Sunny day! Indicative of the advent of spring, a convocation to idle nature-walks, lunches with friends, and gratituous blood-letting. Only two of three possible at Moo Burger, Newtown: far too cosmopolitan and trendy for nature, although rear-garden is endowed with obligatory potted-ferns and semi-fresh air. The other members of the team entertain themselves with the haphazard chalk-board (which, ironically enough, does not take kindly to the erasure of any etchings) constructed from a wall and some black paint. I could murder a patty.

One of the team suggests that calling a burger joint Moo is akin to calling a troupe of heroic superstars The Expendables, or even nicknaming a certain political party Stab Happy. Almost every item on the menu makes some allusion to the sound of bovine rumination: Moo Burger, Little Moo, Rocky-Road Moo and so on. Name of the drink alludes to the March for Bovine Independence, when thousands of cows took to the cobbled streets of old London to demand better working conditions and an end to worker exploitation in farms and slaughterhouses. They achieved a considerable following and established a political party which went to the ballots and won a sizable minority, giving them the balance of power in the House of Lords. However, they failed to deliver on their promises and were quite literally slaughtered at the next election. Fortunately the Rocky-Road Moo tastes of malt, marshmallow and candied childhood memories with no aftertaste of blood.

The Black and White Burger sails out as I nibble away at the last chocolate chunks of my shake, resplendent in its shawl of fried egg and bulging at the seams with thick, meaty Angus goodness. I have heard rumours that this burger was named in memory of the Dairy Insurrection, when a hundred raging bulls strove against strident racism from humans, arming themselves with their horns, hooves and flamethrowers. The reprisals were bloody and stretched over the course of seven generations, and the Black and White Burger is a fitting memorial to the fate of those bulls: strong, unrelenting, made from the mince of the fallen. I say a silent prayer as my team tucks in.

Duck and Bacon Burger is not named after any violent political protest. Is still highly recommended, possibly the most out of any burgers tried today. Duck in a burger is a quaint, somewhat patrician concept, like wearing Burberry for a day out in Chinatown. The patty has a quirky, somewhat spiced and fluffy taste to it, the barest hints of breadcrumbs seeming to underpin the smoky-sharp taste of the duck. It pairs well with the bacon, with salt and pepper overtones rebounding off each other like ninjas in a sparring match. I would recommend that all readers suffering pre-election fatigue try this burger, for it will refresh your minds and senses.

My Big Moo tears my attention away from the duck with its sneer, a gastronomic Cyclops with an egg for an eye and a pugnacious slice of beetroot poking out at me like an insolent tongue. This is rebellion of the basest order, and I am not prepared to stand for it. I draw my knife and the burger wilts a little, but not enough to lose its juicy appeal. Springtime for Ninja is a lovely season, if you can stand the bloodshed.

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Moo Burger

Location: 232 King St, Newtown NSW 2042 (also Coogee and Bondi)

Taste-type: Burgers

Price: $10-17 for burgers; $5-6.50 for shakes

How to get there: Train or bus to Newtown, then a quick walk along King St.

Contact: 02-95654001

I’m in love.

It’s not a heartsickeningly self-conscious infatuation, nor is it of the hysterically adoring variety associated with vampires and little boys with high voices. It’s a purer sort of love, the sort which never falters and always pays the price (and a rather reasonable one, at that). It’s the sort which makes me want to weep.

I know the risks; to fall in love is to become the prey, to willingly open one’s flank to the slings and arrows of the bitter world. But I take them on without a second thought. Never mind that the name Black Star sounds ominously like throwing-star; forget the arty-bohemian accents which threaten to suffocate my simple mind. Forget even the cramped benches which sacrifice space for rustic atmosphere, the wobbly stools which are forced into servitude as makeshift tables. Love is selfless, love is blind. Love is like a swan-dive into the Rhine*.

First the tempestuous affair, a maelstrom of tantalising sensation and generous flattery. It must outshine the competition, being of a smoother, flakier tone which reverberates with buttery longing. Substance too: tender, meaty, flecked with herbs of delicate composition. Every taste demanding more, setting the tone for true seduction. Some call it a Sausage Roll; I call it temptation.

