Archive for the ‘events’ Category

It’s a funny thing, living in Australia. Hot, balmy Christmases, smattered with cracks of lightning from sudden summer storms. There are prawns on the table. Or fish. Cold cuts of ham and glasses of sparkling something. And then the days get shorter, the leaves start to fall from the few deciduous trees around the place and, before you even know it, winter has come around. And oh! How I start to think of steaming hot puddings with hard sauce, a spicy hot toddy and a stuffed bird with all the trimmings. …continue reading yuletide at restaurant atelier

I was running late. The traffic wasn’t helping, and neither was the fact that I had no idea where I was going. But I got there and juggled my bag, a lentil salad & a shiny foil wig across the quiet street to the door. A sharp poke at the doorbell and then “Hello?” “Oh hi, it’s Shez.” A silence. “Is this Suze’s place?” Another silence. “Sorry, can’t let you in” and then a disconnection. I poke the doorbell again. “OI!” And as I “Oi!” I see two heads pop out from a doorway. One with a rainbow mohawk and the other with long and luscious blonde locks. “Heeeeeee!” says the Blondie, and after a bit of pushing and pulling, I’m let in. …continue reading suze’s frootie housewarming

Sustainability is all the buzz in food these days, and with excellent reason. Traditional farming often sees minerals leached out of soil faster than they can be put back in and produce being bred for rapid growth. And with the impact that mass production is having on the environment, it is a breath of fresh air (literally) to meet people who not only care about what they do, but also the way their livelihood affects the world we live in. Sounding a bit preachy for a Wednesday morning? Well another pro of this sustainable produce business is that the food tends to taste better. Ahhhh… now we’re talking! …continue reading mumu grill & mr riggs wines

We had been behind-the-scenes at the Ivy. We had tasted canapes straight from the hands of their makers. We had giggled and snapped our way past the Ivy’s ballroom (zebra print carpet – oh my! I love!) and were now being herded up the lift and into Uccello. I will, as much as I can, refrain from embarking on (yet-another) Uccello gush-fest. Will not endlessly rant about its cute little booths, the daffodil yellow decor that lifts my mood just so, the exposed wood, the pots of flowers and the semi-open kitchen (open enough to see the hustle & bustle but closed enough to feel separate). Oh, and I finally got to check out the pool.

The Chefs of Merivale Gala dinner was the event of the, well, event. All eleven chefs were doing their bit (some on canapes and others with a whole course to themselves), sharing a kitchen (there were no obvious fireworks, though I’m sure it would have been not-so-easy) and helping the Merivale Group raise money for Camp Quality. Which brings me to the balloons (above). These darling chefs-hatted blue hued babies were decorated by the kids at Camp Quality. So. Cute.

the kitchen at uccello

As an extension of our behind-the-scenes tour, we were given a proverbial backstage pass to all the action that was to occur during the Gala Dinner. On arrival, we stood sheepishly at the entrance to the kitchen, waved a shy “Hello!” to Peter Doyle, who welcomed us to the kitchen, before deferring to Massimo as, really, the kitchen we were traipsing through was his. “Hello.” said Massimo, with a nod of the head and a little wave.

We sniffed at the foccacia, peered into the Kitchenaid and drooled over the mignardises, wondering aloud how each element would taste and wondering secretly if anyone would notice if I tried just one chocolate. Just. One?

As chance would have it, Melissa from the Merival Group had a surprise for us. “You’re free to stay for the dinner right?” said she, as I stood, a polite sip of cranberry, lime & soda working its way into my mouth. I put my drink down, confused, and then excited and then silent as the meaning of the words sunk in. I may have stood there, blinking, for a minute or two. And then I may have grinned.

And so to the Gala Dinner. Six courses. Matching Wines. And an unlimited supply of Uccello’s wonderfully salty, olive oily foccaccia. “I’m so excited about this food that I think I just may, maybe throw up.” I may or may not have uttered to Howard at one point in the evening. He may or may not have nodded at me.

course one: daniel hong – lotus

tartare of bluefin tuna
sweetcorn, wasabi, avocado, soy-truffle dressing

The first course was met with anticipation. We had been sticky-beaking in the kitchen previously. “What’s that?” we had asked, pointing at various items on the pass. Anticipation was met. “By Daniel Hong, of Lotus” said Anthony, our server for the evening. “A 2008 buring riesling ‘leonay’, from Eden Valley in South Australia.” said the sommelier “Light, fruity, not too sharp“. And the colours popped out at me. I stabbed what I thought was a bean, to realise it was an artful combination of wasabi and avocado. The others cited it as their favourite dish of the evening. I was delighted by the giant balls of roe (pop! went they in my mouth) but was looking for a bit more texture, a bit more variety of flavour. With the soft sweetcorn puree and the sweetness of the pureed avocado and the sweetness of the beautiful melty belly of tuna, it could have done with some crisp, or some salty to give it another dimension. Not to say that it wasn’t absolutely delicious as is.

