walk past the toaster and grab a few hot slices as they popped out of the machine. Given that it was serving 200 hungry boys, it couldn't produce toast fast enough. The biggest problem was the "dark toast" crowd arguing with the "lightly toasted" group about what setting the toaster should be set on.
RPA can't make toast to save its life. Which is bloody ridiculous. I presume that all the food is prepared in kitchens in the basement, or worse, prepared in one of those airline catering businesses out at the airport and then trucked over for distribution. Wherever they make the toast, it is a cold, soggy inedible lump by the time it reaches the patient. What is so ridiculous is that each ward has a small kitchen with a fridge, microwave and toaster, so it is not beyond the impossible to actually heat the toast within 20 walking seconds of the furthest bed in the ward.
I guess the hospital doesn't want the OH&S risk of some old duck burning her mouth on fresh toast. Better to serve a congealed lump of bread that was toasted 6 suburbs away sometime before midnight.
If they did that in prisons, there'd be a riot. You really have to wonder about an institution that can't make toast - do you really want the same clowns organising your brain surgery?
Or it's a way to free up beds by making people desperate to go home as soon as possible. If it was me, I'd tell them to wheel me straight from surgery out to the car park, and they could just lay me out in the back of the Disco for the drive home. Bugger hanging around to get all the tubes and stitches taken out - that's why we have pliers at home.
One place at RPA that gets lots of custom is the McCafe just next door. It's not a full blown McDonalds, so there is no scent of frying chips as you walk out of the Emergency dept, but it does sandwiches and proper coffee and food that is reasonably healthy and half tasty. Whenever I have been passed it, it has been chockers full of nurses, doctors, patients and anyone else who has been able to walk, hobble, crutch or wheel themselves out in order to get fed.
The other thing is that they sold out of food by around 1pm. It's not often that you walk into a McDonalds and find no food, but this place was stripped bare by early afternoon every day.
Toast is a good indicator of whether a place can cook and serve food properly or not. When I was at school, they had a succession of big, industrial toasters that toasted about a loaf of bread at a time. You'd get your food on a tray, then walk past the toaster and grab a few hot slices as they popped out of the machine. Given that it was serving 200 hungry boys, it couldn't produce toast fast enough. The biggest problem was the "dark toast" crowd arguing with the "lightly toasted" group about what setting the toaster should be set on.
RPA can't make toast to save its life. Which is bloody ridiculous. I presume that all the food is prepared in kitchens in the basement, or worse, prepared in one of those airline catering businesses out at the airport and then trucked over for distribution. Wherever they make the toast, it is a cold, soggy inedible lump by the time it reaches the patient. What is so ridiculous is that each ward has a small kitchen with a fridge, microwave and toaster, so it is not beyond the impossible to actually heat the toast within 20 walking seconds of the furthest bed in the ward.
I guess the hospital doesn't want the OH&S risk of some old duck burning her mouth on fresh toast. Better to serve a congealed lump of bread that was toasted 6 suburbs away sometime before midnight.
If they did that in prisons, there'd be a riot. You really have to wonder about an institution that can't make toast - do you really want the same clowns organising your brain surgery?
We're in a hospital and we're all going to die
I was going past the Emergency entrance at RPA the other day and stuck out the front were three large Fire appliances and a gaggle of police cars. They were all trying to get into the parking area out the front of Emergency - the spot where the ambulances pull up to throw people out. The parking area is not that big, and it is a shallow U, and the entrance is not terribly wide. I guess it is typical of the type of parking/entrance area that was built back in the days or horse and buggy.
The Fire appliances couldn't get in because there was a vehicle parked in the "no standing" zone near the entrance. It was, of all things, a hospital security van. I guess the security guards get to park wherever they like whilst they duck off for a fag (outside Emergency is also one of the favourite places for staff and patients to have a smoke). I counted at least a dozen firemen and half a dozen policemen milling around trying to sort things out. What concerned me a touch was that there was also a "hazardous material/decontamination" unit being towed around by one of the Fire appliances. It didn't bode well. I put my foot down and stopped rubber necking and got well clear of that mess.
Why they didn't just attach a cable to the security and and tow it out backwards with a Fire appliance is beyond me. They could have just left it parked in the middle of the road and let the stupid security guard explain where the scratches and dents came from.
I guess security guards need thick skulls in case they get punched in the course of their duties.
The Fire appliances couldn't get in because there was a vehicle parked in the "no standing" zone near the entrance. It was, of all things, a hospital security van. I guess the security guards get to park wherever they like whilst they duck off for a fag (outside Emergency is also one of the favourite places for staff and patients to have a smoke). I counted at least a dozen firemen and half a dozen policemen milling around trying to sort things out. What concerned me a touch was that there was also a "hazardous material/decontamination" unit being towed around by one of the Fire appliances. It didn't bode well. I put my foot down and stopped rubber necking and got well clear of that mess.
Why they didn't just attach a cable to the security and and tow it out backwards with a Fire appliance is beyond me. They could have just left it parked in the middle of the road and let the stupid security guard explain where the scratches and dents came from.
I guess security guards need thick skulls in case they get punched in the course of their duties.
Sunday, 18 February 2007
How did the Japs ever get to Pearl Harbour?
If there is one thing we are really missing around here, it is a really good Japanese restaurant. I'm not talking about a hole in the wall with a counter selling pre-made sushi, or a sushi-train type setup - I am talking about a place where you sit at the counter and a chef with big knives does silly things in front of you and throws food at the customers. Where the sake is warm and the Sapporo is cold and the bill is probably hideous.
We have two take away hole-in-the-walls within a 5 minute drive, but there is no restaurant within about a half hour drive. The nearest would be Crows Nest or Cremorne. I now know that, because I had take away from the Five Dock Jap, and had a look at an industry magazine whilst I was there which listed every Jap restaurant in Sydney, and the pickings in the west are pretty slim. Put it this way - I think out here in Drummoyne, we are the frontier of Japanese food. Beyond this line, the only asian takeaway is Chinese. I think we are on the limits of civilisation - what used to be known as the Marches, beyond which lived Picts and so forth.
The local Jap place had three guys behind the counter doing various things - arguing, sharpening knives and fiddling with their hair nets. I placed my order, then went for a wander up and down the street so as to kill the 10 minute wait. It was a pretty simple order - a chicken bento box, some agedashi tofu, vegetable tempura and a vegetarian roll.
I get home, and find that we have a sushi bento box instead of chicken, some tofu (as ordered), vegetable tempura and seafood tempura (not requested) and a vegetarian roll (which they got right). Not that I am complaining too much, as they charged me for what I ordered, but they gave me about 50% more food value-wise. How the Japs got organised enough to get to PNG is beyond me. Well, I guess they did forget to bring food and organise logistics so that heaps of them starved to death on the Kokoda Track, so it's no surprise that they can't get a simple bento box order right.
We have two take away hole-in-the-walls within a 5 minute drive, but there is no restaurant within about a half hour drive. The nearest would be Crows Nest or Cremorne. I now know that, because I had take away from the Five Dock Jap, and had a look at an industry magazine whilst I was there which listed every Jap restaurant in Sydney, and the pickings in the west are pretty slim. Put it this way - I think out here in Drummoyne, we are the frontier of Japanese food. Beyond this line, the only asian takeaway is Chinese. I think we are on the limits of civilisation - what used to be known as the Marches, beyond which lived Picts and so forth.
The local Jap place had three guys behind the counter doing various things - arguing, sharpening knives and fiddling with their hair nets. I placed my order, then went for a wander up and down the street so as to kill the 10 minute wait. It was a pretty simple order - a chicken bento box, some agedashi tofu, vegetable tempura and a vegetarian roll.
I get home, and find that we have a sushi bento box instead of chicken, some tofu (as ordered), vegetable tempura and seafood tempura (not requested) and a vegetarian roll (which they got right). Not that I am complaining too much, as they charged me for what I ordered, but they gave me about 50% more food value-wise. How the Japs got organised enough to get to PNG is beyond me. Well, I guess they did forget to bring food and organise logistics so that heaps of them starved to death on the Kokoda Track, so it's no surprise that they can't get a simple bento box order right.
Friday, 16 February 2007
Chook Mk II
I had another go at the roast chook last week. I bought a number 17 at the markets - corn fed and all that, and tried the same recipe as last time, except without the pumpkin. I figure that there is no point in trying to cram 9 different vegetables into the oven for roasting. I'll just stick with a chook, one or two vegies and something green to go on the side.
I did parsnip again, except this time, I steamed it for 10 minutes, then chucked it in under the chook, and I made sure I basted it well and truly with oil from the chook.
I also turned the chook every 20 minutes or so, making sure that the top, bottom and sides were brown and crispy (and well basted). Overall, it probably had 15 minutes longer in the oven than the last one.
The chook was quite magnificent. The parsnips were also quite magnificent - so magnificent, that I ate most of them as I was carving the chook in the kitchen. They were quite brown - not crisp and chip like, but brown and well roasted, with their sugars well caramelised.
I impressed myself once again.
I did parsnip again, except this time, I steamed it for 10 minutes, then chucked it in under the chook, and I made sure I basted it well and truly with oil from the chook.
I also turned the chook every 20 minutes or so, making sure that the top, bottom and sides were brown and crispy (and well basted). Overall, it probably had 15 minutes longer in the oven than the last one.
The chook was quite magnificent. The parsnips were also quite magnificent - so magnificent, that I ate most of them as I was carving the chook in the kitchen. They were quite brown - not crisp and chip like, but brown and well roasted, with their sugars well caramelised.
I impressed myself once again.
How often should one clean a bike?
It's been raining a bit of late, so the bike has collected a fair covering of crap. I was putting it away the other night and I was amazed at just how filthy it had become - dirt and grease seemed to have been flicked over every part. I was too knackered to be bothered cleaning it, but just how clean should a bike be?
I guess a mountain bike that is parked in the shed can be left encrusted in an inch thick covering of mud without anyone batting an eyelid, but a road bike is a different proposition. A road bike is an Italian sports car compared to a mountain bike, and sports cars are generally kept clean and gleaming (and I do have a red bike after all).
At one point, I figured that once a week was enough - give it a soap and rinse on the lawn each weekend and that would be it. But I've been lazy lately and it must have at least 4 weeks worth of crud on it now. I don't really see the point in scraping off the mud after riding home in the rain to collect another sheen of mud the following day.
I am sure that some will beg to differ.
I guess a mountain bike that is parked in the shed can be left encrusted in an inch thick covering of mud without anyone batting an eyelid, but a road bike is a different proposition. A road bike is an Italian sports car compared to a mountain bike, and sports cars are generally kept clean and gleaming (and I do have a red bike after all).
At one point, I figured that once a week was enough - give it a soap and rinse on the lawn each weekend and that would be it. But I've been lazy lately and it must have at least 4 weeks worth of crud on it now. I don't really see the point in scraping off the mud after riding home in the rain to collect another sheen of mud the following day.
I am sure that some will beg to differ.
Promises, promises
I caught a bit of the "great debate" between Iemma and Debnam on the ABC tonight. I saw maybe two minutes here and two minutes there in between chasing the monkey around the house on a destruction limiting mission.
Iemma does not impress me. I always think he is trying to hard when he speaks to the media. Visions of a cork up his bum disturb my sleep. He puffs out his chest like a pigeon and turns sideways a bit and talks like a .... I don't know what. I don't like it.
Debnam has this wonderful policy of wanting to cut 20,000 public servants. I think he is mad - he should be trying to cut about double that number. I have yet to walk into a government office without getting the feeling that the place would run a lot better if every second person was given a pink slip. People seem to be tripping over each other as they wander around on meaningless missions. Even better, whole buildings or departments could simply be shut and their functions abolished. That's the trouble with the Libs these days - they don't think big enough.
Iemma does not impress me. I always think he is trying to hard when he speaks to the media. Visions of a cork up his bum disturb my sleep. He puffs out his chest like a pigeon and turns sideways a bit and talks like a .... I don't know what. I don't like it.
Debnam has this wonderful policy of wanting to cut 20,000 public servants. I think he is mad - he should be trying to cut about double that number. I have yet to walk into a government office without getting the feeling that the place would run a lot better if every second person was given a pink slip. People seem to be tripping over each other as they wander around on meaningless missions. Even better, whole buildings or departments could simply be shut and their functions abolished. That's the trouble with the Libs these days - they don't think big enough.
Another week, almost another 100 miles
I went backwards this week - 141km instead of 142. I thought I might have been able to crack 150, but took the short way home today and lost about 10km. Ah well, there is always next week. Gotta have goals to aim for.
I'd like to hit the ton soon - 100 miles, or 160km. It doesn't seem that much of a stretch, except that coming home last Friday, my legs just died about 2 km from home. I was feeling a bit sore, and then they just flopped on me. I thought I'd either have to climb off and have a breather, or get a lift home. It was not a good feeling. I guess I had pushed the poor old pins about as far as they wanted to go that week.
So this week, I was a bit more cautious and didn't want to push the mileage too hard. All I really wanted to do was make 140 again, with 150 being the icing on the cake.
I did start to drag a few times, but there was always an idiot around when I needed one. I've discovered that dickheads really get me fired up - they're great for incentivising the blood stream. I was feeling a bit haggard the other night as I approached home and a tool went past in his car, and that was it - the race was on. Of course I had no hope in hell of catching him and smashing his tail lights with my bike pump, but the sudden burst of energy was just what I needed.
It helped again today, when I had an ambulance of all things on my tail. Well, not an ambulance - a "patient transport vehicle". The guy was getting up my date a bit as I came around the Bay, so I gave it what-for as soon as I got off the road and onto the bike path. The weather was good, the tailwind was slight, and he was stuck with a 50km/h speed limit. He didn't overtake me. I got the feeling the driver decided to stay beside me just to see if I could drag him off all the way around that bit of the Bay. Well, I won. Ha ha.
I'd like to hit the ton soon - 100 miles, or 160km. It doesn't seem that much of a stretch, except that coming home last Friday, my legs just died about 2 km from home. I was feeling a bit sore, and then they just flopped on me. I thought I'd either have to climb off and have a breather, or get a lift home. It was not a good feeling. I guess I had pushed the poor old pins about as far as they wanted to go that week.
So this week, I was a bit more cautious and didn't want to push the mileage too hard. All I really wanted to do was make 140 again, with 150 being the icing on the cake.
I did start to drag a few times, but there was always an idiot around when I needed one. I've discovered that dickheads really get me fired up - they're great for incentivising the blood stream. I was feeling a bit haggard the other night as I approached home and a tool went past in his car, and that was it - the race was on. Of course I had no hope in hell of catching him and smashing his tail lights with my bike pump, but the sudden burst of energy was just what I needed.
