I recently had the pleasure of spending two glorious weeks exploring the sapphire coast (southern NSW). It was, overall, a truly wonderful experience, with the small exception of spending 4 nights in a house we were pretty sure must have been built on some sort of sacred burial ground.
Over the course of the two weeks, we spent a LOT of time eating oysters, from all over (all Sydney Rocks of course, as this is the specialty of the region). From the Clyde River in Bateman's By, to the lovely Wagonga Inlet in Narooma, Smithy's Oysters from the Bermagui River and the amazing Tathra Oysters farmed in pristine Nelson's Lake in Mimosa Rocks National Park (mmmmmm, mimosas). Of all the delicious bivalves we sampled, these were the absolute stand out - creamy, piquant and utterly divine. Seriously, we were consuming at least two dozen of these every day we were in Tathra (10 days in total). Melbourne restauranteurs take note - evidently Rockpool are the only local establishment clued up enough to be selling these little treasures.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
The anti-midas touch.
My whole life, I seem to have been surrounded by those irritatingly marvellous people who can find a fridge empty of anything but some wilting spinach and an ornery looking lemon and turn them into a steaming bowl of awesomeness. It is unlikely that I would ever be mistaken for one of them. In fact, I seem to have the reverse affliction. I could spend a fortune on the best of everything in some fancy pants providore and still manage to turn it into something not so fabulous. Not bad, exactly, just totally 'meh'.
A short list of other things I won't ever be described as/mistaken for:
A short list of other things I won't ever be described as/mistaken for:
- Sporty
- Busty
- Immaculately groomed
- Teetotaller
Luckily for me, Beef Cheeks posseses that gourmet midas touch in spades. So much so that I am prepeared to give him the chance to try and turn me on to porridge.* Stay tuned.
* A childhood aversion - mum forced me to eat it almost every day for breakfast in winter. Even the word makes me gag.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
The breakfast of my discontent.
Dear Dino's Deli,
It with deep sadness that I write this missive. I so wanted us to be friends! After all, I've had such delightful fun with your big sister, Hairy Canary! Even your awkward sibling (who, though quite attractive, does have a touch of middle-child syndrome) Canary Club has provided warmth and respite (and booze and olives) on a wintery Melbourne eve. So it goes without saying that I thought that my new neighbour would find a special little place in my heart.
Alas, from the moment I walked in the door on easter sunday morning, I knew this was not to be. Though the manager at the coffee machine berating one of his underlings in front of the customers did not bode well, we strode through and sat ourselves down, our ravenous hunger at this point still over-riding the sinking feelings we were soon to experience.
Beef Cheeks (my beloved) and I scanned the menu, taking turns to sip at the (single) glass of water we had been provided. Rather puzzling, though we weren't so disgruntled as to say something at this point as the two waitresses looking after us seemed so unnerved by their bullying superior as to be positively quivering. We did not wish to upset them any further.
Having selected a fried egg with sides of mushrooms and house-made beans (for me) and scrambled eggs with smoked salmon (Beef Cheeks), we began the anxious wait. At this point we were prepared to overlook the fact that BC had been served a short black instead of a short mac. We were still being good natured about the single glass of water. Hell, we didn't even grimace when the frightened little thing who was one of our waitresses asked us if we were ready to order yet didn't have a pen or pad at her disposal to take said order. No, it really wasn't until I discovered that there wasn't any tea listed under the beverage section of the menu that my blood began to boil. No tea? Huh? When questioned about this, I was told, through a chewed lip and apologetic expression "um.....i think we have earl grey?". By this point my tea-less rage was such that I was unable to answer, just gape. She scurried off.*
Seething (well, me, anyway), we waited. We spoke only in whispers, so tense was the atmosphere. We observed several groups of people come in and sit down, only to leave after 10 minutes having been completely ignored by staff.
Suddenly, a blessed vision! Food! Coming towards us! We grasped our cutlery in excited anticipation, desperately wanting to be won over by delicious breakfast feasting. It was clear as soon as the plates were set in front of us that this was not to be. My shrivelled fried egg sat, unanchored by butter, on a dry, unappetising and barely golden piece of toast. The mushrooms, limping around the edge of the plate, pointed me sadly to a small petrie like dish of "house-made beans" which tasted supiciously, in my opinion, like heinz ham flavoured baked beans. Perhaps not even quite that appetizing.
BC's was no better. Rubbery scrambled eggs (though it has to be said, they were generous....we estimated that at least six eggs must have been involved to create that volume) lovelessly piled on more unbuttered toast. A side of smoked salmon, dry, fridge-cold and completely undressed. A request was made for butter. The young lady bequeathed with this urgent task ambled off slowly to the kitchen. I watched her stand at the pass and deliver the message. And then wander, zombie-like, back in our direction. And straight past us. I was terribly confused. Surely such a simple request could be actioned immediately? Apparently not. We waited, our meals growing cold before us, for at least another 5 minutes until finally the butter arrived. It was, unsurprisingly, cold and diffcult to spread. We ate our terrible meal. I vowed silently (and then rather loudly to BC, after we had made our exit), never, ever to return. Ever.
Fast forward to a month later. It is a balmy autumn evening and BC and I are strolling merrily down Chapel Street, having just consumed a delightful selection of dim sum and quite a bit of excellent chardonnay at Oriental tea house. We are looking for somewhere to have one last drink (haha) on the way home and I am beginning to complain about the rather deperate need to empty my bladder. BC, rosy with wine, and so much more forgiving than I, suggests we give you one more try, seeing as we are so near by. I am not overly thrilled with the idea but my bladder is insisting, so I agree. BC sits out the front and I go looking for a bathroom. I look. And I look. I can find no-one to tell me. I look upstairs (und stumble upon renovations...I wonder what you're doing up there?) , I look downstairs. Finally, I decide to use the handicapped loos and nearly keel over from the dreadful smell.
