MOSMAN PARK SEAFOODS

Tonight I had two serendipitous food wins (and that is even without counting a sublime mulberry granita topped with cream that I snuck in before an afternoon meeting). The first was an impulse buy that involved no food at all, but a little keyring charm made by two enterprising twelve year olds who were hustling counterside at the local pizzeria. You can see the merch below and you can find out more at Craft Freaks. All power to them. It made me reflect on the fact that I had a few of my own hustles before I began my first job, which was at Pizza Hut when I was 13. Before that, I would wash cars in the neighbourhood, sell the occasional lemonade, mow lawn; exactly what you would expect growing up in the suburbs. I had a close friend who always sold eggs, and, street parking on the weekends in football season. He always had the most cash amongst us, and, this was before he got into dealing basketball cards.

The second food win was actually about food, and, for that I have to thank Mosman Park Seafoods. K and I have recently moved into the neighbourhood and are housesitting a place with river views for the summer. We are getting used to the lifestyle of the rich and anonymous, which includes the restaurants on offer. The other day we enjoyed some good lunchtime tacos down the road at Piggy in North Fremantle (photograph included as evidence). They were $5 each, which is about the right price for us. And, truth be told, we do not go out that much. I like to cook and host at home, and, we have great lemon trees, a healthy herb garden, and plenty of greens that go into big salads. For regular readers, you might have the wrong idea if you read this regularly, and could think that I have an unbalanced diet without enough veggies. And, my many vegan friends would be truly, and rightfully, appalled if they saw Food Blog as representative of what I ate as a whole. My home cooking is not like this, which brings me to point out that eating out means eating things you cannot cook at home, which brings me to Mosman Park Seafoods, which is the local fish and chip shop in between the IGA and the BWS.

The décor is wonderful, the family who own and run it are friendly, and the serves are generous. It is well priced and very quick. On a busy Sunday night, we got our food within ten minutes, and, for under $20 that meant minimum chips, two pieces of fish, two prawns, two squid rings, two scallops, two mussels, two hash browns, and a serve of tartar sauce. They had it billed as a ‘fisherman’s dinner for one’, but I thought it would be better to think of it as a seafood sampler for two. It was that big. The batter was golden and crunchy, not too thick or thin, the fish was fresh, and the prawns were perhaps the best I have had at this kind of establishment. When I reflected on it, with a full belly, I could not help but feel warm inside. I was happier for it, and, I imagined what might come next from Mosman Park Seafoods. Here, I thought of simply ordering fish so I could make my own tacos instead, with slaw and samphire and fingerlime; or, maybe just a cheeky $4 of chips to share with friends when we walk down to the jetty. The possibilities are endless, especially if you feel like contributing to the meal, meeting take away halfway with home cooking. And, perhaps, that is all you can ask of anything, or anyone, that you meet them in the middle so that everyone is better for it. 

TRANG'S IN GIRRAWHEEN

In one narrative, a narrative that is often forgotten, Perth is a suburban place. There was a moment when suburbia was thought of and spoken about – think Donald Horne’s The Next Australia, Robyn Boyd’s The Australian Ugliness, Patrick White’s Season at Sarsparilla (and I have written on this elsewhere). But, right now, there is something happening in the suburbs. There always is, but it has different inflection points, different moments of historicity, different people who take the narrative and make it their own. I am interested in articulating the distinctions, intersections, and possibilities of the suburbs. I say that as someone who grew up in them, has affection for them, and reflects on what I like about them and what they might become. After all, suburbia is where a lot of people live, and there are good and bad things about that. Right now though, small bars are popping up, there are social media savvy hipsters turning Willagee, Myaree, Scarborough, and elsewhere, into destinations worth living in no matter who you are. Young families are moving in and making the place their own – more cosmopolitan in some cases, more beautiful, more suburbanist in the true sense of that word.

I was thinking of the suburbs, and all this, when friends of ours, A. and C., invited me over for a meal near where they live, in the northern suburbs. I had an aunt who lives nearby, in Noranda, and when I was younger we used to play soccer out this way. Weekend sport, that great ritual of a suburban childhood, took me all over the city – from Rockingham in the south to Joondalup in the north to Kelmscott in the east. We used to come near here too, to Girrawheen, and, I always got the sense that each suburb had its own culture, its own idiosyncrasies that mattered for the people who lived there and the soccer teams we played against.

Tonight, I drove over and we hung out at their place, having a couple of after work beers, before we drove to the restaurant they had spoken of. They lived about fifteen minutes from this shopping square, which was dominated by Vietnamese businesses from the pharmacy to the money transfer to the butcher. Out of the three restaurants, we were there for Trang’s, which my friend’s assured me was the friendliest and tastiest of the lot.