It helped again today, when I had an ambulance of all things on my tail. Well, not an ambulance - a "patient transport vehicle". The guy was getting up my date a bit as I came around the Bay, so I gave it what-for as soon as I got off the road and onto the bike path. The weather was good, the tailwind was slight, and he was stuck with a 50km/h speed limit. He didn't overtake me. I got the feeling the driver decided to stay beside me just to see if I could drag him off all the way around that bit of the Bay. Well, I won. Ha ha.
Saturday, 10 February 2007
Pizza variations
I tried something a bit different this week - a morocan lamb style pizza. We had some left over lamb chops and a jar of zaatar, so I chopped up the chops, rubbed the bits in lots of olive oil and zaatar and then made a lamb and goats cheese and spanish onion pizza.
Apart from putting on too much of the goaty stuff, it was very good. It would have been even better if I could figure out how to make a minty yoghurt sauce to dribble over the top before serving. One thing at a time I guess. I also should have added some pine nuts. I guess you always think of these things afterwards.
I did another one with a topping of sun dried tomatoes, which turned out to be a bit of a blunder. The tomatoes of course have been soaking in oil for months, and what happens to something that is covered in oil and then put into a hot oven? It fries like pork crackling. Except in this case, we ended up with a pizza covered in little black smears of tomato flavoured charcoal. Next time, I'll either chop them up and add them to the tomato base for extra flavour, or I'll add them a few minutes before the end.
The other thing that I tried doing was chopping up rosemary and adding it to the pizza base. I've added it to the tomato sauce before, but I've found it too overpowering. This time, it went into the bread. It seemed to be a bit more subtle. Either that, or I didn't use enough. Ah well, there is always next week. We still have about 8 kilos of flour in the flour bag, so it's not like I don't have a shortage of bases to work with.
Apart from putting on too much of the goaty stuff, it was very good. It would have been even better if I could figure out how to make a minty yoghurt sauce to dribble over the top before serving. One thing at a time I guess. I also should have added some pine nuts. I guess you always think of these things afterwards.
I did another one with a topping of sun dried tomatoes, which turned out to be a bit of a blunder. The tomatoes of course have been soaking in oil for months, and what happens to something that is covered in oil and then put into a hot oven? It fries like pork crackling. Except in this case, we ended up with a pizza covered in little black smears of tomato flavoured charcoal. Next time, I'll either chop them up and add them to the tomato base for extra flavour, or I'll add them a few minutes before the end.
The other thing that I tried doing was chopping up rosemary and adding it to the pizza base. I've added it to the tomato sauce before, but I've found it too overpowering. This time, it went into the bread. It seemed to be a bit more subtle. Either that, or I didn't use enough. Ah well, there is always next week. We still have about 8 kilos of flour in the flour bag, so it's not like I don't have a shortage of bases to work with.
Drivers are idiots
There's an old story that most crashes happen within something like 400m from home. Well I was about that distance from home this week, and I saw the aftermath of someone elses crash.
There is a street on the home stretch that is long, straight and wide, and some drivers have a tendency to zoom along it well over the speed limit. It's a great place to do it, apart from the fact that it is a quiet suburban street and there are plenty of cross streets and lots of cars pulling out of driveways etc.
I always keep well out into the middle of that road as cars coming from the left and right have a bad habit of not giving way. They've all got to stop at stop signs, but when they see a bike coming, they just say "screw it" and pull out. If I hit them, they won't get hurt, so they don't care. It's a road where both hands have to be kept on the brake levers and you need to be ready to take evasive action at any moment.
What I came across this week was a classic two car prang, where one car had been going down the hill and a car had pulled out from the left and been collected around the front wheel. Both cars were a right mess, but both drivers were out of their cars talking to tow truck drivers when I got there. Both cars were still in the middle of the road, and they had hit each other with enough force to bend the front wheels inwards at funny angles.
The car that had been going down the hill was one of those mini-Lexus models. The type that seem to be favoured by Lebanese drug dealers. I imagine that he was going way too fast, and the chick who pulled out simply didn't see him as he belted around a shallow bend.
What is it about Lexus and drug dealers?
Do you think their marketing department was sitting around back in the early 1990's trying to figure out the target market, and they thought, "Let's target rappers and drug dealers - they have plenty of money and no taste". I think not. Poor bastards. They struggle for years to produce a car that will knock Mercedes off their perch, and it is taken over by people who think that 10 chunky gold chains around the neck are just not enough for a trip to the shops. I bet the most requested after accesory is an awesome stereo.
Wankers. May they all die in fiery pile ups.
There is a street on the home stretch that is long, straight and wide, and some drivers have a tendency to zoom along it well over the speed limit. It's a great place to do it, apart from the fact that it is a quiet suburban street and there are plenty of cross streets and lots of cars pulling out of driveways etc.
I always keep well out into the middle of that road as cars coming from the left and right have a bad habit of not giving way. They've all got to stop at stop signs, but when they see a bike coming, they just say "screw it" and pull out. If I hit them, they won't get hurt, so they don't care. It's a road where both hands have to be kept on the brake levers and you need to be ready to take evasive action at any moment.
What I came across this week was a classic two car prang, where one car had been going down the hill and a car had pulled out from the left and been collected around the front wheel. Both cars were a right mess, but both drivers were out of their cars talking to tow truck drivers when I got there. Both cars were still in the middle of the road, and they had hit each other with enough force to bend the front wheels inwards at funny angles.
The car that had been going down the hill was one of those mini-Lexus models. The type that seem to be favoured by Lebanese drug dealers. I imagine that he was going way too fast, and the chick who pulled out simply didn't see him as he belted around a shallow bend.
What is it about Lexus and drug dealers?
Do you think their marketing department was sitting around back in the early 1990's trying to figure out the target market, and they thought, "Let's target rappers and drug dealers - they have plenty of money and no taste". I think not. Poor bastards. They struggle for years to produce a car that will knock Mercedes off their perch, and it is taken over by people who think that 10 chunky gold chains around the neck are just not enough for a trip to the shops. I bet the most requested after accesory is an awesome stereo.
Wankers. May they all die in fiery pile ups.
The stupidity of other cyclists never ceases to amaze me
I saw a courier come very close to be cleaned up this week. I was sitting at some lights at an intersection of two one way streets. The courier came up the street from my left, but obviously wanted to go the wrong way up the street I had just come down, so he had to turn right - from the left hand lane - across three lanes of fast moving traffic.
Bozo thought he had a gap - there was a bus coming up the far left hand lane, and it wasn't moving so fast as it was going uphill, so he decided to bolt across the road in front of it. Just one problem - there was a taxi coming up alongside the bus at a much greater rate of knots.
I saw the taxi, then saw idiot make his move, and I was just stuck there able to do stuff all apart from hope they wouldn't collide. If I shouted "stop", the guy would have been hit by the bus. If he kept going, there was a good chance the taxi would get him. He was screwed either way.
Thankfully, he was faster off the line than I am, and he just managed to get in front of the taxi. by about the thickness of his back tyre. What a fucking moron. The guy didn't even bat an eyelid - he just kept on going up the road like nothing had happened, and like he hadn't pulled the stupidest stunt since Cain was a boy.
Couriers like him gather every Friday at a mall in town and have a few king browns and swap war stories. I am sure his mates will tell him what a cool dude he is. I just wanted to whack him around the head a few times with my pump handle. Dicks like that make drivers think we are all whackos, so we get no respect on the road.
It might have been better in the long run if I had yelled at him to stop and let the bus take care of the problem.
Bozo thought he had a gap - there was a bus coming up the far left hand lane, and it wasn't moving so fast as it was going uphill, so he decided to bolt across the road in front of it. Just one problem - there was a taxi coming up alongside the bus at a much greater rate of knots.
I saw the taxi, then saw idiot make his move, and I was just stuck there able to do stuff all apart from hope they wouldn't collide. If I shouted "stop", the guy would have been hit by the bus. If he kept going, there was a good chance the taxi would get him. He was screwed either way.
Thankfully, he was faster off the line than I am, and he just managed to get in front of the taxi. by about the thickness of his back tyre. What a fucking moron. The guy didn't even bat an eyelid - he just kept on going up the road like nothing had happened, and like he hadn't pulled the stupidest stunt since Cain was a boy.
Couriers like him gather every Friday at a mall in town and have a few king browns and swap war stories. I am sure his mates will tell him what a cool dude he is. I just wanted to whack him around the head a few times with my pump handle. Dicks like that make drivers think we are all whackos, so we get no respect on the road.
It might have been better in the long run if I had yelled at him to stop and let the bus take care of the problem.
Woo hoo, I am cooking
Big week on the bike this week - 142km. I am feeling it now though - after a day off the bike, my legs and arse are aching, and I am knackered. I fell asleep on the couch this afternoon I was so exhausted. I did that over 4 days. I was fine up until the ride home on the last day - I was about 2km from home and my legs just died underneath me. Prior to that, I had been cooking with gas. I don't know what happened, but this week, I was turbo charged. I was just humping up them hills without a second thought. Normally, I am quick on the flat but pathetic on the hills, but this week, the hills presented few problems. It's like I suddenly went up a gear in fitness. A fitness spurt I guess, like a growth spurt.
We'll see how I go this week. My aim is simply to maintain 140km this week, with a view to going to 160km in March, and then seeing if I can get up to 200km by June. I should be able to do 160 without too many problems - it just means doing 40km a day, 4 days a week. I normally have one laundry day (where I get a lift in with clean shirts), so 4 days in the saddle is the usual thing. I was doing 38km on Thursday and Friday, so all I need to do is find a slight detour that gets the daily total to 40, and I am there.
Going the next step to 200 will be tricky. I have the weekends off to recover, although that usually means going to the beach and swimming instead. I could do a ride on one day over the weekend, but that means less time for recovery.
Tricky. I don't feel like taking the daily total out to 50km - not unless we move another suburb out and I have no choice. For the moment, I am going to aim for 160 and see how I feel after that.
We'll see how I go this week. My aim is simply to maintain 140km this week, with a view to going to 160km in March, and then seeing if I can get up to 200km by June. I should be able to do 160 without too many problems - it just means doing 40km a day, 4 days a week. I normally have one laundry day (where I get a lift in with clean shirts), so 4 days in the saddle is the usual thing. I was doing 38km on Thursday and Friday, so all I need to do is find a slight detour that gets the daily total to 40, and I am there.
Going the next step to 200 will be tricky. I have the weekends off to recover, although that usually means going to the beach and swimming instead. I could do a ride on one day over the weekend, but that means less time for recovery.
Tricky. I don't feel like taking the daily total out to 50km - not unless we move another suburb out and I have no choice. For the moment, I am going to aim for 160 and see how I feel after that.
Fish food
Spent an hour at the markets this morning blowing money on useless frippery like fruit, vegetables and bread. And a bit of bacon for breakfast, and a corn fed chook. All the stuff that you don't really need to bother with each week if you live on takeaway.
I don't often visit the seafood counters at the markets because they look like mayhem. They really seem like a good way to get an elbow in the guts or a few squashed toes. However, I have been eyeing off the scallops for a while, and last night, I finally got to the scallops section of my Stephanie Alexander cook book. Her cook book bible is about 5 inches thick, and it's organised alphabetically, so scallops are about 3 months reading from the front.
So I bought a kilo of scallops. I thought I was getting scallops in the half shell, but it turned out that I was getting fresh out of the ocean, uncleaned, unopened scallops. Good thing Stephanie explained how to clean the little buggers, as I had never thought of it before. I've cleaned plenty of mussels, and bashed the odd fresh abalone, and I've watched oysters being shucked in front of me, but I have never seen a fresh scallop.
Here's the thing - when you open them up, the scallop is attached to both halves of the shell with a membrane that looks like two jellyfish - a topside jellyfish and an underneath jellyfish. They peel off the shell easily enough, but cleaning the actual membrane from the scallop is tricky work. I spent a lot of time with the tap running and me ripping membranes off under the running water. After that, it was time to cut off the guts and the poo sack, which is a nasty looking black sack (not to be confused with the roe). That took plenty of time as well.
After cleaning, I had a huge bag of junk (shell, guts and membranes) and a small bread plate covered in maybe two dozen scallops. Given that they only cost $6 a kilo, I am not complaining. All I did was sprinkle on a bit of olive oil, squeeze on a touch of lime juice and then bunged them in the fridge whilst I got on with peeling the prawns.
The scallops went on the BBQ for dinner. I used one of those plastic cooking mat things, which was a waste of time. I should have put my heavy cast iron frying pan on the BBQ and done them in that (the only reason for doing them on the BBQ was to avoid stinking the house out). I did them in a pile of butter, added some fresh thyme and finished them off with a bit of white wine and lime juice. I could have done without the lime juice. The best scallops were the ones that I pushed off the plastic mat and browned a bit on the hot BBQ plate. They don't need long to cook, but I prefer them a little bit brown around the edges, rather than totally squishy. Each to their own.
Next time, I am going to look out for cleaned buggers. Sod this removing guts business.
The prawns were also a right bastard. I bought el cheapo green prawns for about $12 a kilo. They seemed like a steal, until I went to shell them. Most of them had paper thin shells. I presume they were farmed up in Vietnam or somewhere like that, and they didn't feed them enough stuff to develop a proper shell. I hate peeling prawns with crap shells. I want something crunchy that cracks off properly. Again, next time I am going to look for trawler caught prawns from somewhere like Darwin.
They cooked up ok on the BBQ, but they were not great.
So much for the fish food. I think I would have prefered a lamb chop.
I don't often visit the seafood counters at the markets because they look like mayhem. They really seem like a good way to get an elbow in the guts or a few squashed toes. However, I have been eyeing off the scallops for a while, and last night, I finally got to the scallops section of my Stephanie Alexander cook book. Her cook book bible is about 5 inches thick, and it's organised alphabetically, so scallops are about 3 months reading from the front.
So I bought a kilo of scallops. I thought I was getting scallops in the half shell, but it turned out that I was getting fresh out of the ocean, uncleaned, unopened scallops. Good thing Stephanie explained how to clean the little buggers, as I had never thought of it before. I've cleaned plenty of mussels, and bashed the odd fresh abalone, and I've watched oysters being shucked in front of me, but I have never seen a fresh scallop.
Here's the thing - when you open them up, the scallop is attached to both halves of the shell with a membrane that looks like two jellyfish - a topside jellyfish and an underneath jellyfish. They peel off the shell easily enough, but cleaning the actual membrane from the scallop is tricky work. I spent a lot of time with the tap running and me ripping membranes off under the running water. After that, it was time to cut off the guts and the poo sack, which is a nasty looking black sack (not to be confused with the roe). That took plenty of time as well.
After cleaning, I had a huge bag of junk (shell, guts and membranes) and a small bread plate covered in maybe two dozen scallops. Given that they only cost $6 a kilo, I am not complaining. All I did was sprinkle on a bit of olive oil, squeeze on a touch of lime juice and then bunged them in the fridge whilst I got on with peeling the prawns.
