I ran away to New York City to try and shake a heavy heart. Ran away from all the people who know best, the people I don’t show my busted heart anymore. I ran away from the life I wanted, but was too scared to fight for. I ran away from him and desperately hoped he’d make chase. When I’m running, I like to play it cool – I like to pretend that I’m running toward something. Like when you’re running for a bus, but see the doors close and watch it pull away from the kerb before you catch up, so elect to keep running for a bit. You never call out, ‘hey, bus! Wait!’ Cause you weren’t really ever running for that bus, you don’t care that you missed it, you were just jogging to get your heart rate up a bit. Maybe burn a few cals. So, I ran toward New York City and it’s food. I ran toward bagels and hot dogs and giant salty pretzels, toward meatballs and pastrami and cookies, toward pickles and lox and lobster rolls. The red-eye from LA leaves me tired, sweaty and giddy; my first day in NYC has the same result. A deep-fried peanut butter and banana sandwich, baked eggs and coffee fill the hole, but don’t touch the ache. I want comfort; I want soup. The whole world cries into soup: the Jews and their Matzo ball, the Thais and their Tom Yum Goong, the Vietnamese and their Pho. Ukranians and their Borscht. In NYC, on a heavy-hot night, I choose Momofuku Noodle Bar and Japanese soup, ramen. We’re offered a twenty-minute wait, and are seated in five. It’s busy and it’s loud and it’s somewhere to sit after running so far. We order soy sauce eggs, the murderously good pork buns and ramen named for the restaurant. The broth is balanced, clear, creamy with pork fat. Cabbage, shallots, seaweed, shredded pork shoulder and a perfect poached egg jostle for attention, overshadowed by slabs of soft, fatty pork belly and a messy tangle of pliant noodles. I drain the large bowl – it’s equal parts satisfaction and comfort and sustenance to keep running. But you can’t run forever. And when I stop running, life is time spent between the moments when my heart pounds frantically in my chest, trying to get out, trying to get back to him. So I eat a lot of soup.
Tag Archives: restaurants
WILSON’S LEBANESE RESTAURANT
Everyone knows first is the best. To wit: the 1986 inductees into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame; the initial chip from a packet of Salt and Vinegars; Home Alone; Mickey Rooney’s original wife (of eight); the chicken; the egg. Add to this illustrious list, Wilson’s, the self-proclaimed ‘first Lebanese restaurant in Sydney. Est 1957.’ It’s cold, the horse’s birthday and dinnertime in Redfern on the night we walk in. My first impression? Brown. From the chocolate-brown carpet, to the mission-brown laminate tabletops, with matching vinyl chairs, and the ceiling, tented with dirty-brown parachute fabric. Literally dirty, with blooming rust stains. Strangely, suspiciously phallic shapes weigh the parachute down in random spots, raising questions as to where the rest of the body is kept. But first is the best and we barrel on accordingly. From the word doc menu we order vine leaves ($9.50 for 8), the mixed entrée of hommos, baba ghannouj, tabbouli, falafel and tahini ($16, serves two) and a mixed grilled plate of shish kebab, shish tawook, kafta, shawarma and sausages ($35, serves two). ‘Do you think I should stop drinking coffee?’ I ask. ‘Yep.’ He replies. ‘Are you just saying that?’ I press. ‘Yeah.’ It’s a routine conversation, comforting in it’s familiarity. ‘Do you think I’d make a good spy?’ I wonder, so often looking for opportunities to diversify my portfolio. ‘Because of your agility, firearm skills and composure under pressure?’ The vine leaves are served warm, with a cool yoghurt dip; they are mild, with a soft breath of cardamom. ‘I think I could be a good cater-waiter, don’t you?’ I continue, considering a casual, cash-paying weekend job. ‘What, because of your unwillingness to talk to people? Your whisper-quiet voice and discomfort in social situations?’ We take delivery of a plate of smoky, earthy dips and lemony-tart tabbouli, with a basket of flat bread and a plate of pickles. We both love pickles. The meat plate is hot, a bed of flavourlogged white rice piled with tender chicken and beef. Tasting of the grill, lemon, salt and faintly of cinnamon and fresh herbs, it’s brown and finished quickly. ‘Another person called me “weird in a good way” today. Do you think I’m weird?’ I query. ‘No, you’re not weird.’ I’m pleased. ‘Of course you are, you weirdo!’ He recants, noting my blush of vindication. I’d ask him anything, because there’s no one who’ll give me a more honest answer. He made the call that jump-started my stalled career; I cried and cried on his shoulder when I thought my heart could never hurt more; he gave me a home and his heart when my life came unmoored. He’s the first friend I’d call, and concurrently, is proof of the opposing rule, ‘first the worst, second the best…’ In the beginning, almost ten years ago, he looked witheringly from my under-cut bob haircut down to my ugly shoes and asked, ‘who’s this freak?’ Then ordered me to, ‘stop staring, you freak.’ He still tells me to stop staring, but six times out of ten it’s for my own safety.
