Things have been quiet in Shinobi Valley as our inaugural First Birthday approaches (with the first half of our two-part Birthday Present being released tomorrow). The Shooter is still undergoing rehabilitation after his brush with the CBB virus, and my internal organs are in dire need of detox after one too many rounds of All-You-Can-Eat ribs. Maybe it’s the blunt-axe chill of winter which is impeding our legendary regenerative processes, or maybe age is catching up to us. I emerge from my comatose state seeking old comforts, needing some simple fare to scour my insides of the remnants of a gluttonous soirée.

So I teleport out of the Valley and troop over to Makan At Alice’s, or Alice’s for short, for a nostalgic taste of the homeland I absconded from so many years ago. It’s quiet this time – weekdays crowds tend to swell and ebb at irregular and unpredictable intervals – but I know from experience that the wan-cream walls and streetside vitrines will shudder with clamour and noise come the weekend. The restaurant’s namesake and her self-taught-chef husband have featured on TV for their famous kuih, receive regular newspaper mentions for their homage to old-world Peranakan traditions in dishes like their Char Kway Teow (pictured), and are longtime friends of the Overlord. All of which are good reasons to visit (especially for stalkers enthusiastic fans of the Overlord), in this ninja’s humble opinion.

Some might point out, just quietly, that the arterial excesses of Malaysian and Singaporean cuisine may not be the best tools of detoxification in the toolbox that is Sydney’s restaurant scene. To them I say, what is life but a brief interval between points of non-existence? If the lush coconut milk, sweetly piquant sambal and tender-flaky beef cubes of the Beef Rendang Laksa make you feel revitalised, why not partake of them before your life is snatched away by an errant blade or accidental nuclear missile? I always thought the point of detox was to make you feel good, in any case. There was this one time I had to take out a target while he was on a diet which consisted only of lemons and monkey toenails. I’m sure if he’d been able to see the future, he would have chosen my sort of detox instead. Or just not stood on that very high balcony.

This meal is sweet like Alice’s Ais Kachang, comforting my faux-soul as gula melaka and rose syrup comfort my nerve endings. But it also brings to mind the endangered hawker stores and roadside vendors of a time now lying scuffled in the dirt, and that makes me a sad ninja. I have been reminded all too recently that life is too short for bad karaage, and I would hasten to suggest that it is also too short for lemon detox. If I ever fall on a mission (a highly unlikely event), clean out my arteries and I shall be fine again.

Stay tuned for Part 1 of The Birthday Present tomorrow! With humour! And zombies! Maybe!

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Makan @Alice’s

Location: 262-264 Pennant Hills Rd, Thornleigh NSW 2120

Taste-type: Malaysian

Price: $9-15 for individual meals; all desserts $5.50.

How to get there: Exit on the East entrance of Thornleigh station (Station Rd) and take a right onto Bellevue Rd. Parking is readily available but weekends may require a short wait.

Contact: 02-94840288

Location: 25 Railway Pde, Eastwood NSW 2122

Taste-type: Japanese

Price: Deluxe Sushi $30 (Regular Sushi $16), Chicken Kaarage $9

How to get there: Train or bus to Eastwood. Street parking is stingy until about 6pm when time-limits cease to apply.

The shabby walls of Hukuya carry none of the glamorous curves or sleek metallic lines of the city’s finer eating establishments. But this is not the city, and things are done differently here. Having frequented this sushi bar on many a quiet weekend, I can safely say that the building could easily withstand samurai, zombies, and most varieties of small-arms.

Sun daubs golden streaks across the scratchily-varnished tables within the restaurant and I slip into light meditation with eyes closed and katana levitating above the counter. Outside rage the battles of pushy Hong Kong grannies and testy Korean youths, but in here there is a humming quiet that soothes the senses. We order and wait for little over five minutes, for this is before peak-hour and the staff know our balaclavas well.