The scallops went on the BBQ for dinner. I used one of those plastic cooking mat things, which was a waste of time. I should have put my heavy cast iron frying pan on the BBQ and done them in that (the only reason for doing them on the BBQ was to avoid stinking the house out). I did them in a pile of butter, added some fresh thyme and finished them off with a bit of white wine and lime juice. I could have done without the lime juice. The best scallops were the ones that I pushed off the plastic mat and browned a bit on the hot BBQ plate. They don't need long to cook, but I prefer them a little bit brown around the edges, rather than totally squishy. Each to their own.
Next time, I am going to look out for cleaned buggers. Sod this removing guts business.
The prawns were also a right bastard. I bought el cheapo green prawns for about $12 a kilo. They seemed like a steal, until I went to shell them. Most of them had paper thin shells. I presume they were farmed up in Vietnam or somewhere like that, and they didn't feed them enough stuff to develop a proper shell. I hate peeling prawns with crap shells. I want something crunchy that cracks off properly. Again, next time I am going to look for trawler caught prawns from somewhere like Darwin.
They cooked up ok on the BBQ, but they were not great.
So much for the fish food. I think I would have prefered a lamb chop.
Monday, 5 February 2007
Kismet - best Turkish food in Australia
Is that a big call - best Turkish food in Australia? That's not what it says on their business card - that's what I reckon.
It's 15 years since I was in Turkey, and I have spent most of that time hankering for some good Turkish food. I think the best food that I had in Turkey was at a truckstop out in the countryside. We pulled into this place where you got a tray, wandered down a counter and pointed at bowls of stuff. For about $2, I got a feast. No one could speak much English, so it was a matter of point and then try and figure out how many Lira they were asking for.
After that, I ate in a few restaurants in Istanbul. Again, they were off the beaten track and seemed to be frequented by Turkish businessmen, or gangsters, or both, and I got too drunk to remember whether they were any good or not. I remember stumbling home in the dark asking the obligatory soldier on each corner the way back to my hotel (I had a card from the hotel). After a bit of wandering around, I figured out that four of them were sending us stupid tourists around the same block again and again.
When I got to London, I found that my brother had discovered an excellent Turkish place up the road from his place. I have no idea what it was called, but we called the owner "Jesus", as he looked the part, and we went there quite a bit as the food was simply smashing and cheap. I hope Jesus is still in business somewhere, as he will be making lots of people happy.
Unfortunately, Australia seems to be bereft of Turkish restaurants. We have plenty of Lebanese places, and the odd "Turkish" place that seems to be Lebanese with belly dancing bolted on.
Then we found Kismet in Canberra. Well, we only found it because Verve wouldn't serve us food as the kitched was closed, and Kismet was next door.
Kismet is not a restaurant. It is a takeaway place with two tables out the front. We took the two tables and ordered up a big platter of food - I think we selected one of just about everything that they served. I thought it was great, apart from the octopus, which was served cold. I am over cold octopus. It reminds me of trying to eat a washing up glove. It has to be hot off the BBQ. but apart from the octopus, it was great. I can't tell you what we ate - we just ate lots of stuff.
J had a kebab, and wasn't impressed. To start, it was not a kebab as we know it. It was not tightly wrapped - it was more of a tortilla, which meant that she managed to drop half of it in her lap. I guess you need to have some experience of eating their kebabs to avoid that disaster. She also didn't think it was as tasty or good as our local kebab guy, but as I didn't try it, I have no comment.
Somehow, kebabs in Australia just don't taste the same as they do in Greece and Turkey. I think part of it is that in those places, they actually grill big lumps of lamb on a skewer and then slide it off into your kebab. They also use good yoghurt sauce, which is not watered down and flavourless, and they use big tasty tomatoes - the kind we used to get before industrial market gardening wrecked our tomatoes. There's something a bit primordial about ordering a kebab from a bloke that is working from a chopped off 44 gallon drum BBQ and little else.
Kismet doesn't have the 44 gallon drum BBQ, as I imagine the health nazis would have a fit if they used on, but they still manage to put on a good feed. If I am ever stuck for a kebab in Canberra, I am going to Manuka to visit Kismet.
It's 15 years since I was in Turkey, and I have spent most of that time hankering for some good Turkish food. I think the best food that I had in Turkey was at a truckstop out in the countryside. We pulled into this place where you got a tray, wandered down a counter and pointed at bowls of stuff. For about $2, I got a feast. No one could speak much English, so it was a matter of point and then try and figure out how many Lira they were asking for.
After that, I ate in a few restaurants in Istanbul. Again, they were off the beaten track and seemed to be frequented by Turkish businessmen, or gangsters, or both, and I got too drunk to remember whether they were any good or not. I remember stumbling home in the dark asking the obligatory soldier on each corner the way back to my hotel (I had a card from the hotel). After a bit of wandering around, I figured out that four of them were sending us stupid tourists around the same block again and again.
When I got to London, I found that my brother had discovered an excellent Turkish place up the road from his place. I have no idea what it was called, but we called the owner "Jesus", as he looked the part, and we went there quite a bit as the food was simply smashing and cheap. I hope Jesus is still in business somewhere, as he will be making lots of people happy.
Unfortunately, Australia seems to be bereft of Turkish restaurants. We have plenty of Lebanese places, and the odd "Turkish" place that seems to be Lebanese with belly dancing bolted on.
Then we found Kismet in Canberra. Well, we only found it because Verve wouldn't serve us food as the kitched was closed, and Kismet was next door.
Kismet is not a restaurant. It is a takeaway place with two tables out the front. We took the two tables and ordered up a big platter of food - I think we selected one of just about everything that they served. I thought it was great, apart from the octopus, which was served cold. I am over cold octopus. It reminds me of trying to eat a washing up glove. It has to be hot off the BBQ. but apart from the octopus, it was great. I can't tell you what we ate - we just ate lots of stuff.
J had a kebab, and wasn't impressed. To start, it was not a kebab as we know it. It was not tightly wrapped - it was more of a tortilla, which meant that she managed to drop half of it in her lap. I guess you need to have some experience of eating their kebabs to avoid that disaster. She also didn't think it was as tasty or good as our local kebab guy, but as I didn't try it, I have no comment.
Somehow, kebabs in Australia just don't taste the same as they do in Greece and Turkey. I think part of it is that in those places, they actually grill big lumps of lamb on a skewer and then slide it off into your kebab. They also use good yoghurt sauce, which is not watered down and flavourless, and they use big tasty tomatoes - the kind we used to get before industrial market gardening wrecked our tomatoes. There's something a bit primordial about ordering a kebab from a bloke that is working from a chopped off 44 gallon drum BBQ and little else.
Kismet doesn't have the 44 gallon drum BBQ, as I imagine the health nazis would have a fit if they used on, but they still manage to put on a good feed. If I am ever stuck for a kebab in Canberra, I am going to Manuka to visit Kismet.
pizzazz cafe
Breakfast in Canberra was one hit and one miss. Pizzazz was the hit. Maybe it is pizzazz - another stupid lower case spelling. It's also in Kingston, along with about a thousand other restaurants and cafes, and I never would have gone there if sister had not taken us there.
Apparently the best place to sit is outside, which we couldn't as all the early risers got there before us and nabbed the outdoor tables. The only table we could get was in the passageway that led to the kitchen and toilets, which meant that it was impossible to let the Monkey off the leash. Which is a nightmare, as when the Monkey is full of beans (or bananas), he can go bananas. He needs to be run into the ground on a regular basis in order for adults to enjoy a quiet meal.
That being the case, most of my time was taken up with trying to handle a Monkey with one hand and fork food into my mouth with the other, all the time trying to stop him from tipping over my coffee or throwing my food on the floor. Fun.
I had a spanish omelette, as I wanted to see how they compared to the Bondi Kiosk. pizzazz did it quite differently - more like a fritatta, and they did it very well. I really enjoyed it. I wish we had gone back there the day after rather than going to that dump called artespresso.
The only downer was that they served their butter in those horrible little plastic sachets that you rip the lid off. I really, really hate those things. Partly because if left on a hot plate, the butter melts and you end up with something that looks like olive oil rather than butter. I like my butter to be cold. Not frozen, with condesation running down the sides, but cold enough that you can cut slices off it. Sadly, that was not the case at pizzazz. I poured my butter over my toast, which was a major disappointment.
Karma got his revenge though. Monkey got his hands on one and squeezed it and it burst and suddenly there was molten butter all over the comfy couch that we were sitting on. Oops. We just sat the Monkey in it and hoped that his nappy soaked most of it up before it got into the fabric. Never mix Monkeys and melted butter.
I didn't save the bill, so I can't remember what the others had (apart from pancakes) but I do know that the general result from everyone was that it was fabbo. Apart from Mr Pancake, who only gave them 2 out of 5. I thought that was a bit harsh, but he is entitled to his own opinion. I just don't know what he will eat next time we go back, as we will be going back.
But earlier, so we get an outside table.
Apparently the best place to sit is outside, which we couldn't as all the early risers got there before us and nabbed the outdoor tables. The only table we could get was in the passageway that led to the kitchen and toilets, which meant that it was impossible to let the Monkey off the leash. Which is a nightmare, as when the Monkey is full of beans (or bananas), he can go bananas. He needs to be run into the ground on a regular basis in order for adults to enjoy a quiet meal.
That being the case, most of my time was taken up with trying to handle a Monkey with one hand and fork food into my mouth with the other, all the time trying to stop him from tipping over my coffee or throwing my food on the floor. Fun.
I had a spanish omelette, as I wanted to see how they compared to the Bondi Kiosk. pizzazz did it quite differently - more like a fritatta, and they did it very well. I really enjoyed it. I wish we had gone back there the day after rather than going to that dump called artespresso.
The only downer was that they served their butter in those horrible little plastic sachets that you rip the lid off. I really, really hate those things. Partly because if left on a hot plate, the butter melts and you end up with something that looks like olive oil rather than butter. I like my butter to be cold. Not frozen, with condesation running down the sides, but cold enough that you can cut slices off it. Sadly, that was not the case at pizzazz. I poured my butter over my toast, which was a major disappointment.
Karma got his revenge though. Monkey got his hands on one and squeezed it and it burst and suddenly there was molten butter all over the comfy couch that we were sitting on. Oops. We just sat the Monkey in it and hoped that his nappy soaked most of it up before it got into the fabric. Never mix Monkeys and melted butter.
I didn't save the bill, so I can't remember what the others had (apart from pancakes) but I do know that the general result from everyone was that it was fabbo. Apart from Mr Pancake, who only gave them 2 out of 5. I thought that was a bit harsh, but he is entitled to his own opinion. I just don't know what he will eat next time we go back, as we will be going back.
But earlier, so we get an outside table.
artespresso
artespresso, smelt (or spelt) with a lower case "a" is a place of arseholes (and you can capitalise that "A" if you want to).
It used to be one of my most favouritest haunts to breakfast in Canberra. It's in Kingston, which I like. It has interested art on the walls. The coffee is generally not too bad and the food has been good.
We chowed down there on the most recent visit to our nation's capital, and I think it will be our last visit to that particular establishment.
To start with, our waitress had no sense of humour. I should have guessed as much, as she was dressed totally in black and had that serious Arts student mien about her. Brother-in-law made a hash of his order by asking for "soft eggs", to which the waitress replied "and how do you want them cooked?"
His response was, "soft".
"No, as in boiled, fried, scrambled or poached?"
"Oh", went the brother-in-law, looking a bit embarased.
When she got to me and asked how I wanted my eggs, I replied "Fresh". Everyone else at the table laughed. She just frowned at me and made a little mou that said, "Oh god, one of these tables". Not even a chuckle.
Then she came out with the cuttlery. She started by putting some down within reach of the Monkey, which is always a dumb idea as cuttlery within reach has a tabletop life expectancy of less than 5 seconds. We were sitting on the balcony, and chances are it all would have ended up out on the footpath, and we would have been accused by a humourless management of being thieving gypsies.
So I told her that the last waitress to give the Monkey a fork ended up with it jammed into her thigh, and that it took two Ambo's to remove it. Again, we thought it was funny, but then we might have still been floating from the night before, and she just made that little mou again and pushed our knives and forks around a bit.
She's going to have a shock if she has kids.
Breakfast arrived, and I was not impressed. I ordered the big breakfast, and the only difference between it and bacon and eggs was the addition of one sausage. And not a very big sausage at that. It was one of thos skinny chippolata type sausages, and it was just too wierd with eggs. I favour a big, fat fairly dull pork sausage with breakfast - something that will complement the eggs, not try and murder them. If I want to murder my eggs, I splosh a pile of chilli-type sauce on the edge of my plate and dunk them in that.
The only advantage to having the big breakfast as opposed to eggs with a side order of bacon and a side order of sausage is that the "big" breakfast cost $15 and if you did eggs, it was $8, plus $4.50 for bacon and then another $4.50 for a sausage. Add that up. And then add coffee at $3.50 a pop.
For what we got, it was appalingly expensive. I don't mind forking out $15 for a feed if it is an incredibly good feed - the kind I get at Circle - and there, the $15 bill includes the coffee.
To cap it off, the only way out of the place was to go back inside through the balcony door and then through the restaurant. Sometime after we sat down, a party of about 15 took a table just inside the door that we had to go through. Although we got there well before them, some of them were clearly quite grumpy that the waitress had to walk past them to bring us our food and drinks. When we went to leave, civil war almost broke out. They had an old granny with them, and she went berko - how dare we walk past them etc etc, why didn't we exit off the balcony (uh, because that would involve climbing over the railing and dropping about 5 feet to the footpath, and the staff might have taken that to mean that we were skipping out without paying the bill).
I could see her going nuts, and saw big problems with getting the pram past her, so I had to heave it over the balconey (not with Monkey in it).
In retrospect, given the humourless service, the muddy sausage, the appaling prices and the screeching haridan that we had to pass, maybe we should have taken the over-the-balconey option and just split.
Next time, I want to go to Verve. We tried to lunch there on the weekend, but the kitchen closed just before we got there. I'll make it back one day.
It used to be one of my most favouritest haunts to breakfast in Canberra. It's in Kingston, which I like. It has interested art on the walls. The coffee is generally not too bad and the food has been good.
We chowed down there on the most recent visit to our nation's capital, and I think it will be our last visit to that particular establishment.
To start with, our waitress had no sense of humour. I should have guessed as much, as she was dressed totally in black and had that serious Arts student mien about her. Brother-in-law made a hash of his order by asking for "soft eggs", to which the waitress replied "and how do you want them cooked?"
His response was, "soft".
"No, as in boiled, fried, scrambled or poached?"
"Oh", went the brother-in-law, looking a bit embarased.
When she got to me and asked how I wanted my eggs, I replied "Fresh". Everyone else at the table laughed. She just frowned at me and made a little mou that said, "Oh god, one of these tables". Not even a chuckle.
