A WEEK OF QUESTIONS

It has been a big week of eating, but it has been one that has left me asking questions:

1. Why isn’t more pate used in sandwiches here? For example, a mortadella sandwich but with pate in it.

2. Why isn’t the Vietnamese mayonnaise on banh mi sold at the supermarket, like Kewpie? I feel like we are missing out on a world of possibility.

3. Why isn’t there more collaborative dinners between Indian and Burmese chefs? They truly work well together.

4. Why isn’t pavlova rolled more often? The best thing about Swiss roll can be applied to meringue too.

5. Why is it so good to go to a place where they know your name? We all know the answer to being a local with the chef serving up your favourite dish as soon as you walk in the door (roast pork noodles are a case in point).

6. Why isn’t there more spiced rolls? I understand the pleasures of cinnamon, but why not allspice, nutmeg, saffron, or some combination of all of them.

7. Why isn’t cheese included in the default setting of bacon and egg rolls? They add moisture, and, the best kind of mouth feel.

And that is my week in eating and questioning with thanks to K and SD.

UNIVERSITY STRAWBERRY LAMINGTON

As readers of this blog may be aware, I do like to reflect on the ordinary moments of eating today. This is about the mundane, the close at hand, the banal, and all as a way to help us understand contemporary identity, place, and belonging. In Perth, the banal often means the suburban, which is the dominant lifestyle here. The suburbs sprawl from north to south, peeling along the coast for kilometres on end, hemmed in by the ocean to the west and the scarp to the east. This is the ordinary as it manifests here.

I think there are lots of reasons why the close at hand matters. It might not only be the challenge of thinking about what is immediately around us, but it might also have to do with what we can afford, the idea of the normal, and the celebration of those moments that go unnoticed. The glue of life, the substance that binds it together like flour or egg or sometimes rice, is the everyday, and, it is worth celebrating for that reason alone.

A lot of my everyday takes place at a local university, where I do some teaching in an arts department. I am on campus four days a week, and, besides my desk at home (where I am writing to you from) it is the place I am most often in. There are a number of food options that are on campus or nearby, including international food courts with Japanese, Malaysian (2 kinds), Lebanese, Italian, Chinese, fish and chips, and, an American burger place; cafes that look out across the river with birds flocking and boats crowding the immediate view; and there are places at the university itself. This last group includes a tavern, a number of food trucks, a couple of student dominated clusters, and, a club for faculty only. There is also a café at the library, where I often refuel, because of location and selection.

I will often catch up with students or staff at the library café, Quobba Gnarning. I do not drink coffee, and, I usually only have one cup of tea each day. But, I do not offer that digression up out of piousness, but simply to point out that when I ‘meet for a coffee’ I am often drinking something else. Quobba Gnarning has recently put milo on the menu, and, I think my students are pleasantly surprised when they discover that it is my hot beverage of choice. It helps them comes to terms with authority, which is, I think, one of the major changes between school and university. I am not there to discipline them, at least not in the way they have come to expect, but rather to educate them within a discipline, which is to say cultivate a way of thinking that comes with a sense of tradition.

The other day, there I was catching up with a prospective honours student, having ordered a milo. In his twenty two year old wisdom, he was having a long mac (no judgement). And, out of the corner of my eye I spied something that I had not seen in the cake cabinet before. As you will have guessed, this was a strawberry lamington. It must be said, that this is not my preferred flavour of lamington. That would belong to the classic chocolate one, but decked out with a thin layer cream and raspberry jam in the middle. Nevertheless, I persisted. I did what any university lecturer, and someone willing to lead by example, would do. I ordered the strawberry lamington to go with my milo. I had to show my student what was ahead of him if he continued to study at such a venerable institution.

The lamington itself was disappointing – the icing was a little chewy, and not in a desirable ‘this has Q’ kind of way, but more that it had been in the fridge a little long. The sponge was fair enough and the flavour rock solid gold. It succeeded in nostalgia factor despite making me a little sick and without the need to get another one for a long while. And yet, it brought with it a certain comfort, if not joy, that in the small break in the day one could holiday in the return of youth and celebrate something so ordinary. That is not a bad outcome for $2.90 not matter the day.