A Deluxe Sushi is enough for two (or three, if they lack appetites and manhood), and consists of a pirate ship laden with fresh-cut nigiri and ample servings of wasabi and ginger. The wasabi here is the real potent deal, unlike that of weaker-willed pretenders. Each piece of sushi is startlingly fresh and generous, with the salmon-belly (middle of top row) and kingfish being standouts. The salmon belly is a new addition to this platter, and has a thick luscious texture to it which slides lasciviously along the tongue like bandits along a spear-tip. All the pieces are nigiri except for the Tuna Tempura Rolls which are unique (in my knowledge) to Hukuya. These are pleasingly crisp and juicy, but have a tendency to be somewhat dried out by the frying.

A good piece of Chicken Kaarage is like a sumo wrestler: plump, tender, and bad for your health. Hukuya’s plate of chicken holds about 7 or 8 generous pieces, each deep-fried to golden-brown perfection. Each gallant morsel brims with salty-spicy flavour and has a succulent texture that, when combined with the sesame-mayonnaise mix on the side, sends both pleasure and calorie meters flying high into the sky. I am especially enamoured with the petite swirl of mayonnaise in the dish which reminds me of a meringue but does not taste the same. The salad on the side tastes like vegetables.

Having feasted on fishy flesh and the Japanese equivalent of chicken nuggets with dipping-sauce, I straighten upon my stool and break my meditation to let out a quiet belch of appreciation. However, the assistant chef at the bench takes offence and stops cutting the sushi with his oversized cleaver. His beady eyes flick left, then right, then settle on me with malicious intent. Outside, the birds cease to sing and grannies and youths alike go silent. I smile and, with the power of my mind, turn my floating katana so it points directly at his left eye socket. He blanches whiter than the rice he is moulding and begs my forgiveness. I magnanimously grant it to him in return for eternal obediance and extra tea.

Location: 12 Oxford St, Epping NSW 2121

Taste-Type: Italian

Price: Not worth the bother

How to get there: Train to Epping station, then head up Oxford St.

Given that tonight’s dinner was in celebration of my mother’s dinner, I considered myself off-duty when offering my patronage to Rialto Ristorante. However, the depressingly vulgar experience of the establishment left me no choice but to unleash full ninja hell upon this pretentiously-mediocre joint. Let us begin:

Over the course of the night, service was haughty bordering on the outright rude. The main waitress was quick to turn a pudgy sneer upon our table whenever we passed, one which morphed instantaneously into an effusive smile when dealing with the other customers. I noted that these aforementioned other customers were all of Caucasian or Mediterranean background, making my Oriental clan a rather noticable stand-out. Dare I invoke the claim of RACISM?

When serving my mother with Parmesan cheese (a rather bland packet-style variety), the junior Subcontinental waitress spilt a fair amount on the table. However, she was extremely gracious and apologetic about it. Unfortunately, she was the only beacon of courtesy in the entire establishment. When the main (RACIST?) waitress spilt wine across my mother’s napkin, there was no such apology forthcoming. In fact, this pudgy specimen of bad service took on a belligerent tone not at all conducive to the fine dining suggested by the restaurant’s faux-Italian name. We took the concern to the manager, who bore a startling resemblance to her waitress:

The manager informed us that her head waitress had “always received good reviews”. I then proceeded to inform her that I myself was a food reviewer, and that her service and food were both highly average.

I was then told to leave the restaurant.

If you are of Oriental appearance, do not go to Rialto. If you enjoy good Italian food, do not go either. If you do not take lightly to being verbally abused by your alleged hosts, stay well away. In fact, just don’t go near the place. But if you do, bring a lot of shurikens and your biggest katana. And some armour-piercing bullets.

Location: 14 Oxford St, Epping NSW 2121

Taste-Type: Vietnamese

Price: Raw Beef Noodle Soup $8, Spring Rolls $6.80

How to get there: Bus or train to Epping station, then walk up the right-hand side of Oxford Street.

Contact: 02-98690499

From dawn’s gumtree mantle to the asphalt fall of night, the day has stretched itself like a thin shadow across a lonely flame. My eyes sting from dusty flecks kicked up by the road, and a clammy pall of weariness adheres itself across my shoulders. I need some noodles.