Then she came out with the cuttlery. She started by putting some down within reach of the Monkey, which is always a dumb idea as cuttlery within reach has a tabletop life expectancy of less than 5 seconds. We were sitting on the balcony, and chances are it all would have ended up out on the footpath, and we would have been accused by a humourless management of being thieving gypsies.
So I told her that the last waitress to give the Monkey a fork ended up with it jammed into her thigh, and that it took two Ambo's to remove it. Again, we thought it was funny, but then we might have still been floating from the night before, and she just made that little mou again and pushed our knives and forks around a bit.
She's going to have a shock if she has kids.
Breakfast arrived, and I was not impressed. I ordered the big breakfast, and the only difference between it and bacon and eggs was the addition of one sausage. And not a very big sausage at that. It was one of thos skinny chippolata type sausages, and it was just too wierd with eggs. I favour a big, fat fairly dull pork sausage with breakfast - something that will complement the eggs, not try and murder them. If I want to murder my eggs, I splosh a pile of chilli-type sauce on the edge of my plate and dunk them in that.
The only advantage to having the big breakfast as opposed to eggs with a side order of bacon and a side order of sausage is that the "big" breakfast cost $15 and if you did eggs, it was $8, plus $4.50 for bacon and then another $4.50 for a sausage. Add that up. And then add coffee at $3.50 a pop.
For what we got, it was appalingly expensive. I don't mind forking out $15 for a feed if it is an incredibly good feed - the kind I get at Circle - and there, the $15 bill includes the coffee.
To cap it off, the only way out of the place was to go back inside through the balcony door and then through the restaurant. Sometime after we sat down, a party of about 15 took a table just inside the door that we had to go through. Although we got there well before them, some of them were clearly quite grumpy that the waitress had to walk past them to bring us our food and drinks. When we went to leave, civil war almost broke out. They had an old granny with them, and she went berko - how dare we walk past them etc etc, why didn't we exit off the balcony (uh, because that would involve climbing over the railing and dropping about 5 feet to the footpath, and the staff might have taken that to mean that we were skipping out without paying the bill).
I could see her going nuts, and saw big problems with getting the pram past her, so I had to heave it over the balconey (not with Monkey in it).
In retrospect, given the humourless service, the muddy sausage, the appaling prices and the screeching haridan that we had to pass, maybe we should have taken the over-the-balconey option and just split.
Next time, I want to go to Verve. We tried to lunch there on the weekend, but the kitchen closed just before we got there. I'll make it back one day.
Is site meter crap, or am I incompetent?
I tried to sign up to site meter last night, simply to see if I get more than one hit a day (apart from me). The process is pretty straightforward, and at the end, they email you a username and password.
It's been 24 hours, and the bloody logon name and password still haven't arrived. I'm pretty sure I managed to do it without completely messing it up. Ah well, no stats for me then. I guess I will just have to assume that I am the 398th most popular site in Australia and get on with being super famous and popular.
It's a tough life.
It's been 24 hours, and the bloody logon name and password still haven't arrived. I'm pretty sure I managed to do it without completely messing it up. Ah well, no stats for me then. I guess I will just have to assume that I am the 398th most popular site in Australia and get on with being super famous and popular.
It's a tough life.
Political manifesto of the insane, or brilliant
Tex over at whackingday has posted the maddest political manifesto that I have read in ages.
Gotta say, he strikes a chord. How nice to read about someone who is not intent on leaching off the public tit for the rest of his existance.
However, I've always wondered whether Tex might be a cardigan wearing public servant by day, and Tex by night.
Gotta say, he strikes a chord. How nice to read about someone who is not intent on leaching off the public tit for the rest of his existance.
However, I've always wondered whether Tex might be a cardigan wearing public servant by day, and Tex by night.
Road terror part 214
I took the meandering route home tonight, which is designed solely to get my daily mileage up as close to 40km as it can get without going up and down the same road a few times. It takes me along Great North Road, which is OK as roads go, and is does go north, but I am not so sure that it is a great north road. The pacific highway for instance is a bigger road that goes north, but it is anything but great.
I digress. Two nice things about this particular road are that it has a cycle lane and when you get to the lights at the intersection of Lyons Rd (famous for all the Italians that live along it with concrete lyons and pink flamingoes out the front), you get a lane all to yourself. That's because it's two lanes at the lights, and they quickly merge into one lane just past the lights. The two lane thing is a pain in the arse, as all it does is encourage wankers to zoom up the left lane, tear off at the lights and then try and merge into the other lane like spastic sheepherders.
I had one of them tonight. I was almost at the lights when dickhead decides to race up along side me and cut in without warning or indicating. It was one of those dramatic moves that causes on old car with soggy springs and fading shock absorbers to wallow like a waltzing hippo, which is what the old shitbucket Datsun did.
I though about sliding up beside him and saying something like, "It's not a race, you tool", but then he leant his arm out the window sill and it looked to be covered in bad, faded prison tats.
I simply sat behind him and thought zen thoughts. I counted the number of Ibis pulling rubbish out of the litter bins (countless - like the plagues of Egypt). I tried to estimate the level of decibels of wog boy a few lanes away with his shaved up the side haircut and his 1970's retro-panelvan type mural on the bonnet (somewhat louder than a low flying jumbo). I summed up the number of awful purple or yellow mags within view (ran out of fingers and toes).
Then the lights changed. Wanker didn't have enough grunt to beat the Tarago beside him off the line. Or the old banger behind it. He meekly merged in about the same position as he started.
What a knobtool.
I digress. Two nice things about this particular road are that it has a cycle lane and when you get to the lights at the intersection of Lyons Rd (famous for all the Italians that live along it with concrete lyons and pink flamingoes out the front), you get a lane all to yourself. That's because it's two lanes at the lights, and they quickly merge into one lane just past the lights. The two lane thing is a pain in the arse, as all it does is encourage wankers to zoom up the left lane, tear off at the lights and then try and merge into the other lane like spastic sheepherders.
I had one of them tonight. I was almost at the lights when dickhead decides to race up along side me and cut in without warning or indicating. It was one of those dramatic moves that causes on old car with soggy springs and fading shock absorbers to wallow like a waltzing hippo, which is what the old shitbucket Datsun did.
I though about sliding up beside him and saying something like, "It's not a race, you tool", but then he leant his arm out the window sill and it looked to be covered in bad, faded prison tats.
I simply sat behind him and thought zen thoughts. I counted the number of Ibis pulling rubbish out of the litter bins (countless - like the plagues of Egypt). I tried to estimate the level of decibels of wog boy a few lanes away with his shaved up the side haircut and his 1970's retro-panelvan type mural on the bonnet (somewhat louder than a low flying jumbo). I summed up the number of awful purple or yellow mags within view (ran out of fingers and toes).
Then the lights changed. Wanker didn't have enough grunt to beat the Tarago beside him off the line. Or the old banger behind it. He meekly merged in about the same position as he started.
What a knobtool.
Sunday, 4 February 2007
To hell with icecream
Last week, I made my own icecream for the first time. OK, it was actually semifredo, which is more of an iced treat, but it beats the hell out of most of the store bought varieties that I normally get. I have made icecream with other people, and generally with an icecream maker, but this was the first time I did it all on my own and without one of those expensive bloody things that never seems to make icecream properly.
After making it, I browsed through a few cookbooks and found about 10 different recipes on how to make semifredo. I am going to stick with the simple Donna Hay recipe that I started with, since it seems to work.
It's pretty bloody easy - 3 eggs plus 2 egg yolks, a cup of sugar and some vanilla. Whisk that lot over a double boiler for 5 minutes until you have a thin custard. Add a pack of frozen fruit (like blackberries) once it has cooled down a bit. Whip up 1.75 cups of cream, fold it in and then bung the whole lot in the freezer.
Oh bugger, I forgot to add some booze. I was going to add some amareto or frangelico - guess I can pour it on afterwards.
I tried doing it again tonight, and am yet to try the results. I heated the berries up a bit this time, and squished them somewhat in order to break them up and release some juice before mixing them into the custard. Last time, I found myself chomping into whole, well frozen berries, and they were pretty solid little suckers.
Yep, I'm all for making it at home from now on.
After making it, I browsed through a few cookbooks and found about 10 different recipes on how to make semifredo. I am going to stick with the simple Donna Hay recipe that I started with, since it seems to work.
It's pretty bloody easy - 3 eggs plus 2 egg yolks, a cup of sugar and some vanilla. Whisk that lot over a double boiler for 5 minutes until you have a thin custard. Add a pack of frozen fruit (like blackberries) once it has cooled down a bit. Whip up 1.75 cups of cream, fold it in and then bung the whole lot in the freezer.
Oh bugger, I forgot to add some booze. I was going to add some amareto or frangelico - guess I can pour it on afterwards.
I tried doing it again tonight, and am yet to try the results. I heated the berries up a bit this time, and squished them somewhat in order to break them up and release some juice before mixing them into the custard. Last time, I found myself chomping into whole, well frozen berries, and they were pretty solid little suckers.
Yep, I'm all for making it at home from now on.
Your chook is cooked
After being hungover as hell yesterday, I felt like roast chook tonight. Silly bloody time to be wanting a hot, roasted chicken - it was about 30 degrees here today (it is still 26 in the office at 9pm) and humid as all buggery. But it was a chook that I wanted, so it was a chook we had. Sunday night really is the best time for a roast chook - even if I bail out of the office before 4pm and bolt home, there really isn't enough time to make a stuffing, chop the vegies and stick a chook into the over for 90 minutes. I times myself tonight - it took me just over half an hour from pulling the chook out of the fridge to when I popped it into the oven. With practice, I might get that time down, but roasting is not the speediest game in town.
It was a bloody marvelous chook by the way. I did it in my dirty great bit Le Creuset pot, starting it with the lid on to moisten it up a bit. I chopped lots of herbs from the garden and put them under it - a few big sprigs of rosemary, a bit head of sage, a big twig of oregano and some thyme. I also chopped two onions and tossed them on top of the herbs, then made a herb butter of garlic, lemon rind and thyme and put that under the skin. The skin was then rubbed with oil and salt, and the vegies tossed in around it.
After half an hour, the lid came off and the chook was left to brown. Unfortunately, I pulled it out a bit early, so it was not as brown and crispy as I like it, and it was still a touch pink in a few spots, but I was carving by the time I found that out. I also did it with pumpkin and parsnips, and the parsnips were not cooked. They were like eating very uncooked parsnips, which are tough as hardwood.
Bugger.
I blame the chicken - it was huge, a number 17 or 18. I am used to smaller chooks - ones that just feed a family of three and leave no leftovers, which is great because the carcase can go straight into a pot for making stock with no stuffing around.
I am still working on my stuffing though. I tried one tonight of onions, garlic, croutons, dates, pine nuts and herbs (mainly thyme) and I thought it was pretty good. I even bunged in half a lemon with the stuffing. No one else will eat it though. Which is good in a way, as I get it all, but it does make me worry about my skills as a cook.
The biggest problem with cooking a chook this way is that it is next to impossible to turn it over. My enourmous Stephanie Alexander cookbook says to turn and baste your chook every 20 minutes. I could hardly get the bloody thing out at the end of the cooking time, let alone spin it every 20 minutes. Maybe if I trussed it up with baling wire to make it look like a football, I might be able to turn it then.
It was a bloody marvelous chook by the way. I did it in my dirty great bit Le Creuset pot, starting it with the lid on to moisten it up a bit. I chopped lots of herbs from the garden and put them under it - a few big sprigs of rosemary, a bit head of sage, a big twig of oregano and some thyme. I also chopped two onions and tossed them on top of the herbs, then made a herb butter of garlic, lemon rind and thyme and put that under the skin. The skin was then rubbed with oil and salt, and the vegies tossed in around it.
After half an hour, the lid came off and the chook was left to brown. Unfortunately, I pulled it out a bit early, so it was not as brown and crispy as I like it, and it was still a touch pink in a few spots, but I was carving by the time I found that out. I also did it with pumpkin and parsnips, and the parsnips were not cooked. They were like eating very uncooked parsnips, which are tough as hardwood.
Bugger.
I blame the chicken - it was huge, a number 17 or 18. I am used to smaller chooks - ones that just feed a family of three and leave no leftovers, which is great because the carcase can go straight into a pot for making stock with no stuffing around.
I am still working on my stuffing though. I tried one tonight of onions, garlic, croutons, dates, pine nuts and herbs (mainly thyme) and I thought it was pretty good. I even bunged in half a lemon with the stuffing. No one else will eat it though. Which is good in a way, as I get it all, but it does make me worry about my skills as a cook.
The biggest problem with cooking a chook this way is that it is next to impossible to turn it over. My enourmous Stephanie Alexander cookbook says to turn and baste your chook every 20 minutes. I could hardly get the bloody thing out at the end of the cooking time, let alone spin it every 20 minutes. Maybe if I trussed it up with baling wire to make it look like a football, I might be able to turn it then.
It's riding time
Finally, a week in which I crack the 100km mark! Three days of riding, each of 37-38km adds up to just under 110km. Whew - thought I'd never cycle that far again in a week. I was hoping to go for one more ride and take it out to 150 for the week, but we got on the turps on Friday night and neither of us was much good on Saturday. I then had to spend today doing all the stuff that I was going to do yesterday, so there went the ride.
I have started noticing holes in my riding kit lately. The first one was in my knicks, and I found it because part of my sack was poking out and rubbing on the saddle. Had to find a needle and fix that one quick smart. Then, as I was hanging my top on the line today, I found a few moth sized holes in the back. Not that I think that moths eat lycra - it is just the first place where it is wearing out. I am used to the idea of tyres and brake pads wearing out, but not my clothes!
I am about to crack through the 7000km mark on this bike, which probably means it is near it's half life. I reckon it will be lucky to last 15,000km, and really lucky to last 20,000 (unless I turn it into a grocery bike). When I bought it, the sales guy at Renegade explained expensive bikes and cheap bikes in terms of how long the components will last. My frame will probably last for years, but before long, I'll be replacing the cranks and the rear cluster and bits of the gears and possibly the brake levers.... essentially every part that moves. Cheapish parts might last 10,000km. Mid-priced might last 15,000. Really good ones might go 20,000, but maniacs that buy expensive bikes probably buy a new one each year, so their bike never gets riden enough to reach it's design limit.
I figure I will go through one major refit of the drivetrain and brakes, and when they wear out, either the bike will be handed down to the kiddies, or it becomes a shopping bike, or it goes to the Salvo's. I have already replaced the front wheel (collision damage) and the rear wheel (got too bent from hitting pot holes), plus both tyres a few times (the latest set are supposed to alst 6000km). Tubes - I've had a few. Brake pads seem to be good for 1000 - 1500km and that is it. I guess if I was a skinny bastard who did all his riding on the flat and rarely had to squeeze the brakes, I'd get a lot more life out of them. But I'm a chunky bloke who rides down a lot of hills, and has to stop quite a few times and inconvenient things like traffic lights on the way to work.
