Location: Tattersalls Lane, Melbourne VIC 3000

Taste-type: Chinese

Price: Steamed Pork Dumplings $5.80 (15 pieces), Steamed Sweet Pumpkin Dumpling $3 (6 pieces)

How to get there: Head into Chinatown and go along Little Bourke St. Tattersalls Lane will be on your left if you’re coming in from the West side, just past the Chinatown arches.

Following a tip-off from a trusted agent, my team and I descend upon Chinatown in search of the best dumplings known to man. We flicker in and out of the crowds, the yammering voices around us slowly shifting from plump Anglo-Saxon syllables to the chop and stab of Mandarin interspersed with languid spurts of Cantonese. The air is thick with heat and pedestrian ire, trams clogging up the arterial lanes of the city as flies attempt to keep up with us, following for seconds before out pace turns them to ash in mid-flight. Satisfaction is only a block away.

Were it not for the crowds milling outside awaiting their take-out orders, the door to Camy Shanghai Dumpling and Noodle restaurant would be somewhat inconspicious. Even with the lurid orange sign that hangs above the doorway, Tattersall’s Lane is like any other of the grimy alveoli that punctuate the city-centre, and the premises which we encounter are hardly encouraging. Like cynical ghosts worn out from haunting too many people, the yellow-stained walls cramp in around us, enseamed with memories of the mainland and a million such back-alley stores left behind across the seas. We pick our way upstairs and settle ourselves in a slightly dank wooden bench-booth, taking our orders off sticky plastic menus. The wait is almost over.

Such sordid surrounds might well cause a rookie ninja to doubt their decision, but the worthiness of my source and the dedication of the crowds causes my eyes to sparkle with anticipation. And sure enough, the dumplings are divine. Better yet, they are divinely cheap. Tangy calculates that each of the Steamed Pork Dumplings has cost us a mere thirty-three cents. We immediately order another plate and casually shovel the sweetly aromatic dumplings down our throats, marvelling at our good fortune as the pork juices zing and fizz against the insides of our mouths. While the Steamed Sweet Pumpkin Dumplings which I sample are a little bland, the Pork Dumplings have a filling zest to them which makes each ninja sing inside.

But at an institution like this time is of the essence, for time equals money and money equals happiness and pretty wo/men, so we concede to the insinuating stares of the dandy-vested waiter and the throbbing lights of the toilet sign. We pay up, say our thanks, and disappear into the summery haze with a air-splitting roar echoing in our wake. For a sated ninja, breaking the sound barrier is no small matter. Rather, it becomes infinitesimally facile.

Location: Ninja Base Camp 1, [Classified] Melbourne 3000 VIC

Taste-type: death New-Age Fast Food

Price: Large Fries and extra sauce $5.50 (approx), Wicked Wings $25 (approx)

How to get there: [Classified]

What does it take to kill a ninja?

1. Acquire fifty Wicked Wings from KFC:

2. Acquire a few boxes of fries from Lord of the Fries with extra servings of Belgian Mayonnaise. Make sure that the extra mayonnaise is not served on the fries but in separate containers:3. Offer both Wicked Wings and Belgian Mayonnaise to a ninja (Lennycakes is most susceptible). Leave the area as soon as possible.

This devious ploy was put into action by an anonymous shooter and experienced limited success. One ninja, Lennycakes, was slain by the trap and had to be revived with Death-Cheating Technique #44 (Kick to Groin). However, the other three ninjas in our team were unaffected. I would also like to note, so as to somewhat deflect criticism of my training methods, that Lennycakes had also ingested copious quantities of alcohol and propane prior to, and during, engagement with the trap. I would also like to point out that when revived, Lennycakes claimed the experience to have been “orgasmic”, “one of the best experiences in my life”, and “making Melbourne worthwhile”.
In the interests of science, I recommend further research into the necessary critical mass of Wicked Wings required to stop a ninja’s heart, noting that the anonymous shooter’s test turned out to be rather enjoyable for all the ninjas involved. This should be considered a test failure and duly noted in all relevant records.

The Ninja takes no responsibilty for coronary arrest resulting from this post.

Location: Federation Square, Melbourne VIC 3000

Taste-type: Modern Japanese

Price: Yaki-Gyuniku $9.50 (2pc), Gyoza $9.80 (4pc), Tempura Soba $24, Gyu ramen $19.80, Nabeyaki Udon $24

How to get there: Just a short stroll from Flinders St Station to Federation Square, one of the world’s ugliest examples of modern architecture. Look for the grotesque metal sails.

There are times, rare as they may be, when all the ninja-skills and shurikens in the world cannot save you. At those times, the wise warrior sets aside his katana, or his rifle, or even his flamethrower, and calls in the biggest missile strike he can get his tactical co-ordinates on. Then, when hellfire has rained down and all traces of the enemy have been washed down the infernal gutter of ignominy, the wise warrior sits back and orders take-away and gets himself a stiff drink. Unfortunately for my team, we are out of missiles.