After driving through dark suburban streets that were silent, we came upon a packed dining room filled with local families talking loudly, slurping noodle soup, and spending time with each other at the close of the working week. It felt like stepping into another, more secret world. There were peanuts on the table, a little gift upon entry, and tea waiting as well. Chris ordered entrees for us, and, together we had wontons and spring rolls, crispy on top of lettuce leaves, and with sweet chilli, tangy dipping sauce. I ordered, as I am want to do at Vietnamese restaurants, a pork chop with broken rice. As you may recall from my Tra Vinh post, it also comes with fried egg, meatloaf, shredded pork, pickles, soup. In comparison to that one, this was a little porkier, the flavours a touch heavier, in a good way, more reminiscent of a tropical place. I also tried some stir-fry beef, which was seared to perfection, and came with herbs mixed through it. It was simple, top quality, food.

In thinking about Trang’s though, what struck me was how it constituted a local. It was a neighbourhood place and people were heading out on a Friday night. And it was packed to the gills when we arrived at 7:30, but by 8:15 we were the only ones left there. And that might be what it is to eat in the suburbs, to have a certain rhythm that is expected, to fall into routines that are demanded of working regular hours and living for the weekend. In any case, it is a cultural experience and not only as a slice of Vietnamese-Australian life, but of what the suburbs can offer to being satisfied. It brought with it an earnest type of hope that we might enjoy being here with a fundamental sense of eating our way to heaven.

YARRI

It was K and my first wedding anniversary on the weekend. This time last year, we tied the knot and had a special lunch with close family and friends in Melbourne. Now, we were down south (or out west depending on your co-ordinates) and had been gifted a dinner out on the town. We made our way to the other end of the Cape, driving from Redgate to Dunsborough for a meal at Yarri.

Yarri is the latest venture from acclaimed local chef Aaron Carr. I was very fond of his tenure at Vasse Felix, which for reasons of nostalgia, proximity and quality remains a favourite place for a winery lunch. I was interested to see what he was up to here behind a suburban shopping car park. Would it live up to his reputation? Was it doing something new or was the engagement with Indigenous provenance simply a marketing tactic that did not extend beyond a name on the menu? Was it yummy?

Without a booking, we got there early and the friendly staff were kind enough to accommodate us at the bar. The interior is modern Australia from a coastal orientation – there are industrial accents in the lights and the leather banquettes, but the light rammed earth lets one know that one is saltwater country (in case you forgot to look at the peppermints just out of view or taste the breeze as you walk in). The subtle shades of green add to the ambience and the relaxed atmosphere is punctuated by funky tunes (Parliament, James Brown, Tina Turner). If they wanted to be consistent, it might have worked with Men At Work, Midnight Oil, Yothu Yindi on the radio. Needless to say, the mash up is pleasant enough rather than strictly formal.

We order a rose from Snake and Herring, relax into our seats and order some bar snacks. There are no time limits given we are at the bar. We are celebrating, let’s take some time to settle in – the corn and red capsicum croquettes are delightful even if they do not set the world on fire; and the snack mix is decent. Things really get going, when we get our second carafe and order from the main menu – scallops with Jerusalem artichoke; local marron with saltbush; barramundi with heirloom tomatoes; burnt cabbage with miso. It is all quite delicious – the balance and depth of flavour are good, the combination of textures works well, the servings are generous. But is it worth writing home about?

I think I have answered this question in the very beginning of this piece. As a second effort after Vasse Felix, I can see where it comes from even though I miss Carr’s cooking from that place. Since then, it seems a little less precise or refined despite the similar price. As an expression of this place, it attempts to embrace Indigenous gastronomic traditions, which is popular here from Wildflower to Fervor, and nationally with Attica and Quay, and finds its correlate in Noma and DOM. But, here it seems like an affect, simply a gloss that cashes in on the moment rather than deep knowledge, long engagement and genuine commitment. To my mind, the best chef for that is still Iskov. That matters not only for the politics of food, but also for taste itself. Nowhere else can I highlight this then in their respective marron dishes with the Fervor one being far superior in terms of portion, deliciousness and technique. That is where we come to the last consideration. As a dinner that is yummy, Yarri is great. It is tasty without being mind-blowing and it will be entered fondly into memory because of the occasion.