course two: massimo bianchi – uccello

raviolo of lobster with asparagus and mushrooms

“This is,” said our sommelier, whose name I didn’t catch, but who had the most distinctive accent this side of the Pacific “a 2007 feudi di san gregorio greco di tufo from Campania in Italy.” And here I will say that all of the wines were beautifully matched with the courses. A sip of the wine, a swig of mineral water, a bite of the meal, and then another sip and another bite. And all the flavours mellowed out wonderfully and melded into each other with that much more harmony.

I was always going to like this course. It was, as expected, finely made. Fresh, quality ingredients. Lobster cooked to perfection. The asparagus came in the form of a puree and the mushrooms in a slow cooked ragu-esque sauce. When tasted separately, the lobster was fresh, firm and sweet, and the pasta silky and thin. Together, the mushrooms overpowered both the lobster and the asparagus. So I took to compartmentalising. Edge of raviolo with the mushrooms, then with the asparagus. Lobster centre with asparagus, and by itself. And that worked wonderfully.

course three: peter doyle – est.

steamed baby snapper fillet with sand crab,
snow peas, oyster mushrooms, ginger-shallot vinaigrette

This was, without question, my favourite dish of the evening. It was masterful. I didn’t care that it was paired with a chardonnay (and I really quite dislike chardonnay) because it was complemented by the wine. I didn’t mind that my photos just would not take well due to the ambient lighting. Because the snapper, it was perfectly steamed. Firm but tender. I even ate the skin, which tends to be overcooked and sticky in the mouth. The care that went into plating this was obvious. Lifting up the snapper, I’m greeted by a tamed tangle of thinly sliced snowpeas and mushrooms, tender whilst retaining the crunch, soaking up the fishy, gingery essence it is perched in. Sweet, salty, a hint of warmth from the ginger, crunchy and soft all in one bite. This is what I was waiting for. I may have tipped the bowl, just slightly, to catch a final spoonful of the broth at the end.

from top left: massimo plating up a storm, those lentils,
camera un-shy chefs, dessert being plated

And while we ate, the chefs worked on. They were so wonderfully media trained. Polite, accomodating, willing to let us in to their world. I peered into the kitchen in between courses. I spotted some meat resting. “May I?” I asked, gesturing with my camera. “Better still, come here” I was told, whilst being ushered towards the hotplate. “This one looks better. And smells better. See?” But the smoke was in the way and my photography was lacking. “Come, here. Look at this!” another one would exclaim. “What’s in there?” I asked. “Lentils“. “Oh!” For they smelt a treat and looked even better. (I later gushed about the upcoming lentils. No-one took me seriously until they tasted them.) And when I looked up from the lentils, I saw three boys, having been herded together by the one on the left. They stood there, grinning. So I took a photo of them. They grinned some more. And when I went back to my table, “Ciao Bella!” rang in my ears.

course four: simun dragcevich – bistro cbd

quail and porcini ballotine sicilian lentil salsa

And so to those lentils. But first, a switch from white to red and a lovely pinot noir from Victoria served in a bulbous glass. I briefly considered work the next day, then took a sip and was well rewarded. Warm, rich and mellow. My thoughts were interrupted by Howard who had received his dish and immediately exclaimed “Oh! Chips!” I looked at my plate. “Oh! The lentils!” Blank stares. “You get a plate of quail and get excited about the lentils?” came the response. “You got excited about the chips.” I retorted. And then silence. Because the lentils were just as good as they had smelt. And they matched and muted the ballotine of pigeon. This is, I thought to myself, a perfect meal for winter. And in spite of myself, and my increasingly sated stomach, I scraped my plate clean.

course five: christopher whitehead – mad cow

roasted eye fillet of beef, golden shallots, creamed spinach and tarragon jus

Answer me this: have you ever had a cut of meat that had been rested for half an hour? A long, long eye fillet of beef had been roasted slowly, coming out of the oven with a pink hue. Then rested. It was then, fairly unceremoniously, offloaded onto a hot plate (where the smells released sent me into a dizzying spin of excitement) and then rested. Rested well. At least 20 minutes well. And when it is finally sliced and plated, the juices have been drawn back into the meat. And medium takes on a whole new meaning. It melted. Like wagyu melts, but without the fatty aftertaste. Melted cleanly. Was soft like butter and red like a rare steak, but without the taste and mess of blood. I was enamoured. (And, in case you were wondering, I loved the creamed spinach too. It was a well matched accompaniment. Clean, hearty meat. Robust, creamy spinach.)