Pho Sam, wedged inconspicuously into the increasingly-upmarket Oxford Street, is a homely refuge for various reviled types including university students, transit officers, and ninjas. This probably has something to do with their prices rather than their no-frills wooden tiling and exposed (and always bustling) kitchen. Most dishes are around $10, and unlike many other discount-dining options these are no chimeras of plastic pho and MSG. The restaurant’s food has a brusque honesty to it, one which extends to everything from the guttural Canto-Vietnamese barks of the head waitress to the bare-bones fish tank to the Garfield tip-jar on the counter. It feels little like the airbrushed Northern Sydney of today.

The large posters on Pho Sam’s walls indicate to the uninformed (or potentially illiterate) customer which dishes are considered specialties. These include the Vietnamese “3 Combination” (a rice dish not related to the gong fu training routine), the Fried Spring Rolls, and the Raw Beef Noodle Soup, amongst others. I have tried the Spring Rolls on previous occasions; they are consistently flaky-crispy and possessing of a fiery-gold sheen which is rather alluring, and while the meat fillings are not of the highest quality they remain juicy and finely spiced. I recommend them for lunch in particular; however, it is late and I am hungry, and an evil Face is telling me to get the Raw Beef Noodle Soup. Ninjas do well to listen to omens.

The Noodle Soup arrives within a few minutes despite the hubbub; however, wait times can vary significantly, so take-away is the safest choice for the time-conscious. The flat rice noodles are plain but hide a sumptuous home-grown taste which eases my twitchy nerves. The silky earthiness of each strand brings back echoes of faraway rice paddies and I dip into them with gusto. I taste an undercurrent of MSG within the broth, but the warm tan colour and expansive heat (of flavour and temperature) blend together in hearty chorus: no complaint from this side of Saigon.  The beef is a tad too raw for my personal taste – I rarely use flamethrowers for fear of undercooking a target – but this is easily rectified by dunking the offending pieces into the broth. It remains a tad chewy but with an arresting cut-grind taste which salves the tastebuds.

Pho Sam is a relic of a simpler time, when food could be cheap and good, when ninjas used cunning and not machine-guns. Patrons enter with glum faces and within minutes are smiling and laughing, happy to shrug off the pall of a long day. They come for the “lack” of ambience as much as the food or the price, and I pray to the evil Face that it will stay for many a year.

Location: 2/16-18 Bridge St, Epping NSW

Taste-Type: Contemporary Chinese

Price: Soft-Shell Crab $20, Banquet 1 $38pp (all dishes available separately on menu)

How to get there: Train or bus to Epping station, then cross the overpass to the Coles side. Follow Rowe Street up to the roundabout and take the left.

Contact: 02-98766838

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Tonight’s mission, the capture of a corrupt business official, is almost certain to take me away from any quality dining-fare. I have even prepared a packet of instant noodles and wasabi in anticipation of a quiet night in. However, the ingenious use of a geisha’s outfit and some Glad-Wrap allows me to secure the target in record time and I am able to head out for dinner.

Gwen’s (formerly known as Kenny’s) is somewhat of an institution in the Epping area, drawing large crowds into its high-modern arena of open-glass walls and varnished wooden slats. The place is dimly-lit and boasts an army of plush red chairs and wall-couches, somewhat reminiscent of my target’s brothel. My immediate concerns for the cuisine’s authenticity are not assuaged by the fact that all the Oriental waiters speak good English. However, head waiter Bill offers us free dishes, which is awesome. My camera likes him a lot.

Gwen’s is also home to twin mechanised samurai urns, often used by cowardly samurai as proxies in the Ninja Wars:

One of them, rather predictably, challenges me to a duel; I decline, saying its fighting skills have gone to pot. I justify this pun with a series of logically-progressing fully-cited dot points before the food arrives.