And then when the defences are lowered comes the tour de force, sweeping the victim away, leaving no room for doubt in one’s mind. Inscrutable, complex, a multi-layered enigma wrapped in a riddle wrapped in strawberries. Some layers crisp with the gentlest hint of the rose, some fruity and refreshing as though the breeze of summer were frozen within. It should not work, yet it does, as though dream layered upon dream upon dream to form a blanket of incomprehensible fantasy. This is Black Star’s famous Strawberry, Watermelon and Rose Cream Cake, and every bite is a bite of ecstasy.

Of course, some ungenerous souls will point out that food and love are two very different things. What sad soul, they ask, would fall in love with a mere instrument of sustenance? In response to them, I would say: are not food and love both of the senses? When they don’t work, they hurt like a knife to the guts (sometimes literally in both cases); when they do, nothing can compare. I would say that in a world where highly sought-after tickets can turn into diamonds and Ginger Ninjas can get away with looking like sumo wrestlers, anything is possible. Even love.

*It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Black Star Pastry

Location: 277 Australia St, Newtown NSW 2042

Taste-type: Baked goods

Price: Around $4 – $7 for most items.

How to get there: Train or bus to Newtown station; if driving, note that Australia St does not connect directly to King St but is instead accessible via a pedestrian vestibule.

Contact: 02-95578656

]]> http://theninjareview.com/2010/08/black-star-pastry/feed/ 9 http://theninjareview.com/2009/10/chai-tow-kuih-temasek/ http://theninjareview.com/2009/10/chai-tow-kuih-temasek/#comments Sat, 10 Oct 2009 05:18:20 +0000 The Ninja http://theninjareview.com/?p=291

Location: The Roxy Arcade, 71 George St, Parramatta NSW 2150

Taste-Type: Malaysian/Singaporean

Price: Chai Tow Kuih $18.00

How to get there: Drive to George St and park there or in the little car-park behind the restaurant. Temasek is hidden in a small alleyway near Roxy Arcade but just follow the sea of black hair.

Contact: 02-96339926

Early on in my reviewing days, I swore an oath not to review this restaurant until my training was complete. I have eaten here ever since I was a ninja-let with soft plastic shurikens and a wooden daito training-sword that my elders bought for $2.50 at Charlie Chan’s Samurai Bargains. As I have grown so has Temasek, blossoming out into the shop next door and bringing in more and more ardent disciples each year. It is a shrine to the Malaysian and Singaporean Hawker food of yesteryear, with the clamouring hubbub and helter-skelter service to match, and it is closer to my stainless-steel heart than any other restaurant. I am not yet ready for a full review, but instead shall provide a glimpse of what makes this humble establishment so special to so many stomachs.

When the call came, I packed my sidearm and headed out without hesitation. Chai tow kuih is a rare offering at Temasek, a weekend special that is quick to vanish like good sense in a karaoke bar. This hawker-store staple is often dubbed “carrot-cake” but is in fact based around fried radish garnished with egg omelette and prawns. Temasek’s “white” version is delectably crispy on the outside yet melts to a smooth buttery sensation when fully chewed, with lashings of chilli flakes sending frissons of pleasure through my nervous system. The radish cake resembles potato but is less bland and lacks the ponderous weightiness of its cousin. The prawns and egg are excellent in their own right, but merely serve to highlight the creamy tenderness of the radish.

Two plates arrive and the ritual begins. I feel the prickly warmth of the chill singing in my belly, goading me to feats of excellence. Thoughts of supple-hot island states and sunsets across the causeway spin around in my head, a delirium of ecstasy enough to defeat any person from Porlock. I take another mouthful, and another.

As we leave with bliss smeared across our faces, a band of hoodlums pulls up in a set of expensive cars and threatens us with murder. They are mere thugs, easy enough to ignore, but the food has set off my creative impulses and I cannot resist. As the clouds rumble in the distance, I slowly walk up to the cars. A fork appears in one hand. A plastic shuriken, scratched and adorned with “You’re a Star!” stickers, appears in the other.