Yes, my brakes do work. I had to pull up sharpish on Friday arvo to avoid taking out a taxi customer - he decided to exit the taxi just as I was about to pass it, and I found out just how quickly I could pull up when I need to. About half a car length. I ended up just touching my handlebar into the open door as I pulled up, which almost caused the passenger to wet himself. The stupid sod was in a hell of a hurry - he said sorry, and then bolted down the road. I presume he paid his fare, as he was in the backseat for quite a while whilst the taxi was stationery. Maybe he was arguing about the fare, or the lack of his money thereof to pay it. Whatever - he exited in enough of a hurry to almost ensure that he was flattened for this trouble.
I have started noticing holes in my riding kit lately. The first one was in my knicks, and I found it because part of my sack was poking out and rubbing on the saddle. Had to find a needle and fix that one quick smart. Then, as I was hanging my top on the line today, I found a few moth sized holes in the back. Not that I think that moths eat lycra - it is just the first place where it is wearing out. I am used to the idea of tyres and brake pads wearing out, but not my clothes!
I am about to crack through the 7000km mark on this bike, which probably means it is near it's half life. I reckon it will be lucky to last 15,000km, and really lucky to last 20,000 (unless I turn it into a grocery bike). When I bought it, the sales guy at Renegade explained expensive bikes and cheap bikes in terms of how long the components will last. My frame will probably last for years, but before long, I'll be replacing the cranks and the rear cluster and bits of the gears and possibly the brake levers.... essentially every part that moves. Cheapish parts might last 10,000km. Mid-priced might last 15,000. Really good ones might go 20,000, but maniacs that buy expensive bikes probably buy a new one each year, so their bike never gets riden enough to reach it's design limit.
I figure I will go through one major refit of the drivetrain and brakes, and when they wear out, either the bike will be handed down to the kiddies, or it becomes a shopping bike, or it goes to the Salvo's. I have already replaced the front wheel (collision damage) and the rear wheel (got too bent from hitting pot holes), plus both tyres a few times (the latest set are supposed to alst 6000km). Tubes - I've had a few. Brake pads seem to be good for 1000 - 1500km and that is it. I guess if I was a skinny bastard who did all his riding on the flat and rarely had to squeeze the brakes, I'd get a lot more life out of them. But I'm a chunky bloke who rides down a lot of hills, and has to stop quite a few times and inconvenient things like traffic lights on the way to work.
Yes, my brakes do work. I had to pull up sharpish on Friday arvo to avoid taking out a taxi customer - he decided to exit the taxi just as I was about to pass it, and I found out just how quickly I could pull up when I need to. About half a car length. I ended up just touching my handlebar into the open door as I pulled up, which almost caused the passenger to wet himself. The stupid sod was in a hell of a hurry - he said sorry, and then bolted down the road. I presume he paid his fare, as he was in the backseat for quite a while whilst the taxi was stationery. Maybe he was arguing about the fare, or the lack of his money thereof to pay it. Whatever - he exited in enough of a hurry to almost ensure that he was flattened for this trouble.
Friday, 19 January 2007
So much for the safe route
When I cycle, I am always on the lookout for a safer route. Even roads that are supposedly cycle friendly can be death traps. This photo, taken on the way into town, shows part of Lilyfield Road. There is a bike lane down the side of the road, but halfway down the hill, there is a bus stop, and there are usually 2-3 bloody big buses parked in it and of course the bus area is not wide enough for a bus.
Duh.
So the big fat arsed buses stick out into the bike lane and no one in their right mind would stay in the bike lane and try and squeeze between the buses and a car. You'd end up being very squished.
The good thing about this bit of road is that it is fairly steep, so you can easily hit 50km/h going down it without trying too hard. Well, I can at least. Lot's of wimps just coast and then have problems when they try and merge into the traffic beside them that is going 50 km/h.
Anyway, I have recently taken to cycling around the Casino on the way home because it saves me crossing at a very nasty intersection near Darling Harbour. It is one of those wierd intersections that is quite safe when you are heading into town and a total death trap on the way home.
Going around the Casino was working out quite well until one night this week when I was sitting at some traffic lights at the entrance to the Casino car park, they went green, I took off and this bloody Chinese woman P-plater turned left in front of me - from the right lane - and had the temerity to beep as she went around me. I was too gobsmacked to give chase and give her a piece of my mind - I just couldn't believe it. Some people are so stupid, it makes my eyes water.
Making the perfect pizza dough
I have been trying for some time now - years in fact - to make the perfect pizza base at home. I have tried using different flours, such as several types of white flour, wholemeal flour, gluten and some wierd flours that we got from a health food shop. I have found that a 1/3 wholemeal to 2/3 plain flour is a good start, especially if some semolina is thrown in to add to the crunchiness (we all hate pizza with a soggy base). However, the bloody things never rise. They sit there like sheets of cardboard when cooked.
I was reading an article in the paper last week by a chef on the subject of bread making and he mentioned making a starter of just 100gms of flour, yeast and water and leaving that for some hours (or even overnight) before adding the remaining ingredients. I tried that, mixing it up in my mixing bowl and leaving it covered on the bench overnight.
The next day (which was a weekend), I made pizza for lunch.
The photos that I have attached show the results. The base was light and puffy with some huge air pockets in it. You could fit a ping pong ball in some of them. Clearly, using the starter was the best thing since... sliced bread. Plus, it gave the dough and incredible yeasty smell, which is something that I love.
The pizza itself was very basic - just bocconcini, basil and a bit of parmesan. I was out of the gooey cheese, so we just had a two cheese pizza. It was rather excellent. Only problem is that I am always short of basil these days. I had to buy a packet of seeds today in the hope that I can germinate 10 plants or so - that's how many we need to keep up with basil consumption.
Sunday, 7 January 2007
Ice Baird
I think I spotted Bruce Baird at Bondi this morning. It looked like he was preparing for the rough water swim. I wonder if he survived?
I used to see Peter Debnam running on the beach when I went down for an early morning swim before work. He's a fit looking sod.
Bruce is not.
I used to see Peter Debnam running on the beach when I went down for an early morning swim before work. He's a fit looking sod.
Bruce is not.
Bondi breakfast
I have pretty much given up on the Bondi Kiosk, so I have started going next door to Aqua Bar. It used to be two cafes next door to each other, but the other must have gone belly up as both are now combined into the one cafe, although they are still two premises.
I don't like it as much. The tables are small, so you can really only have 4 people for a meal. I don't mind as I am on my own most of the time, but it will be a problem when the whole family attends.
Still, I asked for poached eggs and crispy bacon, and they managed to do that without totally screwing it up. The coffee was not too bad. The service was a bit touch and go as my waitress spoke so softly, I couldn't hear and bloody word she said. Either that, or my ears were full of salt. Good thing I can partly lip read.
The worst thing about the place is that it is full of Paris Hilton wanna-be chicks. The Kiosk was great because the regular crowd were people like me - men and women of all shapes and ages who had been down for a good swim, and now wanted a good feed. It was the sort of place that you could sit there happily in your wet speedoes and no one would give a damn. Aqua Bar, as the name suggests, is a lot more pretentious. Women wear lipstick at Aqua, whereas at the Kiosk they just have wet hair.
I am now conflicted.
My choice was made simple this morning as Aqua did not have a free table, whilst the Kiosk was half empty. That is a bit of a turnaround. Aqua used to be half empty and the Kiosk would have a queue at the door. I queue for no one, so I ate at the Kiosk again today. I asked for crispy bacon, and didn't get it. Never trust a blonde waitress who can't remember what type of coffee you ordered.
The worst thing about this morning was the drive home. Due to the water temp, my balls were seriously frozen. When I sat in the car, they started thawing and were quite uncomfortable as they expanded back to their normal size and position. If I was swerving all over the road, you can blame thawing balls.
I don't like it as much. The tables are small, so you can really only have 4 people for a meal. I don't mind as I am on my own most of the time, but it will be a problem when the whole family attends.
Still, I asked for poached eggs and crispy bacon, and they managed to do that without totally screwing it up. The coffee was not too bad. The service was a bit touch and go as my waitress spoke so softly, I couldn't hear and bloody word she said. Either that, or my ears were full of salt. Good thing I can partly lip read.
The worst thing about the place is that it is full of Paris Hilton wanna-be chicks. The Kiosk was great because the regular crowd were people like me - men and women of all shapes and ages who had been down for a good swim, and now wanted a good feed. It was the sort of place that you could sit there happily in your wet speedoes and no one would give a damn. Aqua Bar, as the name suggests, is a lot more pretentious. Women wear lipstick at Aqua, whereas at the Kiosk they just have wet hair.
I am now conflicted.
My choice was made simple this morning as Aqua did not have a free table, whilst the Kiosk was half empty. That is a bit of a turnaround. Aqua used to be half empty and the Kiosk would have a queue at the door. I queue for no one, so I ate at the Kiosk again today. I asked for crispy bacon, and didn't get it. Never trust a blonde waitress who can't remember what type of coffee you ordered.
The worst thing about this morning was the drive home. Due to the water temp, my balls were seriously frozen. When I sat in the car, they started thawing and were quite uncomfortable as they expanded back to their normal size and position. If I was swerving all over the road, you can blame thawing balls.
It's summer right?
I missed having a swim at Bondi yesterday, but made it today. When I got there, I found that half the beach was closed off for a rough water swim. Normally, when they have some kind of carnival like this, it is impossible to park within cooee of the beach and the boardwalk in front of the North Bondi surf club is crowded with people. You can't get into a cafe for love or money.
I didn't notice any overcrowding in the cafes when I walked by from my usual parking spot in a back street close to the beach. The boardwalk was quite clear of bodies. There were not many people standing around on the sand (almost none in fact) and no one in the water having a warm up swim.
I soon found out why. As I strolled down to the water, a life saver asked me if I was going to be long as they were going to close off that park of the beach in 20 minutes to prepare for the race. Since I can't swim out of sight in a week at the moment, and the waves were breaking too close in for comfort, I doubted I would be 20 minutes.
When I hit the water, I found out why there were so few people around. Normally, the water temp is around 20 degrees. When I swam on the 1st or 2nd of July, it was still 19 or 20 degrees. Cold and miserable out of the water, but not bad in the water.
Today it was 16.
Almost froze my nads off. My forearms hurt when I put them in the water. I had trouble with my breathing when I stuck my head under. Through my goggles, it looked like my fingertips were going blue (they weren't). I gave up on the idea of a swim and caught a few tragic waves - essentially they dumped me in about 1 foot of water.
I struggled out of the water less than 5 minutes after I went in. I passed the life saver and she laughed a bit. She was how I found out what the water temp was.
As I was walking up to a cafe for breakfast, I heard an announcer on the tannoy giving instructions to the entrants. He said something about the cold and mentioned that if anyone got into trouble, they should just stick their hand up and wait for a rubber ducky or board to pick them up.
I think they would have been busy.
I didn't notice any overcrowding in the cafes when I walked by from my usual parking spot in a back street close to the beach. The boardwalk was quite clear of bodies. There were not many people standing around on the sand (almost none in fact) and no one in the water having a warm up swim.
I soon found out why. As I strolled down to the water, a life saver asked me if I was going to be long as they were going to close off that park of the beach in 20 minutes to prepare for the race. Since I can't swim out of sight in a week at the moment, and the waves were breaking too close in for comfort, I doubted I would be 20 minutes.
When I hit the water, I found out why there were so few people around. Normally, the water temp is around 20 degrees. When I swam on the 1st or 2nd of July, it was still 19 or 20 degrees. Cold and miserable out of the water, but not bad in the water.
Today it was 16.
Almost froze my nads off. My forearms hurt when I put them in the water. I had trouble with my breathing when I stuck my head under. Through my goggles, it looked like my fingertips were going blue (they weren't). I gave up on the idea of a swim and caught a few tragic waves - essentially they dumped me in about 1 foot of water.
I struggled out of the water less than 5 minutes after I went in. I passed the life saver and she laughed a bit. She was how I found out what the water temp was.
As I was walking up to a cafe for breakfast, I heard an announcer on the tannoy giving instructions to the entrants. He said something about the cold and mentioned that if anyone got into trouble, they should just stick their hand up and wait for a rubber ducky or board to pick them up.
I think they would have been busy.
Saturday, 6 January 2007
Can't bake, can't washup...
One big problem with the markets is that it is really hard to avoid impulse buying. You are in a huge hangar surrounded by lots and lots and lots of food. Some of it looks good. Some looks downright wierd. It all looks cheap. Not a trip goes by without me impulse buying a couple of items.
Last week it was passionfruit. I ended up with a bag full, which equates to a bit over a kilo. Now I like passionfruit, but eating a kilo suddenly looked really daunting when I got home.
Solution - bake a lemon cake and cover it with passionfruit syrup. I didn't make that up of course - thank Donna Hay.
So I whip up the cake and stuff it into the oven for 40 minutes as directed. At the end of 40 minutes, I stick a skewer into it and it comes out a bit gooey. So I give it 5 more minutes. Then another 5 minutes.
Then I find that I have overcooked the bugger. It's dry. No amount of syrup poured over the top will save it.
Only one solution - eat it with lots of runny cream. That seems to do the trick.
I feel like a bloated frog as a result.
Last week it was passionfruit. I ended up with a bag full, which equates to a bit over a kilo. Now I like passionfruit, but eating a kilo suddenly looked really daunting when I got home.
Solution - bake a lemon cake and cover it with passionfruit syrup. I didn't make that up of course - thank Donna Hay.
So I whip up the cake and stuff it into the oven for 40 minutes as directed. At the end of 40 minutes, I stick a skewer into it and it comes out a bit gooey. So I give it 5 more minutes. Then another 5 minutes.
Then I find that I have overcooked the bugger. It's dry. No amount of syrup poured over the top will save it.
Only one solution - eat it with lots of runny cream. That seems to do the trick.
I feel like a bloated frog as a result.
Blood jelly
I am not having much success in certain aspects of the culinary arts at the moment.
I have just tried to make plum jelly the old fashioned way. It does not involve opening a packet of Aeroplane jelly and tipping the crystals into hot water. Instead, you cut up some plums, add sugar, vanilla and water and boil for a while, then strain out the lumpy bits and add gelatine. It seems to be a lot of effort to make a few little jellies. The only thing that makes it feasible is that I was able to pick up plums at the markets for $2 a kilo. They were not great looking plums - Coles would never sell them - but they were perfect for chopping up for jelly.
I don't think I added enough gelatine - I now have stuff in the fridge that looks like partly congealed blood. Part of the recipe instructions say, "strain through fine muslin cloth", with the aim being to create a clear jelly. I don't have any fine muslin cloth, so I do not have a clear jelly. Like I said, it looks like gooey blood.
If they don't set, I am just going to add them to vodka and drink them.