The Chilli Pepper Soft-Shell Crab, one of our free dishes, hits the table quickly but is somewhat average. The crab-meat itself is juicy-sweet and dissolves prettily in the mouth, but the batter is far too floury and lacks the necessary spice of the Singaporean Chilli Crab to which it alludes. The fried onion garnish has the texture of cardboard, albeit especially finely-cut cardboard. It provides a worthy challenge to my chopstick abilities, but is ultimately defeated.

The entrée of the banquet consists of a Spring Roll and Sesame Prawn Fan. The Spring Roll is springy. The Prawn Fan is fanny.

Gwen’s specialty is their Crispy Duck Pancake, a modern take on the age-old Chinese stereotype. The duck has a light texture and delicate taste but is far too dry; the pancake boasts an airy-fluffy but ultimately rather boring constitution. What holds this dish together is the sauce, a sweet-sour velvet which glues the other ingredients together in a finely synthesised whole. However, the sauce has been laid on by rather a miserly hand and this shortcoming is only compounded when I find a bone in my duck. I am not pleased.

The Seafood Combination tries hard but fails to deliver anything of superior standard. Although the fish and squid offer little resistance to the teeth, the sauce only waters down any taste within the dish. Even when I threaten it with a thousand cuts of my wakizashi, it continues to stew moodily in its soggy bath. It could learn from the Wok-Seared Diced Eye Fillet, another of Gwen’s flagship dishes:

This mix of tenderly petite beef cubes and silky pepper sauce is the best thing I encounter on the night. The black pepper is hot but not overpowering, while the honey base plays up the natural juices of the meat. It enjoins sweetness with pungency in a melting, prickly sensation akin to liquid fire. Like many such sensations, however, it goes cold prematurely and I am soon left with a globular morass which no-one else wants to eat.

I am usually a fan of fried ice-cream (especially of the green-tea variety, which is a ninja favourite around the globe). Thus I am all the more displeased with the substandard quality of Gwen’s dessert. The vanilla ice-cream is nice, as all ice-cream is; yet the crust of the ice-cream could barely be called that, resembling a damp tofu-skin rather than anything worthy of serving. Despite its elegant plating, the dish reminds me of a caramel-soaked octopus testicle.

At the end of the day, Gwen’s is comparable to its bowls of rice: fine décor and ambience do little to conceal the plainness of its cuisine. While there is some culinary fun to be had, it fails to justify the premium prices of the menu. I leave the restaurant with a full belly, but wishing I had gone with the noodles instead.

Location: Shop 406a Macquarie Shopping Center, North Ryde NSW

Taste-Type: Mexican/Fast Food

Price: All sets $9.90, guacamole +$2.00

Contact: 02-98888351

I have never heard of Mad Mex before today, but according to the Internet they operate a number of chain stores around Australia peddling variations on the general theme of Mexican foodstuffs. The Macquarie store is outfitted with a homely decor, with hardwood benches and the mural-style designs on the walls intended to evoke the passion and rawness of the Wild West. In homage to the American cafeteria tradition, the menu is based entirely around basic mix-and-match trays, a feature which bodes ill for my sensitive palate. I am impressed by the chandelier of Corona bottles, but fear that the tacky rawness of the setting will similarly pervade the aforementioned foodstuffs.

I am, as is sometimes the case, rather happily mistaken. In fact, the steak tacos that I order are if anything a little overdone; the tacos take on a semblance to cardboard while the steak chunks are rather chewy like old gum. Cardboard and gum are rarely this tasty, however, and I am especially impressed by the juiciness of the steak. The picente salsa that I pick is piquant and a touch peppery, but not hot enough to make me reach for my hermetically-sealed poison-resistant hip flask. I am not impressed by the surcharge on guacamole (what I consider a staple in any faux-derivative Mexican cuisine) but it is creamy and cooling so I eat all of it, partly to preserve yin/yang balance and partly to make the most of my money. I am just finishing when a squad of alien chairs materialises and attacks.

I fend off the initial assault and am launching a counter-attack with a flury of shurikens when the management ejects me for damage to property. Upon display of my katana, however, they flee along with the entire mall. The remains of my tacos do not, however, and I congratulate them on their valour (even in death). Then I return to chopping up chairs.