The true test is whether I would come back again, and to answer that question, I am not so sure. I would return to sit at the bar for a glass of wine and to share a dessert, perhaps after dinner at the Dunsborough Chinese Restaurant just around the corner. The dessert K and I shared was the best dish we had – dulce, passionfruit ice cream, Geraldton wax, pastry. It was sweet and citrusy, creamy and cleansing. It was a high note to end the evening on. Without the gift, we would never have experienced Yarri and I am glad that it is what it is. We will return when the occasion merits it knowing we are in for good service, yummy food and an earnest engagement with its place in the world.

SUBURBAN LIFESTYLES

I love chicken curry, crayfish, dialectical gastronomy, avocado on toast, and my home suburb. It is not false nostalgia that makes me proud to be from Wembley. The experiences I had there were warm and welcoming and are even better in reflection. Nowhere was this clearer than in the food I shared with friends growing up.

I went to a truly multicultural school - Ethiopians, Filipinos, Anglos, Noongars, Vietnamese, Chinese, Malaysians, Lebanese, Zambians. It was majority white to be sure, but for the most part people got along and I always enjoyed my sport, my pop culture and my eating as a way to bring people together. You were just as likely to get a lamb chop for dinner at a friend’s place as you were to chow down on nasi goreng.

Some days, a group of us would ride bikes around Lake Herdsman watching the flocks of migrating birds and keeping a lookout for snakes on the path; other days we would head to the video game parlour to play Street Fighter, Mortal Kombat and Mario Cart. Between those two poles was where we truly felt at home, that was what it was to grow up in the suburbs, to be in between. We were not lost in the middle or angry or disappointed with our lot. To grow up there was a true pleasure. We could build bridges to the cities anywhere in the world and to the country on our doorstep. That, surely, is the hope of being a suburban person, to make a home of both while always embracing where you live now.

Since I was a child, Wembley has changed – the quarter acre blocks that were normal have been replaced by townhouses and duplexes, there are less tress, the low income housing down the end of my street has soared in value and priced people out, the light industrial area nearby has been demolished to become a new estate. This is a mixed blessing, but it is what it is. Wembley has changed from being middle class to resolutely blue chip, but it still is suburban by any definition.

The suburbs are a lifestyle. This is not only about class or race or gender alone, but a way of thinking about the world that brings those things together. Many of my sister’s friends have bought houses in Wembley and when I ask them why they like it, they say they moved there ‘for the lifestyle’. In particular, they like its closeness to the beach, the spaciousness of the houses, the possibility of doing renovations themselves. In short, they like it because it accommodates their aspirations and their dreams. Lifestyle is something we need to think about and care for, something that helps us consider consumption, the home, education, work, leisure, in short all the things that life has to offer. Part of that is food, what we buy and cook, what we grow ourselves, where we eat out for date night. In Wembley, you can buy great fresh produce and all kinds of ingredients, you can have a good veggie patch, and there are so many places to dine.

On one stretch there is an Indian restaurant, a vegan pantry, a patisserie, a small bar, an Australian burger place, a gourmet home meal take away, an old Italian cafe. Further up, there is a 24 hour supermarket, a cheese toastie stand, an American burger place, a Japanese café, a bakery chain, a pizza chain, a speciality biscuit shop, a woodfired pizza place, a traditional Chinese restaurant, a very good local pub. Around the corner, there is a small Vietnamese joint, a hipster pizza place, a fish and chip shop. In other words, it is close to being an average Australian suburb. Out of these options, I have enjoyed many an evening at Roy’Als Burgers pigging out on popcorn chicken and just as many knocking back house red at Monsterella Pizza. And they are important recent additions to the neighbourhood and keep the new arrivals happy. But neither of them are the culinary king of Wembley. That title belongs to the Wembley International Food Court. It stands head and shoulders above whatever else has been there from the time I was a kid.

The food court is an excellent concept. My reference points for it are the hawker centres of Singapore. When we were kids we would visit most years and it was always a trip that centred on food, with family a close second, not that you can ever separate the two. My aunt has written a food memoir, and even now, when we visit, the first question she asks is what do you want to eat just like the sister who lives in the next-door building. Singapore is as food obsessed as anywhere else I have been. And, it is blessed with fantastic eating from the joys of tropical fruits like mangosteen, rambutan, jackfruit, mango, papaya to noodle dishes that can be listed until your ears fall off including my favourites mee sium, char kway teow and curry laksa. Then there are chilli crabs, fish head curries, roti canai, chendol, ice kachang, fresh bean curd, nasi padang, yum cha, high tea, and, it turns out, I have found a very good chicken pot pie at a bakery in Upper Thompson.