I should also mention here that the syrah, which is normally too strong for my tastes, was well received. So well received that I think I may have had my glass topped up. And the combination of the big, hearty, not-too-sharp red and the robust flavours of the meat and spinach made me feel just a little bit “hunting club in the UK”. Which is an unusual feeling for a petit-ish Asian female to be having. Good Unusual.

course six: lauren murdoch – ash st cellar

chocolate marquis, caramelized hazelnuts, cinnamon cream

Port. Check! Dessert. Check! I took a bite. Eyes widened. Carefully chewed. “It tastes like a giant fererro rocher! But better! Like it should be!” I exclaimed. Heads turned in my direction. “Eat it! Eat it! Eat it! Stop taking photos! Or I’ll eat yours too!” Hands hovered protectively around plates. But I couldn’t help myself. Because it was rich, yes. But that was tempered by the quenelle of cinnamon cream that was perched atop it. And by the warm crunch of toasted hazelnuts. I ate as much as I could, rued the size of my stomach. Stopped. Started again. Stopped again. Started again. And then admitted defeat, surrendering the remains of my portion to Howard (who also received a portion of Karen’s).

We spoke to Lauren Murdoch, some time after the dinner, where the guests had gone and all that were left were the chefs, the staff, their friends and a handful of little piggies. The dessert had taken two days to make, and she had 25 left over. Just in case. I mentioned that I couldn’t finish my serve but dearly wished I could have. She told me she couldn’t finish a serve either, though knew of people who could have eaten two. I wished I was one of those people.

mignardises

When the mignardises arrived, I couldn’t even look at them. A pot of Earl Grey was made very welcome. And I still couldn’t look at them. (So I secreted a couple in a makeshift carrier and took them with me for another time. One was filled with a liquer soaked cherry. The other was a round, cocoa dusted ball of rich, dark ganache.)

We loitered wile people left around us. Then traipsed home as best as we could. Danced through Martin Place. Spun around in the still damp streets. Collapsed into bed, a stomach full of food, a head full of wine, and a happy happy heart.

(My thanks to Melissa who arranged for us to attend, courtesy the Merivale Group. )

Ah… The Ivy! That multi-levelled concrete wonderland. For where else would you wander down an inconspicuous alley and up a flight of non-descript stairs to find a playground of beautiful people, complete with faux gardens, a showerhead (that apparently intermittently produces spurts of water) and deck chairs. Famous for lines that snake down the street at nearly-midnight on a Friday and eagle eyed door staff – ready to pounce upon a fashion faux pas.

It is also, as I have semi-recently discovered, a place for people of a culinary disposition. This little known fact was first brought to my attention by a colleague, who had dined at Uccello courtesy a family wedding reception. It was reiterated when my uncle, fresh off a plane from Malaysia, called to ask where this Ivy place was and would I please make a reservation at one of the restaurants because his friends said he had to try it. Had to. Chop chop. I have, in past, gushed. Nay. Raved about the prosciutto and parmigiano reggiano entrée. The slow braised calamari. The chocolate fondant. (All Uccello, where Head Chef, and sometime recipient of a starry eyed gaze, Massimo Bianichi resides, having been stolen, nay, lured from Buon Ricardo).

chefs hide out in the main kitchen at the ivy

So when I, along with some others (being those of Chocolate Suze, Citrus & Candy, Eat Show & Tell, Grab Your Fork and Simon Food Favourites) received an email asking if we would like to come along to the Gala Dinner, just to check things out, my immediate reaction involved a couple of involuntary profanities and a spontaneous dance-round-the-office. Good profanities, in case you were wondering. And an inelegant dance, for clarification’s sake.

a makeshift shopping list

I have always been, and still am, amazingly in awe of people who cook for a living. Even more so of those who have invested their time, energy and dollars into opening an eatery – be it a café, a restaurant, or something entirely different. The long hours in the kitchen, the difficulties faced when sourcing fresh produce, the cramped spaces, the swearing. The sweat. Thelack of resources. The Ivy is not so. It is, compared to the kitchens I’ve seen, a whole new world entirely.