I have just tried to make plum jelly the old fashioned way. It does not involve opening a packet of Aeroplane jelly and tipping the crystals into hot water. Instead, you cut up some plums, add sugar, vanilla and water and boil for a while, then strain out the lumpy bits and add gelatine. It seems to be a lot of effort to make a few little jellies. The only thing that makes it feasible is that I was able to pick up plums at the markets for $2 a kilo. They were not great looking plums - Coles would never sell them - but they were perfect for chopping up for jelly.
I don't think I added enough gelatine - I now have stuff in the fridge that looks like partly congealed blood. Part of the recipe instructions say, "strain through fine muslin cloth", with the aim being to create a clear jelly. I don't have any fine muslin cloth, so I do not have a clear jelly. Like I said, it looks like gooey blood.
If they don't set, I am just going to add them to vodka and drink them.
New Years Crap
One of the spectator points for the fireworks was quite near us at the end of Timbrell Park - the park backs up against the water, so you have an uninterupted view over the water towards the city and the big sky sparklers.
Hundreds of people turned up to yell and scream and generally yahoo on the night. I don't know why they bothered - the fireworks looked like little poof-poofs from where we were. Five Dock is just too far away. The only way to experience fireworks is to be right underneath the buggers, so that the noise is deafening and you get sprinkled with bits of exploded, burning firework. Of course the safety nazis don't allow that kind of thing anymore, so fireworks for me are about as much fun as mowing the lawn.
Anyway, on the 2nd I decided to have my first swim in the ocean for the year, and that involved driving past where all the yahoos had been carrying on. Surprise, surprise, the bay contained the largest floating slick of empty bottles that I have ever seen. It was like an aircraft carrier of crap. You'd almost need a small barge to scoop them all up.
Happy new year. Let's welcome it in by throwing crap everywhere. Yay!
Hundreds of people turned up to yell and scream and generally yahoo on the night. I don't know why they bothered - the fireworks looked like little poof-poofs from where we were. Five Dock is just too far away. The only way to experience fireworks is to be right underneath the buggers, so that the noise is deafening and you get sprinkled with bits of exploded, burning firework. Of course the safety nazis don't allow that kind of thing anymore, so fireworks for me are about as much fun as mowing the lawn.
Anyway, on the 2nd I decided to have my first swim in the ocean for the year, and that involved driving past where all the yahoos had been carrying on. Surprise, surprise, the bay contained the largest floating slick of empty bottles that I have ever seen. It was like an aircraft carrier of crap. You'd almost need a small barge to scoop them all up.
Happy new year. Let's welcome it in by throwing crap everywhere. Yay!
Kipper spuds
I have a nice collection of recipe books. Enough to fill an entire shelf about six feet long. Some of the fancier ones wax lyrical about kipfler potatoes, but I have no idea why. They're just spuds right? Plus I have had a gutful of celebrity chefs going on and on about this silly kipper potato.
There is a spud guy at the markets that sells nine different varieties of fancy spud. Yellow skins, purple skins, really dark purple skins and yes, the kipper potato. I have always turned my nose up at this celebrity spud, but relented last weekend in order to make a spud salad for new years eve.
The kippers are an odd looking spud - more like a sweet potato tuber than a normal round spud. I steamed them and then had a taste. What do you know - they are the king of spuds! Unbelievable.
The great thing is that the spud guy sells them for $3 a kilo, which is less than what I pay for ordinary mashing spuds at my local supermarket. So we're going to be eating kippers from now on, and I will be able to look down my nose at people that serve ordinary spuds.
There is a spud guy at the markets that sells nine different varieties of fancy spud. Yellow skins, purple skins, really dark purple skins and yes, the kipper potato. I have always turned my nose up at this celebrity spud, but relented last weekend in order to make a spud salad for new years eve.
The kippers are an odd looking spud - more like a sweet potato tuber than a normal round spud. I steamed them and then had a taste. What do you know - they are the king of spuds! Unbelievable.
The great thing is that the spud guy sells them for $3 a kilo, which is less than what I pay for ordinary mashing spuds at my local supermarket. So we're going to be eating kippers from now on, and I will be able to look down my nose at people that serve ordinary spuds.
Monday, 1 January 2007
Fireworks
We viewed the fireworks from the North Shore last night - the Cremorne foreshore. Normally, I'd never have attempted to get down there through the hordes, but friends have a house nearby so we had dinner there and then trotted down to the water.Having seen about 50 million fireworks in my time, I spent half the night fiddling with my camera trying to get some good photos. I failed utterly. The camera has a fireworks setting, which essentially means it leaves the shutter open for 2 seconds and that is it. I forgot to take my tripod, and there was not room to stand, let alone put the camera on something solid and shakefree. I had to make do with holding the camera and trying not to wobble too much.
Two or three photos came out like those above - a nice blob of colour. Next time they are lighting up the sky, I will take the tripod.
Sunday, 31 December 2006
Canoe
Since we live near the water, we have been thinking of buying a canoe for a while - something cheap on eBay. However, I have always wondered how we would get it from our backyard to the water.This photo shows the way ahead. A bike, a bit of rope and just tow it across the grass.
Near death at the markets
I went shopping at the Flemington markets yesterday. Can't fault the place - I did the grocery shopping for about a third of what it would cost me at the local supermarket.
The only problem with the markets is getting out of them alive. I had a good look yesterday and did not spot a single person with blonde hair. As far as the eye could see, the place was a heaving mass of Chinese and other ethnic types - those that are way to smart to shop at Coles. Good on them for spotting a bargain a mile off, but they should be forced to park a mile away from the place. There are cars constantly on the move looking for a parking spot or trying to get out, and the Chinese drivers just can't drive. You really take your life in your hands everytime you cross a road at the markets.
And never get in the way of a Chinese woman trying to do her shopping. A sharp elbow in the guts will be your only reward.
The only problem with the markets is getting out of them alive. I had a good look yesterday and did not spot a single person with blonde hair. As far as the eye could see, the place was a heaving mass of Chinese and other ethnic types - those that are way to smart to shop at Coles. Good on them for spotting a bargain a mile off, but they should be forced to park a mile away from the place. There are cars constantly on the move looking for a parking spot or trying to get out, and the Chinese drivers just can't drive. You really take your life in your hands everytime you cross a road at the markets.
And never get in the way of a Chinese woman trying to do her shopping. A sharp elbow in the guts will be your only reward.
Filthy poms
I say "filthy poms" in the expectation that Bondi will be overrun with poms celebrating the new year tonight. On the way back from the beach, I listened to an interview with a DJ who was playing at Bondi tonight, and of course he was a pom.
In previous years, the beach and surrounds have been a disaster area the morning after. No swim for me on new years day - I don't fancy walking down to the surf through a sea of beer bottles.
The council has prepared a bit better this year - the sea wall is lined with rubbish skips from one end of the beach to the other. Big bright yellow things. Somehow I get the feeling that they will not be well used by the revellers, who will just drop their crap on the ground where they stand.
New years eve becomes more of a pain in the arse with each passing year.
In previous years, the beach and surrounds have been a disaster area the morning after. No swim for me on new years day - I don't fancy walking down to the surf through a sea of beer bottles.
The council has prepared a bit better this year - the sea wall is lined with rubbish skips from one end of the beach to the other. Big bright yellow things. Somehow I get the feeling that they will not be well used by the revellers, who will just drop their crap on the ground where they stand.
New years eve becomes more of a pain in the arse with each passing year.
Take away coffee
On the way to Bondi this morning, I was stopped at a set of lights when I spied a pedestrian getting ready to cross. She was wearing exercise clothing, and was carrying a coffee in a cardboard takeaway container.
That is one bloody American import I reckon we can do without. I don't mind drinking coffee in the car when I'm on a long drive and I need a bit of stimulant, but I don't get this idea of walking around with a steaming cup in your hand. When I drink coffee, I like to sit down somewhere nice and drink it. I like the pleasure of whiling away 15 minutes or so in a cafe with a paper or some friends and just relaxing. There's nothing relaxing about running around with a takeaway - it just exudes "I'm a very busy person", which to me says "wanker". No one is too busy to stop once a day and just sit down and enjoy life.
I would support the greenies if they started a campaign to ban those stupid cardboard cups.
Then again, maybe not. Somehow I think that I don't want to sit in a cafe with the types of people that order takeaway. Maybe it is better to get rid of them and to send them out onto the street where they belong.
That is one bloody American import I reckon we can do without. I don't mind drinking coffee in the car when I'm on a long drive and I need a bit of stimulant, but I don't get this idea of walking around with a steaming cup in your hand. When I drink coffee, I like to sit down somewhere nice and drink it. I like the pleasure of whiling away 15 minutes or so in a cafe with a paper or some friends and just relaxing. There's nothing relaxing about running around with a takeaway - it just exudes "I'm a very busy person", which to me says "wanker". No one is too busy to stop once a day and just sit down and enjoy life.
I would support the greenies if they started a campaign to ban those stupid cardboard cups.
Then again, maybe not. Somehow I think that I don't want to sit in a cafe with the types of people that order takeaway. Maybe it is better to get rid of them and to send them out onto the street where they belong.
My Bondi mornings are rooted
I went back to the beach this morning for another nose clearing episode, followed by breakfast, and had my morning ruined by the Bondi Kiosk. The people running it now have definitely fiddled with things. I eschewed the Spanish omelette this morning and went for something really simple - poached eggs with mushrooms.
Problem number 1 - they were out of turkish toast, so I opted for some multigrain stuff. Personally, I think multigrain is only fit for feeding to birds. But it was that or nothing, so I went with it. The bread came out as a big, inch thick slab of dried ick. On the side was a little circlette of butter - enough to cover about half a slice of toast at Ethiopian diet thickness. The staff were too useless to ask for more, so I just put up with it.
Problem number 2 - the eggs were poached to within an inch of their life. I like my eggs gooey in the middle. When lightly poked, yellow stuff should explode out everywhere. The only way these things would have exploded is if they fell on a land mine. They were as hard as a hard boiled egg with the shell still on.
Then came the mushrooms. The Kiosk used to be the only place I ordered mushrooms due to the special way they cooked them. They used only small button mushrooms, and oven baked them with sweet Indonesian soy sauce and oregano. The result was delicious. The new mob have ditched that method, or the cook took his secret with him, and they are now just sliced and poached in butter. Sorry, but that is not for me.
The coffee was also not that great. The thing I like about lattes is that they are smoothe. They go down very easily. Not so the coffee this morning - it was a bit of a struggle to get it down. I didn't finish it, which is heresy.
So that is my last visit to the Kiosk. Unless it changes hands again, and I will give the new owners a go.
I now have to decide whether I can be bothered getting off my arse and writing them a letter telling them all the ways they have ruined my favourite breakfast haunt.
And to cap it off, there was no surf this morning. But at least my nose was 80% clear by the time I got out of the water. At least they can't bugger up the water.
Problem number 1 - they were out of turkish toast, so I opted for some multigrain stuff. Personally, I think multigrain is only fit for feeding to birds. But it was that or nothing, so I went with it. The bread came out as a big, inch thick slab of dried ick. On the side was a little circlette of butter - enough to cover about half a slice of toast at Ethiopian diet thickness. The staff were too useless to ask for more, so I just put up with it.
Problem number 2 - the eggs were poached to within an inch of their life. I like my eggs gooey in the middle. When lightly poked, yellow stuff should explode out everywhere. The only way these things would have exploded is if they fell on a land mine. They were as hard as a hard boiled egg with the shell still on.
Then came the mushrooms. The Kiosk used to be the only place I ordered mushrooms due to the special way they cooked them. They used only small button mushrooms, and oven baked them with sweet Indonesian soy sauce and oregano. The result was delicious. The new mob have ditched that method, or the cook took his secret with him, and they are now just sliced and poached in butter. Sorry, but that is not for me.
The coffee was also not that great. The thing I like about lattes is that they are smoothe. They go down very easily. Not so the coffee this morning - it was a bit of a struggle to get it down. I didn't finish it, which is heresy.
So that is my last visit to the Kiosk. Unless it changes hands again, and I will give the new owners a go.
I now have to decide whether I can be bothered getting off my arse and writing them a letter telling them all the ways they have ruined my favourite breakfast haunt.
And to cap it off, there was no surf this morning. But at least my nose was 80% clear by the time I got out of the water. At least they can't bugger up the water.
Saturday, 30 December 2006
Crusty pizza
A new pizza parlour has opened up in our neighbourhood - it is called Crust, and it is a gourmet pizza establishment. You can tell it is gourmet by the price - a large pizza is $20.
We decided to try them out the other night. Well, I decided to try them out as it has been ages since I have eaten a smoked salmon pizza. The last one was one I made myself, and I had this idea in the back of my mind that a gourmet place should be able to do a better salmon pizza than moi.
So I drove up to the shop, placed my order and sat back to watch the crew make pizza. The shop layout is quite simple - it is purely takeaway, and the counter that you order at is where they make the pizza. Two blokes stand there behind glass putting on the toppings and then it is fed into a conveyor oven. You can see the entire manufacturing process right there in front of you.
A few things stuck in my mind as I sat there on my trendy red cube watching things happen.
For starters, they had a fancy roller doo-dad for rolling out the dough. One bloke stood there and fed a lump of dough into the top and a lovely round pizza base popped out the botton. I was gobsmacked. Rolling out dough usually takes me a few minutes per base when I get the dough right, which is about 1 in 5 occasions. I don't want one - there is no room for it in our house.
The next step was smearing on the tomato sauce. One bloke was doing that, and he was really working at it. I just spoon a few blobs onto the base and whizz it around with the back of a spoon, but he was concentrating on it so hard that I figured he was a plasterer during the day. Each base was perfectly covered with an even layer of sauce by the time he was finished. When you think about it, he was wasting lots of time. When you eat a pizza, do you really care if the sauce is evenly spread?
After that, it went to the topping guys. They had lots of fancy pizzas, which you can lookup at www.crust.com.au. I watched them make a few dozen, as they were fulfilling orders that were phoned in. One that stuck in my mind was a Morocan pizza. It was topped with spicy lamb mince, and the bloke that was making it layered it on about an inch thick. Then the owner turned up, took one look at it and told the guy off for spreading it too thin! He proceeded to lay on another half inch or so. I was stunned - I think less is more when it comes to pizza, and these guys were totally into more-more-more. My salmon pizza ended up with several packets of salmon on it. It was too much - way too much. I ate half the pizza when I got home and binned the rest.
I also ordered a vegetarian, and that didn't go down well either. The vegies were shoveled on half a foot thick, and they weren't cooked very well.
They did get the crust right though - it was very good. Pity everything above the crust was such crap. Well, not crap, but certainly not worth $39 for two pizzas. I was really disappointed.
I also worked out that something was missing from the salmon pizza - sour cream. Thankfully I had some in the fridge, and that improved the pizza by about 500%. I normally also put caviar on my salmon pizza, but they weren't that fancy.