CHICHO GELATO

‘A hard earned thirst calls for an ice-cold gelato. Choose Chicho Gelato.’ That is what I think should be on every billboard on Perth, maybe a jingle on the local radio, perhaps even a short spot on community television. I came to this conclusion as I hit the end of the working week. As you might know, early starts and the 9-5ish grind are not my normal operating hours. This week I had a couple of extra classes at the uni so had to adjust when I got out of bed. But, I was happy. I like teaching and it brings a sense of satisfaction to know that you have earned your crust giving students something to think about. I try to make my classes safe for everyone, and, we have all kinds of people in there – kids from religious minorities, kids transitioning, kids up from the country. And they come to us to learn about literature, and, in the process about themselves, life and the world. It is a privilege to engage with them. But, that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy my self when I finish up for the day, week or year.

I have friends in the public service and corporate sector, and, without fail, they go out on Friday after work. They are not drowning their sorrows but celebrating the wins they have had and the fact they get to spend the weekend sleeping in or taking their kids to sport or having a sausage sizzle somewhere in the sun. For the most part, I work by myself, with freelancers and academics, and, there is not really a culture of end of work drinks. That makes the rituals more individual, and, this week, I found myself at a late meeting with a community partner in Northbridge. I was done for the week but they were all coming back to the office tomorrow. I was an hour from home by public transport, and, I had a cornucopia of delights right there in front of me. What would I do?

I thought about a beer at any one of the local watering holes from Mechanics Institute to Bivouac to PICA Bar. And, I love them all for dipping into. Then I thought maybe a cheeky pani puri from Sauma down the road, but I am off to Bombay in a month, and decided it was better to hold off until I was in the heartland for that stuff. Then I wondered about some sushi as a snack as I walked to the train station on my way home. It all did not cut the mustard. Drinking alone is not something I want to get into, nor late-in-the-day sushi when dinner will be on the table soon. It also needs to feel like a celebration. 

What else to choose but gelato?

Chicho is, hands down, my favourite gelato in the Perth metro. I might even think it is the best I have had in Australia. When I lived in Melbourne, I had some very memorable moments at Messina in Fitzroy. And when Pidapipo came to Carlton down the road I gave it a red hot go. But Chicho is home. I often go at odd hours – just when they open for a brunch gelato by myself, right after work as people are racing to make their commute, before a theatre show. I am often served quickly and with good humour. This is partly what makes them special. It suggests the attentiveness and care that go into everything they do. From the design to the décor to the Instagram, I find myself thinking, hey, they must really like gelato. They show me what is possible. They lead me towards what is good, and every now and then, you need to be reminded of the fact that there is world class quality right on your doorstep.

For my knock off gelato, I ordered a scoop of this month's collaboration gelato, Pineapple Lumps. This was made with input from Albany chef Amy Hamilton who runs the kitchen at Liberté. I have never had the Kiwi lolly it is named after, so I cannot compare it to that. But it was delicious. It has chocolate crackle bits, chocolate bits, pineapple swirl, creamy gelato. And it is topped with a wafer that has pineapple sherbet inside. It all comes together into a messy good time, a way of taking the essence of pineapple, summer, fun into your mouth all at once. All I can think is that this is the way to celebrate the end of the working week. Gelato is living. Chicho is living. This is living.    When I was a child, my uncle used to tell me that he would buy me an ice cream when he won lotto. That day never came, but we ate ice cream together down by the wharf in Fremantle on more than one occasion. That same uncle liked a knock off beer as well, but here, all I can think of is that he would love this Pineapple Lumps just as much, if not more. And that surely is more than we can ask for from anyone who is serving up happiness for the same amount as it takes to ride the bus home. And the dusk fell and the birds rose to the sky and all was right with the world. More gelato for all! More Chicho to quench a hard earned thirst. Come with me next time I go.

MISS MAUD

When I was a child growing up, we used to visit Miss Maud’s at Floreat Forum. I would always order a ‘Tiny Tots And Not So Tiny’. From memory, it was a ham sandwich cut into triangles with world flags planted in it, potato crisps, fairy bread, a drink, and a small toy (say, a parachuting man or something like that). It was a treat for us, and, in my memory, Miss Maud was a special institution in a suburb nearby. I’ve always had fond memories of it. I still do.