the dry store

Take, for example, the dry store. Cans of oil, paper towels, rice, beans and a bucket of pink feathers. Another example? The space they are working in. “This is” we are told “the kitchen that the photo shoot was taken in.” I look up, the words sinking in. “That kitchen shoot?” asks Karen. “Yes.” “Oh.” Giggles ensue. It is large, high ceilinged and airy. Stainless steel benchtops abound. The walk-in fridge is spacious (and a constant source of amusement for Suze, who wanders in, then out, then in again) and utensils are washed and dried in an entirely separate area, complete with separate staff.

canapes, ready for plating

We are snapping away, a little shyly, a little shakily on my part from all the excitement when a voice says “Please, help yourselves to the canapes.” It is Richard Johnson, looking up momentarily from his chat with Howard. I look at Suze. “I feel funny about eating in the kitchen” says she. “Where will we put the spoons?” say I. We are overheard and “A couple of platters for the food blog people!” is ordered, moments later (and much to our glee).

quail saltimboca – quail breast and sage rolled up in proscuitto.
served on a stick with a spicy tomato relish

All the while, through the conversation, Richard is walking to and from a giant oven. He pulls out a tray and sets it on the workbench. Each stick is picked up deftly, both sides patted onto a clean napkin to remove excess grease, and then laid carefully on a plate. Which would be unremarkable if he hadn’t been talking about Tottenham the whole time he was doing it.

quail saltimboca being plated

Our serve of the quail saltimboca is being studiously photographed. I am studiously observing the glistening pig fat on the quail and thinking “Bird Bird Pig!” to myself. Last calls. “Can we eat yet?” says one. Nods all round. Then silence. Good silence. Spicy tomato and pig and bird party in my mouth silence. *Gulp*.

spoon with tuna and scallop, flying fish roe & ponzu dressing

Our second platter contains two spoon contained varieties. This, the first, is beautifully gentle in flavour. Refreshing where the quail was strong.

fresh fig with apple and lobster

The other is sweeter still, with the finely julienned apple and segmented fig framing the firm white flesh of the lobster nicely.

Akira Urata & assistant, bearing bottles of miso dressing

Canape platters mostly finished, I smelt deep fryers doing their thing. I heard the sizzle. The shake, shake, shake and toss onto a plate. I turned to see Akira plating up. And then I grinned nervously and stood in a corner, taking photos of tiles on the wall. “Hey!” I looked up “Don’t go stealing my jam recipe” said Richard Johnson with a grin. “If I do, I promise I won’t tell anyone else about it” said I. And so no jam recipe for you. Not that you would have used it. It involved vast, commercial quantities of sugar. Well, maybe you would have…

salt and pepper calamari in butter lettuce with lotus root chip and spicy miso dressing

There was a debate, as we food-blog-people attempted to describe the canapes via email, as to whether this canape involved calamari or lobster. We decided that it was, in fact, calamari, though the texture was anything but the sometimes-chewy morsels you’ll find at your local fish-and-chippery. It was so tender that you could bite straight through it. No stringy bits, and certainly no funny faces and push-me-pull-you-ing.

Nobiyuki Ura and 3x assistants plating up

While flashes went off (and while I snooped on the dry store), there was a small team of people working quietly at the end of a bench. A scoop of unidentified pink. Into the mold. Tap Tap. Repeat. Another, laying out pieces of lavosh. One, by one, by one. And then another, lifting up the perfect cylinders with a palette knife and placing them on a piece of lavosh. And finally, Nobuyiki Ura spooning tiny amounts of diced red and green tomatoes, almost minced, on the very top and garnishing with a single leaf.

tuna tartare served with finely diced green & red tomatoes on a lavosh cracker

We stood, Helen and Suze and I, mesmerised by the detail. The perfection. The quiet slog, when he looked up at me. Grinned. And then, holding out the canape he was working on, said “For you.” And then later, to Suze, “For you” and again for Helen. “What is it?” we asked. “Tuna tartare” was the reply. And then back to plating. We nibbled on the lavosh, round in circles, avoiding the jewel topped centre, and then, when we could nibble no more, popped the lot in our mouths with wide eyes and big, almost naughty, grins.

canapes on the pass: get ready diners!

And on flew the evening. Canapes lay on the pass, to be collected by cool, calm, blue clad waiters. “What’s that?” they are quizzed as they collect each dish. “Quail saltimboca” “Good.” And just as quickly, they are back with emptied plates.

the bar at uccello

And with them go we, reluctantly, but excitedly. For there are more chefs to be met, more things to be tasted, and finally (finally!) a glimpse of that famed Ivy pool.