In the end, I decided that I can make over twice as many pizzas for the same money, and make them better. Which is a bugger, as it means I have to cook them from now on. No more takeaway pizza for us.
We decided to try them out the other night. Well, I decided to try them out as it has been ages since I have eaten a smoked salmon pizza. The last one was one I made myself, and I had this idea in the back of my mind that a gourmet place should be able to do a better salmon pizza than moi.
So I drove up to the shop, placed my order and sat back to watch the crew make pizza. The shop layout is quite simple - it is purely takeaway, and the counter that you order at is where they make the pizza. Two blokes stand there behind glass putting on the toppings and then it is fed into a conveyor oven. You can see the entire manufacturing process right there in front of you.
A few things stuck in my mind as I sat there on my trendy red cube watching things happen.
For starters, they had a fancy roller doo-dad for rolling out the dough. One bloke stood there and fed a lump of dough into the top and a lovely round pizza base popped out the botton. I was gobsmacked. Rolling out dough usually takes me a few minutes per base when I get the dough right, which is about 1 in 5 occasions. I don't want one - there is no room for it in our house.
The next step was smearing on the tomato sauce. One bloke was doing that, and he was really working at it. I just spoon a few blobs onto the base and whizz it around with the back of a spoon, but he was concentrating on it so hard that I figured he was a plasterer during the day. Each base was perfectly covered with an even layer of sauce by the time he was finished. When you think about it, he was wasting lots of time. When you eat a pizza, do you really care if the sauce is evenly spread?
After that, it went to the topping guys. They had lots of fancy pizzas, which you can lookup at www.crust.com.au. I watched them make a few dozen, as they were fulfilling orders that were phoned in. One that stuck in my mind was a Morocan pizza. It was topped with spicy lamb mince, and the bloke that was making it layered it on about an inch thick. Then the owner turned up, took one look at it and told the guy off for spreading it too thin! He proceeded to lay on another half inch or so. I was stunned - I think less is more when it comes to pizza, and these guys were totally into more-more-more. My salmon pizza ended up with several packets of salmon on it. It was too much - way too much. I ate half the pizza when I got home and binned the rest.
I also ordered a vegetarian, and that didn't go down well either. The vegies were shoveled on half a foot thick, and they weren't cooked very well.
They did get the crust right though - it was very good. Pity everything above the crust was such crap. Well, not crap, but certainly not worth $39 for two pizzas. I was really disappointed.
I also worked out that something was missing from the salmon pizza - sour cream. Thankfully I had some in the fridge, and that improved the pizza by about 500%. I normally also put caviar on my salmon pizza, but they weren't that fancy.
In the end, I decided that I can make over twice as many pizzas for the same money, and make them better. Which is a bugger, as it means I have to cook them from now on. No more takeaway pizza for us.
Iced coffee
I found out this week how to make a really bad iced coffee.
For months now, I have been making it at home with instant coffee and the results have not been that bad. Not great, but drinkable.
On the way back from the country last week, we visited some friends who are a long way from the nearest cafe, so they have an expensive, whizz-bang coffee maker in their kitchen, and they buy in deluxo beans from somewhere. I was in need of some coffee for the last push into town, so I thought I'd make an iced coffee using a short black from this superb coffee machine as the base.
Well that was a blunder. As it turned out, it made really bloody awful iced coffee, and it needs full fat milk, not the skim rubbish that they had in their fridge. For some reason, iced coffee has to be made with el-cheapo crapo instant coffee. It doesn't even need to be fancy instant coffee. Well ok, I have not tried making it with that really, really cheap muck that comes in a tin, but fancy beans are a waste of time when you are going to ice it.
Who would have thought that?
For months now, I have been making it at home with instant coffee and the results have not been that bad. Not great, but drinkable.
On the way back from the country last week, we visited some friends who are a long way from the nearest cafe, so they have an expensive, whizz-bang coffee maker in their kitchen, and they buy in deluxo beans from somewhere. I was in need of some coffee for the last push into town, so I thought I'd make an iced coffee using a short black from this superb coffee machine as the base.
Well that was a blunder. As it turned out, it made really bloody awful iced coffee, and it needs full fat milk, not the skim rubbish that they had in their fridge. For some reason, iced coffee has to be made with el-cheapo crapo instant coffee. It doesn't even need to be fancy instant coffee. Well ok, I have not tried making it with that really, really cheap muck that comes in a tin, but fancy beans are a waste of time when you are going to ice it.
Who would have thought that?
Friday, 29 December 2006
Saint Bob
I think I will write to His Holiness, The Pope and ask him to nominate Bob Geldof for sainthood.
In Somalia, the recently ousted Islamisists are complaining that the invading Ethiopian Army are crusaders (as they are Christian).
The Somalians have been trounced partly by Ethiopian air power, which includes a stack of aircraft bought from Russia in the 1990's. I read somewhere that they spent $US250 million after being whacked around by the Eritreans.
Live Aid reportedly raised $US280 million. Hmm, I see some symmetry in those numbers. Bob Geldof raises money from the West to re-equip the military of a Christian country. That Christian country then invades a muslim country, sparking off accusations of a crusade. Crusade is quite succesful so far.
In that case, Sir Bob should be made a saint for financing the first succesful crusade in about 900 years. Never figured him for a muzzie whacker.
In Somalia, the recently ousted Islamisists are complaining that the invading Ethiopian Army are crusaders (as they are Christian).
The Somalians have been trounced partly by Ethiopian air power, which includes a stack of aircraft bought from Russia in the 1990's. I read somewhere that they spent $US250 million after being whacked around by the Eritreans.
Live Aid reportedly raised $US280 million. Hmm, I see some symmetry in those numbers. Bob Geldof raises money from the West to re-equip the military of a Christian country. That Christian country then invades a muslim country, sparking off accusations of a crusade. Crusade is quite succesful so far.
In that case, Sir Bob should be made a saint for financing the first succesful crusade in about 900 years. Never figured him for a muzzie whacker.
How should pancakes be cooked?
We have a small difference of opinion in our household about pancakes. If I want to eat pancakes, I have to whip up and cook my own as no one else will eat them. Conversely, if J cooks them, I find them inedible. It's amazing that something made out of milk, eggs and flour could turn out so differently depending on who is making them.
I usually avoid pancakes when eating out. They're usually thick, cold and covered in 10 types of crap that I don't want. I like to nibble on what someone else has bought, but I could never chew my way through a meal of them on my own. Yes, I like whipped cream and berries and maple syrup, but I like them in small amounts. I don't like a huge mountain of the stuff strewn over a pile of cold, rubbery pancakes. It looks good and goes down like a wet dish cloth.
Me, I like them plain and simple. Eggs, flour and milk, beaten to a thin, non-lumpy consistency. When poured into the frying pan, the mix should immediately head for the four corners of the pan (metaphorically). They should be cooked in butter over a medium heat - not so hot that the butter burns, which is just plain yuk. It goes without saying that they can only be flipped once, and I normally flip when the top has dried out (ie, no more wet stuff sitting around in puddles). If the mix is good and the pan the right temperature, bubbles should form all over the surface of the uncooked side.
Once flipped, I don't like to cook them for too long. I hate them to be dark brown. Just a nice, light shade of tan will do me fine. If the mix is not too thick, they will be cooked all the way through. If the mix is like tar and the pancake is half an inch thick, you need to blacken them on the outside before the inner bits stop being raw.
Once cooked, straight onto a plate for dusting with sugar, sprinkling with freshly squeezed lemon and then rolled up and eaten straight away. No pancake should sit on a plate for more than half a minute. Any more than that, and they start to cure like rubber.
The only option for me is maple syrup, and I usually work my way through a stack with 75% sugar/lemon and 25% syrup.
J goes the other way. She throws a stack of cinnamon sugar into the mix, and cooks them in oil. I fry pork chops in oil, but never pancakes. Each to their own. I guess it is like how some people are folders and some are scrunchers. You can never convince someone else to change.
I usually avoid pancakes when eating out. They're usually thick, cold and covered in 10 types of crap that I don't want. I like to nibble on what someone else has bought, but I could never chew my way through a meal of them on my own. Yes, I like whipped cream and berries and maple syrup, but I like them in small amounts. I don't like a huge mountain of the stuff strewn over a pile of cold, rubbery pancakes. It looks good and goes down like a wet dish cloth.
Me, I like them plain and simple. Eggs, flour and milk, beaten to a thin, non-lumpy consistency. When poured into the frying pan, the mix should immediately head for the four corners of the pan (metaphorically). They should be cooked in butter over a medium heat - not so hot that the butter burns, which is just plain yuk. It goes without saying that they can only be flipped once, and I normally flip when the top has dried out (ie, no more wet stuff sitting around in puddles). If the mix is good and the pan the right temperature, bubbles should form all over the surface of the uncooked side.
Once flipped, I don't like to cook them for too long. I hate them to be dark brown. Just a nice, light shade of tan will do me fine. If the mix is not too thick, they will be cooked all the way through. If the mix is like tar and the pancake is half an inch thick, you need to blacken them on the outside before the inner bits stop being raw.
Once cooked, straight onto a plate for dusting with sugar, sprinkling with freshly squeezed lemon and then rolled up and eaten straight away. No pancake should sit on a plate for more than half a minute. Any more than that, and they start to cure like rubber.
The only option for me is maple syrup, and I usually work my way through a stack with 75% sugar/lemon and 25% syrup.
J goes the other way. She throws a stack of cinnamon sugar into the mix, and cooks them in oil. I fry pork chops in oil, but never pancakes. Each to their own. I guess it is like how some people are folders and some are scrunchers. You can never convince someone else to change.
What a way to crap up Christmas
My flu bug finally seems to be on the way out the door. Might even be able to remount the bike next week and pedal into work on the first work day of 2007. Just one annoying thing to get rid of, and that is the bucket of snot that is still stuck up my nose. I have been coughing and sneezing this gunk out for two weeks, and it shows no sign of abating.
So I pulled out the number one ace snot cure this morning - a trip to the beach. The best snot cure seems to consist of getting dumped in a big surf half a dozen times, but alas, that was not to be this morning. There were waves, but the ocean was like a large washing machine and the waves were uncatchable. I had to make do with swimming to and fro in the chop and blowing out hunks of green goo every now and then. I really needed to catch a few waves and inhale some salt water up my nose as I am still a bit clogged. I don't know what it is about body surfing that puts so much water up your nose. Maybe once you catch a good wave you don't notice all the spray hitting your face and going up your snoz. Whatever it is, body surfing is the only truly effective nasal clearance technique.
No swim at Bondi is complete without a good breakfast, and I have been looking forward to returning to the Kiosk for 6 months. I haven't swum since June or July, and I have been missing the place. Last time I ate there, it had just been bought out by a guy who went to my school. I had a long chat with him the day after he signed the papers and he swore he wasn't going to tamper with the place too much. I continued to go back month after month, and the only thing that changed were the staff as they slowly rotated. However, the replacements were a good bunch - friendly, good hearted and chatty. The cook thankfully remained the same, so the food wasn't screwed up.
Then I walked in the door this morning after a 6 month absence and the decor had changed. Some stuff behind the bar had changed slightly as well - but not enough to make a big difference. The big change was the staff - the cook was nowhere to be seen, and not one of the staff was familiar. To cap it off, there was a really thickset older woman doing the serving, and a silly young chinese thing with too much rouge taking orders. If there was one constant at the Kiosk, the staff were attractive. Not stunning, but attractive. Male or female. Apart from the cook, they all looked like they had risen at dawn, run along the beach and then been for a swim. They were fit and toned.
The new lot looked like a bunch of rejects from The Biggest Loser. I looked around in vain for a familiar face, and then noticed that the menu had changed. The items were still the same, but the format was new.
Uh oh.
Ordering used to be easy. I'd sit at the bar and the cook would yell out, "Spanish or eggs", meaning did I want a Spanish omelette or poached eggs with mushrooms. The barista would simply plop a latte in front of me. All that is now a fond memory. After 10 minutes, I finally managed to catch one of the staff and give my order. I sat there reading the paper, waiting for my coffee to arrive. I read the first section of the SMH - no coffee. I read the "Drive" section. No coffee. I read the sports section - no coffee. I re-read the front section, and then breakfast arrived.
Uh oh, fucked it up and got the order wrong. I did not order plain scrambled eggs. Back to the kitchen with that lot.
Coffee finally arrives.
After re-reading some more sections of the paper, my Spanish omelette arrives.
It was dry and distinctly lacking in taste. The coffee was a bit burnt and bitter.
Bugger bugger bugger. The only thing that hadn't changed was the price. And it isn't worth it.
Thankfully, there are two completely adequate cafes next door that I have tried from time to time, so I only have to relocate about 20 feet. I might give them a second go in the morning, since I figure I still have a bit more snot to go. Today could have just been a bad day - Christmas rush and all that.
For their sake, I hope so.
So I pulled out the number one ace snot cure this morning - a trip to the beach. The best snot cure seems to consist of getting dumped in a big surf half a dozen times, but alas, that was not to be this morning. There were waves, but the ocean was like a large washing machine and the waves were uncatchable. I had to make do with swimming to and fro in the chop and blowing out hunks of green goo every now and then. I really needed to catch a few waves and inhale some salt water up my nose as I am still a bit clogged. I don't know what it is about body surfing that puts so much water up your nose. Maybe once you catch a good wave you don't notice all the spray hitting your face and going up your snoz. Whatever it is, body surfing is the only truly effective nasal clearance technique.
No swim at Bondi is complete without a good breakfast, and I have been looking forward to returning to the Kiosk for 6 months. I haven't swum since June or July, and I have been missing the place. Last time I ate there, it had just been bought out by a guy who went to my school. I had a long chat with him the day after he signed the papers and he swore he wasn't going to tamper with the place too much. I continued to go back month after month, and the only thing that changed were the staff as they slowly rotated. However, the replacements were a good bunch - friendly, good hearted and chatty. The cook thankfully remained the same, so the food wasn't screwed up.
Then I walked in the door this morning after a 6 month absence and the decor had changed. Some stuff behind the bar had changed slightly as well - but not enough to make a big difference. The big change was the staff - the cook was nowhere to be seen, and not one of the staff was familiar. To cap it off, there was a really thickset older woman doing the serving, and a silly young chinese thing with too much rouge taking orders. If there was one constant at the Kiosk, the staff were attractive. Not stunning, but attractive. Male or female. Apart from the cook, they all looked like they had risen at dawn, run along the beach and then been for a swim. They were fit and toned.
The new lot looked like a bunch of rejects from The Biggest Loser. I looked around in vain for a familiar face, and then noticed that the menu had changed. The items were still the same, but the format was new.
Uh oh.
Ordering used to be easy. I'd sit at the bar and the cook would yell out, "Spanish or eggs", meaning did I want a Spanish omelette or poached eggs with mushrooms. The barista would simply plop a latte in front of me. All that is now a fond memory. After 10 minutes, I finally managed to catch one of the staff and give my order. I sat there reading the paper, waiting for my coffee to arrive. I read the first section of the SMH - no coffee. I read the "Drive" section. No coffee. I read the sports section - no coffee. I re-read the front section, and then breakfast arrived.