When I return, BC is still sitting, folorn and menu-less, out the front. Staff have walked past him to take out rubbish and to chat with one another, but no-one has offered him...well, anything, actually. We leave, disappointed but not surprised.
So Dino's, it would seem that you and I are not destined to be friends at all. I am shocked and saddened that someone whose family has been such a success in the past (a stalwart, some might say) could be such a disappointment this time around.
And shame on you about the tea.
Regards,
Betty
*This is something that I find constantly upsetting. Seriously, are us tea-drinkers chopped liver? It's not so hard. I'd like to point out, too, a number of vessels that we don't wish to sip our tea from:
It with deep sadness that I write this missive. I so wanted us to be friends! After all, I've had such delightful fun with your big sister, Hairy Canary! Even your awkward sibling (who, though quite attractive, does have a touch of middle-child syndrome) Canary Club has provided warmth and respite (and booze and olives) on a wintery Melbourne eve. So it goes without saying that I thought that my new neighbour would find a special little place in my heart.
Alas, from the moment I walked in the door on easter sunday morning, I knew this was not to be. Though the manager at the coffee machine berating one of his underlings in front of the customers did not bode well, we strode through and sat ourselves down, our ravenous hunger at this point still over-riding the sinking feelings we were soon to experience.
Beef Cheeks (my beloved) and I scanned the menu, taking turns to sip at the (single) glass of water we had been provided. Rather puzzling, though we weren't so disgruntled as to say something at this point as the two waitresses looking after us seemed so unnerved by their bullying superior as to be positively quivering. We did not wish to upset them any further.
Having selected a fried egg with sides of mushrooms and house-made beans (for me) and scrambled eggs with smoked salmon (Beef Cheeks), we began the anxious wait. At this point we were prepared to overlook the fact that BC had been served a short black instead of a short mac. We were still being good natured about the single glass of water. Hell, we didn't even grimace when the frightened little thing who was one of our waitresses asked us if we were ready to order yet didn't have a pen or pad at her disposal to take said order. No, it really wasn't until I discovered that there wasn't any tea listed under the beverage section of the menu that my blood began to boil. No tea? Huh? When questioned about this, I was told, through a chewed lip and apologetic expression "um.....i think we have earl grey?". By this point my tea-less rage was such that I was unable to answer, just gape. She scurried off.*
Seething (well, me, anyway), we waited. We spoke only in whispers, so tense was the atmosphere. We observed several groups of people come in and sit down, only to leave after 10 minutes having been completely ignored by staff.
Suddenly, a blessed vision! Food! Coming towards us! We grasped our cutlery in excited anticipation, desperately wanting to be won over by delicious breakfast feasting. It was clear as soon as the plates were set in front of us that this was not to be. My shrivelled fried egg sat, unanchored by butter, on a dry, unappetising and barely golden piece of toast. The mushrooms, limping around the edge of the plate, pointed me sadly to a small petrie like dish of "house-made beans" which tasted supiciously, in my opinion, like heinz ham flavoured baked beans. Perhaps not even quite that appetizing.
BC's was no better. Rubbery scrambled eggs (though it has to be said, they were generous....we estimated that at least six eggs must have been involved to create that volume) lovelessly piled on more unbuttered toast. A side of smoked salmon, dry, fridge-cold and completely undressed. A request was made for butter. The young lady bequeathed with this urgent task ambled off slowly to the kitchen. I watched her stand at the pass and deliver the message. And then wander, zombie-like, back in our direction. And straight past us. I was terribly confused. Surely such a simple request could be actioned immediately? Apparently not. We waited, our meals growing cold before us, for at least another 5 minutes until finally the butter arrived. It was, unsurprisingly, cold and diffcult to spread. We ate our terrible meal. I vowed silently (and then rather loudly to BC, after we had made our exit), never, ever to return. Ever.
Fast forward to a month later. It is a balmy autumn evening and BC and I are strolling merrily down Chapel Street, having just consumed a delightful selection of dim sum and quite a bit of excellent chardonnay at Oriental tea house. We are looking for somewhere to have one last drink (haha) on the way home and I am beginning to complain about the rather deperate need to empty my bladder. BC, rosy with wine, and so much more forgiving than I, suggests we give you one more try, seeing as we are so near by. I am not overly thrilled with the idea but my bladder is insisting, so I agree. BC sits out the front and I go looking for a bathroom. I look. And I look. I can find no-one to tell me. I look upstairs (und stumble upon renovations...I wonder what you're doing up there?) , I look downstairs. Finally, I decide to use the handicapped loos and nearly keel over from the dreadful smell.
When I return, BC is still sitting, folorn and menu-less, out the front. Staff have walked past him to take out rubbish and to chat with one another, but no-one has offered him...well, anything, actually. We leave, disappointed but not surprised.
So Dino's, it would seem that you and I are not destined to be friends at all. I am shocked and saddened that someone whose family has been such a success in the past (a stalwart, some might say) could be such a disappointment this time around.
And shame on you about the tea.
Regards,
Betty
*This is something that I find constantly upsetting. Seriously, are us tea-drinkers chopped liver? It's not so hard. I'd like to point out, too, a number of vessels that we don't wish to sip our tea from:
- Coffee cups
- Glasses
Tea cups are where it's at, people.
Dino's Deli - 34 Chapel St, Windsor
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