TORRISI ITALIAN SPECIALTIES
My best first date involved cold tofu satay, which I didn’t finish due to whirring flocks of butterflies. My worst first date was at Billy Kwong, where at the waiter’s practical suggestion of how best to enjoy the share menu, my dinner companion deadpanned, ‘why would we share? I’m not sharing.’ We ate our individual main courses in silence. Still, it was nice to be invited. It’s my last night in NYC and I’m going out to dinner alone, for the first time ever, having given my date the wrong date. On Mulberry Street, Nolita, Torrisi Italian Specialties occupies a small shopfront hidden behind white lace curtains, a little old-school gold leaf lettering your only clue as to what lies within. Or maybe, like me, you’ll be trying so hard to look like you know where you’re going that you’ll miss this gilt clue and walk right on by. (eds note: the trick here is to keep walking, for at least two blocks, before doubling back). After completing my detour I push, realise my mistake, and then pull the door open to… oh. Oh right, cool, yeah wow, it’s a really small restaurant. ‘You’ve never been here before, have you,’ says the waiter, after I’ve whispered my apologies. It’s not a question, more a statement of fact. I take in the tables for two, low lighting and economical square-footage… ‘Um, no?’ I hear the collective gasp of the New York ladies; the slow, grating drag of wooden chair across tile as diners with their backs to the door struggle to see; the tinkling of each jewel in the chandelier nudging shoulders with its neighbour, hissing Chinese whispers at my gaffe (eds note: there is no crystal chandelier at Torrisi) Suddenly it’s stifling. “Haha I ah, I told my friend the wrong night, because the days are all different, ah, because it’s tomorrow in Australia…’ At my romantic table for two, facing the room from the banquette, I fossick busily in my bag, for all of my important things that I don’t need and can’t find. I keep looking. My perceptive waiter, somehow sensing my ingeniously disguised discomfort, slides the first of seven prix fixe ($75) courses in front of me. I make light work of the warm mound of fleshy house made mozzarella, lolling in olive oil. Then wonder if I’m eating too fast. As he lays fresh cutlery, perceptive waiter starts with small questions: Did you enjoy that? Yes, thank you. More water? Yes, thank you. Please let me know if I can get you anything. Yes, thank you. The third of four anitpasti courses, the salmon tartare is soft and delicate, Rubenesque; like kissing. Accompanied by Everything blinis (a la Everything bagels) it’s like all the best kisses and my cheeks flush. We discuss the merits of Sydney restaurants, talk about Tetsuya. My cheeks flush. The Italian sausage pate is smooth, studded with pistachios and skimmed with piquant red pepper aspic. A handsome chef (eds note: his appearance coincided with an obvious spike on the awkward graph) is the bearer of sheep milk ricotta gnocchi with chamomile and fava beans. It is silky and soothing, a mid-meal salve and, according to my furtive notes, ‘subtle as fuck.’ A second attentive waiter wonders which other restaurants I’ve eaten at, and how long my flight was, as he pours more sparkling water. He is hip to my scene and asks only questions I know the answers to. Lemon and ginger ice cleanses the palate and cools my cheeks, before the meal finishes with delicate lemon cake, pierced with silly-good cheesy tuile. If a good restaurant complements time spent in fine company, satisfying food woven unobtrusively throughout, then surely it’s a great restaurant where the food stands up to the laser-focus of a lone diner, and whose staff offers company as gracious as their service. My perceptive waiter pulls the table out for me to squeeze past and kindly averts his gaze to avoid focusing on where my shorts have ridden up during the course of the meal. I thank him, for all of it, and head out into the steamy NYC summer alone, juggling a box of complimentary house made cookies and tugging green cotton shorts out of my crotch.