Uh oh, fucked it up and got the order wrong. I did not order plain scrambled eggs. Back to the kitchen with that lot.
Coffee finally arrives.
After re-reading some more sections of the paper, my Spanish omelette arrives.
It was dry and distinctly lacking in taste. The coffee was a bit burnt and bitter.
Bugger bugger bugger. The only thing that hadn't changed was the price. And it isn't worth it.
Thankfully, there are two completely adequate cafes next door that I have tried from time to time, so I only have to relocate about 20 feet. I might give them a second go in the morning, since I figure I still have a bit more snot to go. Today could have just been a bad day - Christmas rush and all that.
For their sake, I hope so.
Thursday, 28 December 2006
Country salad
Country folk might know how to grow food, but they certainly can't cook it. I find eating in country cafes to be the worst culinary experience possible, and I have eaten in the back streets of Hong Kong and spent many years at boarding school. Country cafes are the epitamy of that old "Odd Angry Shot" saying about Army cooks - they are fitters and turners. They fit food into pots and turn it into shit.Thankfully, things are changing slowly. Junee now has a place that serves edible food on plates. They also have a burger shop that sells good burgers, but they are sold in paper bags rather than plonked onto plates.
I was so impressed, I had to take a photo. The salad was not going to win any Golden Plate awards, but given that it consisted of carrot, cucumber, tomato, lettuce and beetroot, it was quite amazingly excellent. It actually had a good dressing that didn't taste like oven cleaner. Call me stunned, but it was good.
Clean out your paddocks
I am yet to meet a farmer with a clean farm. There is always a dumping ground somewhere with all sorts of rusting crap piled up gathering cobwebs.Well, there's money in crap. We stopped at an antique shop at Wallendbeen (of all places) and their front yard was full of stuff like this. Painted on it are two words - "sold" and "$195".
Old rusting tractor wheels were fetching $10 to $40 and an old lawn roller was on offer for $40.
Unbelievable.
It's all thanks to sir Bob
I see in the paper today that Ethiopia has invaded Somalia and whipped the Koran lovers. Part of the reason is that Ethiopia has quite an airforce, mainly equipped with reasonably modern Russian fighters and ground attack aircraft. Apparently they spent $250 million on new planes back in the 1990's.
I guess we can thank Live Aid for that. Good on your Sir Bob - you helped equip a Christian country with the modern weapons that it needs to conduct a crusade against the Muslim hordes.
Hope he chokes on a tofu cake when he reads that.
I guess we can thank Live Aid for that. Good on your Sir Bob - you helped equip a Christian country with the modern weapons that it needs to conduct a crusade against the Muslim hordes.
Hope he chokes on a tofu cake when he reads that.
Too many crystals and not enough deoderant
We've just had a week in the country, visiting the in-laws about 6 hours south-west of Sydney. A normal drive would be six hours, but we took to the backroads shortly after Yass and stuck our nose into all the little country towns along the way. The highway lets you see little but a selection of McDonalds and KFC and advertisements for truck insurance. It's nice if you are in a hurry to get anywhere, but who is ever in a hurry to visit the in-laws?
Just off the turnoff to Harden is a little town called Bowning. It is only about 2 kms off the Hume, and I have been through it many times before on work trips. I normally zip through it at the speed limit as there never seemed to be anything worth stopping for. On the way down, we did pass something worth stopping at - a gallery called "Bigsky", but I was so shocked at seeing something we should stop for, I forgot to hit the brakes and next thing you know, we were out of town. Made a mental note to stop on the way back.
Which we did. The gallery is owned by a yank called Troi. No, I have not mustyped Troy - all his stuff was signed Troi. It's like "Tiffany" with 3 "i's" and 2 "n's". He was a well-inked individual - both his arms were totally covered in tattoos, as was one leg down to his ankle. He seemed like a very relaxed kind of bloke - nothing Hell's Angel about him. The artwork was nice - no skulls with dripping candles perched on them etc. Some of it looked quite Japanese. Interesting.
We ended up buying a vase to replace one that I broke recently. The big selling point for me was that it had a very heavy base, meaning that it is very hard to tip over. I'm sure the colours are nice too.
Next to the vases was a bit of blurb about the artist. I read one paragraph and that was enough for me. It said that he learnt how to paint vases whilst in residence in an artists colony at Uki or Oki in the 1970's. Got no idea where that is - I thought Oki was a brand of printer.
A few words stuck though - "1970's" and "artists colony". A nice phrase for "hippy commune". As Jeremy Clarkson would say, "wierd beards".
J put it nicely - "too many crystals and not enough deoderant".
Just off the turnoff to Harden is a little town called Bowning. It is only about 2 kms off the Hume, and I have been through it many times before on work trips. I normally zip through it at the speed limit as there never seemed to be anything worth stopping for. On the way down, we did pass something worth stopping at - a gallery called "Bigsky", but I was so shocked at seeing something we should stop for, I forgot to hit the brakes and next thing you know, we were out of town. Made a mental note to stop on the way back.
Which we did. The gallery is owned by a yank called Troi. No, I have not mustyped Troy - all his stuff was signed Troi. It's like "Tiffany" with 3 "i's" and 2 "n's". He was a well-inked individual - both his arms were totally covered in tattoos, as was one leg down to his ankle. He seemed like a very relaxed kind of bloke - nothing Hell's Angel about him. The artwork was nice - no skulls with dripping candles perched on them etc. Some of it looked quite Japanese. Interesting.
We ended up buying a vase to replace one that I broke recently. The big selling point for me was that it had a very heavy base, meaning that it is very hard to tip over. I'm sure the colours are nice too.
Next to the vases was a bit of blurb about the artist. I read one paragraph and that was enough for me. It said that he learnt how to paint vases whilst in residence in an artists colony at Uki or Oki in the 1970's. Got no idea where that is - I thought Oki was a brand of printer.
A few words stuck though - "1970's" and "artists colony". A nice phrase for "hippy commune". As Jeremy Clarkson would say, "wierd beards".
J put it nicely - "too many crystals and not enough deoderant".
Thursday, 21 December 2006
Il Cortile
Just had a feed at a newly discovered Italian restaurant in Balmain called Il Cortile. It was touch and go for a while as to whether we could go out, given the sniffles and all, but we blew our noses and cleared our throats and made a night of it.
Il Cortile is a bit of a strange "discovery", given that it is right next door to Circle, where I eat once a week. I have been walking past it for a year at least and have never noticed it. So much for making your presence felt!
J found the place during the week when she was doing a walkabout for her kiddies guide book. That involved going door to door to most businesses and trying to get them to sign up for entry in a book that she is publishing about kiddie friendly places in our area. Her work has already paid off, as Il Cortile was a great place to go.
For starters, it is just the right size. Not too big and not too small. There is a nice garden area out the front, but it was too windy tonight to sit there. There is also a nice little courtyard out the back with a fountain and some fish in it, but the place was too quiet for them to open it up. It has a great big fuck-off pizza oven - you could roast half an ox in it if required. It also has an open kitchen, which is great for those that want to see what is going on. Unfortunately, we were right next to it, and my back was to it, and I got pretty bloody hot as a result. However, that did not detract from the night.
The food was very good all round. The wine list looked good as well. I had a beer soaked pork belly on a "crumpet" of kumera and apple, and it was marvelous, swimming in a mushroom sauce. Magnificent. Better than most 5 star restaurants would do. Succulent, tasty and not too much of it.
Between everyone else, we also had a vegie stack (excellent), fish cakes (excellent), callamari rings (very good). The callamari rings came with a very nice little spicy tomato sauce which looked home made, and they didn't skimp on it.
For mains, I had a veal parmigana type thing (I don't think I can spell it). It was very simple, but very good. The best I have ever had. It was a bit of a tester dish - if they could do something that simple very well, then they could cook anything well. It is like testing a place with fish and chips - if you can't fry fish and chips properly, you should be in a different line of work.
The rest had a vegie pizza of some sort (so good, the uneaten half was taken home in a doggie bag), a steak with blue cheese sauce (it seemed to be wolfed down, so it couldn't have been too bad) and a salmon steak of some sort for the "fishy" vegetarian. There were no complaints. The plates were very bare at the end.
I could have called it quits after the main course, but we just had to try dessert. We shared two chocolate mousse between the six of us, and that was probably one too many. The rest of the food must have been very good as the only quibbles were about the mousse - it had been sitting in a display cabinet for a while and had developed a slightly rubbery skin. I didn't mind it at all. It was good mousse - not the best mousse (L'angelo does better), but it was good. Worth having again.
The service was quite good and the staff were more than happy for the little monkey to run around the place causing non-destructive havoc. The nice thing is that it had good atmosphere - Monkey visited most of the tables around us and charmed the pants of the other patrons. One bloke was so impressed at how much fun we were having, he came past for a chat and gave us $2! Unbelievable.
I'm definitely going back. We had a short yarn with the owner, Christine, who informed us that the place had been going for about 10 years and her and her daughter had owned it for a year or two. The do breakfast on Sundays, so we are going back after Christmas for a morning feed.
The entrees were all around the $14 mark and the mains around $18. The pizzas were all about $15 - an absolute bargain for the quality. Dessert was $10, with fancy desserts going for $14.50.
I'd class it as a better than average place with lower than average pricing. The food was simple, but of great taste and quality.
Big thumbs up.
Il Cortile is a bit of a strange "discovery", given that it is right next door to Circle, where I eat once a week. I have been walking past it for a year at least and have never noticed it. So much for making your presence felt!
J found the place during the week when she was doing a walkabout for her kiddies guide book. That involved going door to door to most businesses and trying to get them to sign up for entry in a book that she is publishing about kiddie friendly places in our area. Her work has already paid off, as Il Cortile was a great place to go.
For starters, it is just the right size. Not too big and not too small. There is a nice garden area out the front, but it was too windy tonight to sit there. There is also a nice little courtyard out the back with a fountain and some fish in it, but the place was too quiet for them to open it up. It has a great big fuck-off pizza oven - you could roast half an ox in it if required. It also has an open kitchen, which is great for those that want to see what is going on. Unfortunately, we were right next to it, and my back was to it, and I got pretty bloody hot as a result. However, that did not detract from the night.
The food was very good all round. The wine list looked good as well. I had a beer soaked pork belly on a "crumpet" of kumera and apple, and it was marvelous, swimming in a mushroom sauce. Magnificent. Better than most 5 star restaurants would do. Succulent, tasty and not too much of it.
Between everyone else, we also had a vegie stack (excellent), fish cakes (excellent), callamari rings (very good). The callamari rings came with a very nice little spicy tomato sauce which looked home made, and they didn't skimp on it.
For mains, I had a veal parmigana type thing (I don't think I can spell it). It was very simple, but very good. The best I have ever had. It was a bit of a tester dish - if they could do something that simple very well, then they could cook anything well. It is like testing a place with fish and chips - if you can't fry fish and chips properly, you should be in a different line of work.
The rest had a vegie pizza of some sort (so good, the uneaten half was taken home in a doggie bag), a steak with blue cheese sauce (it seemed to be wolfed down, so it couldn't have been too bad) and a salmon steak of some sort for the "fishy" vegetarian. There were no complaints. The plates were very bare at the end.
I could have called it quits after the main course, but we just had to try dessert. We shared two chocolate mousse between the six of us, and that was probably one too many. The rest of the food must have been very good as the only quibbles were about the mousse - it had been sitting in a display cabinet for a while and had developed a slightly rubbery skin. I didn't mind it at all. It was good mousse - not the best mousse (L'angelo does better), but it was good. Worth having again.
The service was quite good and the staff were more than happy for the little monkey to run around the place causing non-destructive havoc. The nice thing is that it had good atmosphere - Monkey visited most of the tables around us and charmed the pants of the other patrons. One bloke was so impressed at how much fun we were having, he came past for a chat and gave us $2! Unbelievable.
I'm definitely going back. We had a short yarn with the owner, Christine, who informed us that the place had been going for about 10 years and her and her daughter had owned it for a year or two. The do breakfast on Sundays, so we are going back after Christmas for a morning feed.
The entrees were all around the $14 mark and the mains around $18. The pizzas were all about $15 - an absolute bargain for the quality. Dessert was $10, with fancy desserts going for $14.50.
I'd class it as a better than average place with lower than average pricing. The food was simple, but of great taste and quality.
Big thumbs up.
Wednesday, 20 December 2006
Fucking broken parking meters
Balmain is one of those suburbs where the parking meters are thick on the ground - so thick, they look like an invasion of Daleks. Most of the time though, if you can be bothered parking one street back from the main drag, you can avoid the meters.
When we lunched today though, we found that the backstreet was metered. So I went to the first meter, plugged in some coins and it refused to issue a ticket. It also refused to give me back my $2. It just sat there with a "smart cards now accepted" message on its face and did not respond to any input.
Useless pile of crap.
Knowing how evil the parking inspectors are, I went to another meter and fed it my remaining $3 in change. It seemed to accept it quite happily, but also refused to issue a ticket. Sounded like it was out of paper.
Each machine had a lovely label on it saying, "in case of problems, call this number and quote the machine ID". Of course I had not taken my mobile with me, as I was totally uninterested in taking any work related calls, given that my head was partially splitting from a headache.
It's time like those that I wish I had a large sledgehammer in the car. I was worried that if I didn't call the fault in, some bastard would come past and issue me with a ticket. But I was stuck, so we said what the hell and had lunch.
And returned to find a windscreen devoid of tickets. I think I would have gone postal at the Balmain council offices if I had been issued a ticket.
If councils want to take your parking money, they can at least ensure that the bloody meters are in proper working order.
Useless sods.
When we lunched today though, we found that the backstreet was metered. So I went to the first meter, plugged in some coins and it refused to issue a ticket. It also refused to give me back my $2. It just sat there with a "smart cards now accepted" message on its face and did not respond to any input.
Useless pile of crap.
Knowing how evil the parking inspectors are, I went to another meter and fed it my remaining $3 in change. It seemed to accept it quite happily, but also refused to issue a ticket. Sounded like it was out of paper.
Each machine had a lovely label on it saying, "in case of problems, call this number and quote the machine ID". Of course I had not taken my mobile with me, as I was totally uninterested in taking any work related calls, given that my head was partially splitting from a headache.
It's time like those that I wish I had a large sledgehammer in the car. I was worried that if I didn't call the fault in, some bastard would come past and issue me with a ticket. But I was stuck, so we said what the hell and had lunch.
And returned to find a windscreen devoid of tickets. I think I would have gone postal at the Balmain council offices if I had been issued a ticket.
If councils want to take your parking money, they can at least ensure that the bloody meters are in proper working order.
Useless sods.
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