One of my enduring memories of Singapore was the annual treat we were allowed as kids – we could pick a place to go for high tea and usually it was at one of the city’s leading hotels. I will always recall the view from the Stamford Rose, where you could see across to Indonesia from the 24^th floor. But, my favourite, like all good colonial boys, was the Raffles. We went there one New Year’s Day and it was a buffet. I could eat as much as I wanted, which to me was the greatest gift one could receive. I gorged on little sandwiches, curry puffs, spring rolls, jelly, trifle, chocolate cake. You name it, I ate it, and all washed down with a cup of the finest English Breakfast tea. So, this is what grown-ups did after they dropped us off at school everyday.

Singapore is still the gold standard for a wide selection of food, be that high tea buffet or shopping mall or the hawker centre. My aunts there both live on Shunfu Road and they have excellent hawkers at the bottom of their apartment block. I always put an advance order in for popiah (a kind of fresh spring roll) when I am coming through town. But it is not only the food that matters at the hawkers near them. At any given hour, on any given day, you will find residents spending time there, speaking with each other, reading the newspaper, creating community by simply being together. The hawker centre is a meeting place that brings people out from their apartments, and given the advancing age of many residents, it is a necessary space that helps people’s health and wellbeing. And this, I think, is what the Wembley Food Court aspires to be.

I will not pretend that the suburbs can be alienating, lonely and difficult places. Like the city and the country, they face their own challenges and for many people, especially elderly residents, they can be isolating. That is why public space matters more than ever, from the parks where you can walk your dog and chat to your neighbours to the community libraries that have book clubs to be part of to the food court in my childhood suburb. You see the importance of the food court on a Friday night. From five till ten it is packed to the gills, a crowd of newborns, toddlers, children, adolescents, adults, parents, grandparents eating food and talking about life, love, and the universe. This might seem unremarkable, but we have family friends who have been doing this for twenty years. To see that for what it is, which is about home, belonging, meaning allows us to understand what makes the food court the best place to be in Wembley.

It is also a great barometer for the food that is popular in middle Australia. At Wembley, every stall is Asian with one exception, a place called Paris Café that does a brisk trade in lamb shanks and crepes. There is Japanese, Chinese, Vietnamese, Yum Cha, Malaysian, Indian. The man who runs the beverage stand is from Singapore. I do not want to take this as a sample, but it shows that we have changed since the mid-1980s when John Howard was speaking with fear and hatred about being swamped by Asians. If this is anything to go by, people are happy they can get a decent feed.

My favourite place at the food court is the Malaysian Hawker. I love it because they have seriously good noodles and with a plate of their prawn crackers I am in heaven. Each of their noodle dishes is a study in harmony and balance – heat, sourness, salt, umami, sweetness, spice. There are ingredients that stand out – the lap cheong in the kway teow, the fried bean curd puffs in the mee goreng, the fish balls in the laksa. It makes the mouth water simply thinking about it. The servings are generous and you only need two dishes to feed three people even as one of the great pleasures is having leftover noodles to reheat, or eat cold, sometime later.

When we go in a larger party, we will often splurge on yum cha. I have places I prefer in Chinatowns all around Australia, in Sydney, Melbourne and Canberra, but the Wembley food court is good enough. I love yum cha for the same reason I love hawker centres – they are perfect ways to bring people together, to create community through food, through passing one plate of dumplings to someone else, through dividing a char sui pao in half when there is only one left on the table. And then, of course, there is the food itself, which is sublime and broad enough to be inclusive for as many tastes as possible. I love the fat noodles, the steamed greens, the custard tarts. The way Australia has embraced yum cha gives me hope in the future. It says to me, that we like spending time with our friends and family, that we know how to build bigger tables so that we can share and enjoy it all together. It reflects to me that we are a tolerant and vibrant place that has good taste.

I have taken many friends to the food court and many of them are impressed and wish they had something similar growing up. It is always where I prefer to eat when I visit my parents, especially because you can bring your own drinks. We have taken gin and tonic in with us at five o’clock, had a bottle of red wine on a Tuesday, and shared a carton of beer with no threat of sanction when it suited us. You do not need a drink to enjoy a casual meal, but what I like about the Wembley food court is that it allows people to drink responsibly. You might get a little tipsy, and you see grandmas having a glass of sherry, but because the structure is familial and welcoming people know how to behave. I recall an elderly group of four sitting down with a bottle of Veuve Clicquot with crystal champagne coupes they had brought from home. They each had a $10 plate of noodles to themselves. That is, truly, a great lifestyle.