Cafe Sydney Lounge

Location: 5/31 Alfred St, Sydney NSW 2000

Taste-type: Contemporary Australian/Drinks

Price: Rhu Allure $20 w/ canape (Food Festival special), Cafe Sydney Lounge cocktail $18, petits fours $9.50

How to get there: Bus or train to Circular Quay. Take the lift to the top floor of Customs House (the old-looking building just outside the station).

Contact: 02-92518683

Every year, hundreds of the world’s leading culinary figures converge in the Southern hemisphere for the Sydney International Food Festival, bringing with them a sizzling hotpot of expertise, charm, and flair. Some are more controversial than others, sending bursts of spice and zest sparking through the mix. I have been hired to remove one of them.

The Michelin King of Onh has commanded love and loathing ever since he was forged out of overripe Brie and Pinot in the heart of the French Riviera. His cult of followers has to be kept away from him by a crack team of bodyguards, for they believe that to taste but a piece of the Michelin King will make them culinary masters. His float is scheduled to cross the Harbour Bridge in the late afternoon, already secured by his private army of snipers and military submarines. But he is a ball of cheese and wine, and we are ninjas. I have already found a balcony.

On the top level of the old Customs House is a refuge from the city’s grinding asphalt, a lofty oasis for the young and wealthy. While students slave away in the lower-levels, anxiously cramming for imminent examinations, Sydney’s elite stare artistically out over the Harbour as they sip fancy drinks and sample fine fares. We will take the shot from here.

Part of any stakeout is waiting, and in such a luxurious location there are ample ways to stave off boredom. My shooter and I order our drinks and a plate of petits fours while commenting on the big blueness of the ocean. A canapé comes my way, served up by a professionally brisk waiter with a plummy upper-class accent. I thank him in kind before partaking of the luscious blend of ocean trout roe, scallops and avocado. Fresh chilli prickles at the edges of the svelte scallops just before the explosions of roe drench the palate in salty-sweet peace. The canapé resembles a midget submarine, small but rather awesome.

The canapé is but a precursor to the Cocktail of the Month that I have ordered, one of the Food Festival special items that can be picked up all around the city. Called the Rhu Allure, the cocktail blends Belvedere vodka with rhubarb essence and a smattering of other ingredients including Citron Gingembre and Pomme Verte liquer. It packs a strong sweetish punch that could well put down an unsuspecting rookie ninja, and I savour the generous amount of Belvedere in the drink. A table of uncouth businesswomen nearby has ordered the same, but they hold the cocktail glasses by the glass and not the stem. I sneer at these unsophisticates as my shooter yawns loudly.

Lusty Gallic squeals are already floating through the air, but my shooter and I reason that the petits fours are small enough to fit in before we get to business. Each item is carefully sculpted and leaves our tastebuds singing praises long after the morsels have been downed. The apricot jelly is my favourite, sending a wash of tendersweet delight blushing down my neck. The sugar is as crunchy as fresh ice while the jelly melts like a childhood memory at the touch of the tongue. My shooter prefers what I think of as a glorified Ferrero Rocher (next to jelly), which crunches as satisfyingly as autumn leaves beneath the arc of a wakizashi. The Michelin King does not make his opinion known.

A tremour ripples beneath our feet. We look up and see the blue-red float of the Michelin King wobbling its way over Circular Quay station as adoring fans clamour at the bloated morass of the Michelin King. It is exactly as planned, except for the fact that my shooter is still drinking his cocktail. As he curses and frantically assembles his weapon, I take a quick sip of the Cafe Sydney Lounge, the establishment’s signature cocktail. The fresh lime and Bombay Sapphire add a metallic edge to the fruity exuberance of this drink, enough to temper even the sweltering heat of a Sydney summer. I can barely taste the cranberry juice but comment on it anyway to my shooter, who tells me to shut up and help with the bloody silencer.

Finally my shooter is ready and he rises godlike from his armchair but it is too late. The float has moved out of operational range and although my shooter tries his hardest there is no way he can take the shot with certainty. As he tries to get an angle the Michelin King rises from his frog-encrusted podium and bellows to the crowd. “Onh” he cries and “Onh” the crowd cry back as they grasp hands outstretched only to be beaten back by the rifle-butts of the guards and “Onh” the King cries again lifting his puffy-mouldy arms up and “Onhonhonhonhonhonhonh” the crowd sings out at crying laughing praying to the sneering Michelin King at which point I say to myself screw this pulling out the rocket launcher I had hidden under the table the night before for such an eventuality. Overripe cheese and wine fly everywhere.

My shooter and I hide our weapons, send threatening glances lancing through the terrified yuppies around us, and leave the building pretending to talk about English exams.

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