Recently, K and I were walking past Miss Maud’s in Perth City. This is their flagship restaurant in the Murray Street location. It looks like some sort of Alpine Family Robinson getaway with soft lighting and maroon carpets out of place in some later century with its faux lead-light of Vikings and wooden outside. We passed it and K was intrigued. I went on to explain the historical importance of the chain and to express my nostalgia as well. We pledged to come back, if only because Perth is short of local institutions.

It took us a month or so before we got round to going to Miss Maud. We had brought it up with friends over lunch and they said they wanted to go too. One of them was from Perth, and, like me, had long and fond memories of the restaurant. His partner was from overseas, and had lived here for five years and always wanted to go. Miss Maud had caught her eye just like it had with K. It was unique and attractive in some idiosyncratic way. These friends were about to head off to New York to live for the next few years. Of course, they would be back every now and then, but Miss Maud seemed like the kind of place you could go for a celebratory last meal. It would be a place to say farewell, a place to remember Perth by as well. It was closing down too, so it seemed like a fitting tribute to make to this place.

It was Friday evening when we went, and, as always, the Swedish smorgasbord buffet was laid out before us. I was in trouble just by looking at it. I had been sick the day before with stomach pains and a feeling of flatness. The only thing I ate was a chicken and veggie noodle soup with plenty of ginger. In fact, it had been a shithouse week and I had been copping it for some bad writing. I deserved most of what came up, but some of the criticism went a little too far. But, thank god it was Friday and thank god I was at Miss Maud. I had a few items I didn’t think I could stomach but, there was a  (somewhat shitty) cornucopia on offer and I was up for it all.

Let’s begin where the food begins – I wanted the seafood and the cold cuts and the roasts and the cheese and the cakes and the drinks and the whole buffet in my mouth, all at once. I wanted it now, but from experience I knew that I had to pace myself. It would be better to be here for a long time, to go at it slow and steady, with some sort of method, rather than just piling it all on. I wondered if I should have a sample of everything there and then just focus in on what was best. That is my usual buffet tactic, but then you often had a bite of something that you knew was always going to be terrible. This all looked terrible, in the best possible way.

Here, I am reminded of a story my old supervisor used to tell when I was studying at the University of Pennsylvania. She was researching the CIA’s activities during the Second World War and how they had employed librarians to be spies who took a lot of archives from Europe when it looked like it was all going to burn overnight. She told me that the Americans were indiscriminate in what they took – sending back shipping containers full of documents that the Library of Congress is still going through to this very day. The British on the other hand only took what they thought was the best. They were selective in what they were going to save. We could assume there is something important about national character in this, a quantity and quality argument about the way to approach what is on offer. Australia often thinks of itself as a combination of America and Britain, and though I do not subscribe to that view, I do think there is something in approaching a buffet that learns from the two.

In remembering that now, I thought, right here, before me, I had better approach all that food with caution. It was not that I wanted the most of what was best, as though maximum quantity of top-most quality would make the best eating experience. It goes without saying that I did not want the opposite – minimal quantity with terrible quality, which might not have even been possible. Rather, it is that you learn what is a good amount to eat and what tastes good to you once you have to make your way through the archive, world, buffet as it is laid out before you. You simply make do with the possibility depending on where your nose leads and what your friends are interested in. And so I had to choose. Would it be prawns or oysters? Would it be ham or salami? Would it be Princess Cake or Black Forrest? Or would it be all of that?

I ate two oysters, three prawns, three slices of ham, two slices of salami, some pasta salad, some potato salad, four roast potatoes, two roast carrots, a spoonful of cauliflower cheese, two slices of roast lamb, two slices of beef brisket, a slice of Black Forest Cake, a slice of Princess Cake, a cup of Irish Breakfast tea, and a piece of garlic bread, in that order. It was all bad quality and very overpriced. The live keyboard player was having a go at it and the wait-staff were friendly. But, we could sense the reason why the place was closing down. Capitalism had won this round. 

The Princess Cake was the consolation prize. I remember it as being delicious and it still is. I was eating the past more than anything else. It was a moment where you thank the gods above and the ancestors past for putting this Swedish restaurant here to help introduce us to a world of food that touches the heart. I would not change that moment, not for the world if only because our friends were there. I will remember sharing this sweetness as I say bon voyage to them on their way to New York. They must know that they can return to eat with us anywhere, for now and forever. I'll miss those guys more than Princess Cake and all the buffets in America. Let’s eat together sooner rather than later.