UMAMI BURGER
Umami: it’s the fabled fifth flavour, sounds like ‘tsunami’ and makes an ideal name for a kitten. It’s also the yumminess in Parmesan cheese, truffle, mushrooms, pork and breast milk. So what? No biggie, right? Thing is, that special Umami yumminess can be credited to the unfairly maligned evil genius of amino acids: glutamate. Otherwise known as the ‘G’ in MSG. Otherwise known for the headaches, dehydration, nausea and chest pains you claim to suffer after eating Chinese food. But before you saddle up your food intolerance high horse and ride poor Umami Burger out of town, think about it. Apart from both science and Dr Chef Dave Chang’s MAD Symposium lecture disproving ‘Chinese Restaurant Syndrome’, historically speaking if you tack the B-word on to the back-end of a commonly offensive adjective, you’re on to a winner. Cases in point: FatBurger, Douche Burger and Fat Ho Burgers (RIP). So, if fat, douches and fat hos can be tasty, how’s about a little Umami? Hmm? Just a teeny taste? At the outlet in Los Feliz, on Hollywood Boulevard near the Wacko store, I order The Original Umami Burger – beef patty, Parmesan crisp, shiitake mushroom, roasted tomato, caramelised onions and house ketchup ($11). It’s intravenous Umami. From the sweet, milk bun to the medium-rare ground steak patty, pleasingly pink in the middle and sprinkled with magical Umami Dust™, you’ll want to get Umami all up in your grill. It’s savoury and thrilling, like thinking about a packet of salt and vinegar chips. Along with the tsunami burger we share a plate of tangy treats – cauliflower, mushrooms, tomatoes et al on the House Pickle Plate ($5) and Sweet Potato Fries ($4). Smothered in the Signature Sweet Salt, these fries are like chomping on a hot cinnamon donut: comforting, indulgent and finger lickin’. Like the best things, the word Umami comes from Japan and means something like ‘delicious’. DUH. But if you’ve already named your new kitten, you can just call it ‘savoury’. Whatever name you give it, Umami is universal and hardly the root of digestive evil and sleepless nights. I mean, how can gravy be bad? Or Vegemite on toast? Or a bowl of salty edamame? Or working your way through an entire wheel of aged Parmesan by yourself? It’s true, Umami Burger is cool and beardy and thus repellent, but what tasteless monster among us can resist an extra flavour? Salty, sweet, sour and bitter sure are something, but they’ll never be sublime without Umami. Just like The Jackson 5, sans Michael.
BÄCO MERCAT
My best friend moved to the other side of the world. Not to get away from me (right, pal? TELL THEM) but to carve out a new life with her husband. She’s like that – adventurous, driven and devoted. She also matches me, pound-for-pound, when a plate of food is set in front of her. No mean feat. We share a romance with food; a love for cooking it, eating it, writing and obsessing about it. We both hate runny eggs and both love… well, most other foods. She’s not big on pork, but that’s ok, as it balances my passionate and excessive consumption. When I’m blue, she cooks for me. When I’m exultant, she cooks for me. On weekdays ending in ‘ay’, she cooks for me. When we worked in the same building, our productivity plummeted as a result of regular tea/yoghurt/vending machine/crudités breaks. I sat by her side as Maid of Honour on her wedding day and greedily enjoyed the spoils of a considered, and spectacular, matrimonial feast. She waited patiently when I was vegan, tolerated me as a vegetarian, encouraged me as a pescatarian and now, frets about me as a glutton. I miss her. I’ve been lucky to visit her twice since she fled my clutches and each time we easily picked up where we left off. And ate a lot of hot pastrami. I love her a lot. Like I love sandwiches a lot. Far from the madding crowds, she takes me to grand, tragic, on-the-up-again Downtown, Los Angeles. If she had blindfolded me in, say, Hollywood, spun me around and around in circles then whipped the blindfold off in Downtown, I would have sworn I was in NYC. Or, at least, on the set of Seinfeld or something. But there we were, on the eerily quiet streets, passing the run-down early 1900s movie theatres and playing a round or two of ‘Hipster or Hobo?’ Baco Mercat is a fancy sandwich shop and bar snuggled in the bosom of this exotic, Gotham City landscape. Our waiter is sassy, dropping an F-Bomb here and there and making me feel like an idiot in the most charming way. On his recommendation we each order a Vinegar_Based Sweet & Sour Soda ($3); the pear and meyer lemon varieties from a list of fifteen flavours. They are indeed vinegary and sweet and sour – an absurdly appealing mix of tart, fetid and irresistible. We share the “Cowgirl Creamery” cheese plate ($19), a top-shelf selection replete with candied pine nuts, honeycomb and pickled golden beets. But we’re here for the ‘baco’ flatbread sandwich. I’m pretty sure people have been wrapping bread around meat since people were monkeys, and the baco renovates this ancient art to modern masterpiece. I order The Original – pork, beef carnitas, salbitxada ($10) and my buddy, The Meatball – raisin, pine nut, tomato ($14). Both come served in a bowl, the famed flatbread piled high with the chosen fillings – so high I have to chip away with a fork before grabbing it and taking the whole lot on a messy journey to my mouth. The chunks of pork are satisfyingly fatty, the lard softening a potentially tough equal-measure of meat; the beef is yielding and prickly with heat. Heaped with tangy, sweet, nutty Salbitxada sauce and with minimal rocket/arugala, I want to order a second helping immediately upon finishing the first. It’s a sandwich to break my heart. Lucky then that the broad sitting opposite me is the woman to help mend it. As much as I miss sharing the same city as my best friend, exploring Los Angeles and it’s sprawling, glorious eating options with her is delicious consolation.
MON AMI GABI
Food makes a worthy weapon, if you think about it. ‘Oh, you’re allergic to peanuts? Whoops.’ Or, ‘Yeah, of course that chicken is fresh.’ Or, ‘if you stop crying I promise I’ll buy you an ice cream.’ Or, ‘I swear to you I am gonna beat that guy to death with this baguette.’ And, ice bullets. With so many meals come so many opportunities to maim, manipulate or murder. But we all know it’s not baguettes that kill people; people kill people. As dangerous as food clearly is, it’s the hungry people wielding wheaten-weapons that are lethal. Opposite the famous dancing fountains of The Bellagio (Casino), sits the splendid faux Eiffel Tower of Paris (Casino), in the glorious home-of-CSI, Las Vegas. Nestled beneath the 1:2 scale tower is full scale French café and bistro, Mon Ami Gabi, and wandering the footpath in front of Mon Ami Gabi is the World’s Worst Street Performer (WWSP). Wearing an ill fitting 90s black suit, grey tee and waistcoat, a dirty ponytail and a headset microphone, he paces back and forth, back and forth, spruiking his show. ‘Hey.’ He says to no one. ‘Show’s going to start in four minutes.’ Oh, no one is listening. ‘The greatest show you’ll ever see.’ Wow, what? ‘Hey, you’re drunk.’ He turns on the passers by. Starving, we order the French Toast ($12.95), French Frites ($4.50) and French Tuna Melt Tartine ($12.95). Our French waitress repeats for clarity: ‘The toast, the fries and the tuna melt?’ Toot sweet, silverplate. We order mint tea to wait and are – ‘hey’ – taking photos up our noses and up the – ‘four minutes’ – tower, compounding the novelty – ‘you won’t regret it.’ Ok, no. He’s wandered off, hands-free, but his little speaker box remains and from it his plaintive brag bellows. Looks are exchanged – with our fellow diners: desperate; with the servers weaving busily between tables: pleading; and with each other: twitching. Our frites arrive and are twirly, snappy, deep fried curls of ‘tater – a Frankenstein’s monster of fries and potato chips. ‘Hey’ – oh god – ‘are you ready for this?’ – I pick up the salt shaker – ‘she’s too hot for you buddy’ – draw my arm back – ‘I didn’t mean it’ – I relent and salt Frank instead. Our French Toast comes smothered in real whipped cream, blueberries and confectioners sugar, a bountiful mound of teeth-aching delight. With food, comes calm. ‘Four minutes to the greatest show on earth.’ With dude, leaves calm. Forty-five minutes later and still no closer to the greatest show on earth, a low fence and a pair of short shorts are all that save WWSP from a brisk and brutal beating with a baguette.
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