We have already used up the patience and nuclear arsenal of our orbital support team on the unholy mutation that is was the modern adaptation of Mozart’s Cosi Fan Tutti. We have left the green-glowing ashes of the Melbourne Opera by the banks of the Yarra and now, after an alcohol-assisted slumber,  deploy to soothe the hunger that comes from being a quartet of weapons of mass destruction. It is I who recommends Chocolate Buddha, having supped there on a previous occasion and found the fare hearty and tasty, if somewhat expensive due to the restaurant’s prime location. We proceed to the target after a brief pit-stop, expecting little resistance.

We let ourselves be seated by the brusque politesse of a non-Japanese waiter and make our selections. Lennycakes’ Tempura Soba is the first to arrive, a combination of appetisingly-golden tempura prawns and homely soba. The ladle for the soba is a quaint-looking woodgrain affair. When the dish arrives, this ladle is entirely immersed in the soba. The noodles themselves are overdone and have a muggy texture to them, while the prawns turn out to be soggy and lack the crunch of even average tempura. Brian snarls and it seems to me that the ornate Buddha-heads surrounding us seem to be grinning at our impending demise. I pray to our god to deliver us from this fate worse than death, but He is On Air and thus unable to dispense divine intervention.

Brian’s Gyu Ramen is undercooked, the noodles sticking to each other like wet cardboard. Each slice of beef tataki seems to have been extracted from a millenia-long slumber in the Arctic, while the gyoza are thoroughly offensive (as I shall expand on later). The best bits of the dish are the beansprouts and the disposable chopsticks.

We have, in our post-traumatic folly, ordered a plate of Green Gyoza, which turn our bellies numb with their gluey weight and viciously bland consistency. By this time we hope merely to survive this ordeal with life left in our veins and coins left in our wallets, but this hope is looking increasingly dim. I lob a fire-bomb at a buddha’s head but it merely smiles beatifically and passes unharmed through the flames. I suspect samurai automatons or bad luck.

The Yaki-Gyuniku have the sallow texture and cloying plastic taste of rubber-bands or fossilised dog turds. I try to make a witty comment as I down them but the molested beef sticks to my throat and nearly chokes me.

The Nabeyaki Udon that Tangy and I commandeer is the easiest victim to digest, with juicy portions of shredded chicken and tasty fish-cakes. However, the noodles are once again overcooked and bloating, while the shiitake mushrooms wrestle with my jaw like a mega shark or giant octopus. The dishwasher-scum which cakes up the sides of our bowls and drifts dandruff-like into our soup is also of slight concern.

Ordinarily we would draw swords and demolish the establishment, but we are still fatigued from the previous night’s war and our prolonged exposure to Melburnian oxygen. We stumble out, covering our retreat with shurikens and fire-arrows, and I begin to cry. I cry for changes in management, and overpriced food that impregnates the stomach with the cynical poison of the trendy and the fashionable. I cry for the undiscerning tastebuds and their gormless owners who allow such travesties of dining to flourish when they should shrivel. I cry for Buddha, and Melbourne, and the unbearable lightness of my wallet. Then I dry my tears and start ordering more missiles.

Dear minions, how do you respond when a restaurant fails to meet expectations? Or when a restaurant is just abysmal?

Location: 305 Lygon St, Carlton VIC 3053

Taste-Type: Italian

Price: Schiaffatelle $15.90, Tortellini Tartuffe $16.90, Veal Scallopini $21.90

How to get there: Tram or bus to the start of Lygon St (the 555 Tourist Tram gets you quite close), then a leisurely stroll down Lygon St. Pick up some gelato on the way back.

Contact: 03-93470911

I must confess…

I did not mean to dismember the bicycle.

My team has spent the day window-shopping in the bohemian-trashy op-shops and boutiques of Brunswick Street, picking up various items of apparel and accessory to add to their inventories. I have been unable to find any suitable weapons, utilities, or obscenely cute souvenirs, and as a result am rather irritated with the whole endeavour. Apart from accidental mechanical dismemberment, the best cure for irritability is any copious quantity of food, so I direct the team to nearby Lygon Street and its grungy bastion of Italian restaurants that command acclaim and fame worldwide.

Tiamo 2’s varnished wooden panelling and backlit alcoves bear more than just affability and refinement, with quirky touches spread here and there around the two-storey restaurant. We bid good afternoon to the jolly patchwork frog which guards the counter before being challenged by a bowl of water and a lemon. Tiamo 2 offers a free pizza to any who can balance a coin upon the lemon, which bobs seductively in the water like Helen in Menelaus’ boat.

Lennycakes tests his skill with many a piece of our disposable income, but the objective – keeping the coin on the lemon for ten seconds – remains elusive. I ask whether slicing the lemon into perfect sevenths in midair using nothing but my index finger will get me a free pizza, but the staff inform me that this is against the rules and is cruel to lemons.

We order. Brian does not like his Schiaffatelle, a lighter version of gnocchi, nothing the dolorous weight of the pasta and taking offence at the blandness of the sauce. I myself believe the sauce’s slight citrus taste to be rather refreshing, but am also somewhat disappointed at the heaviness of the pasta and the lack of generosity in the ingredients.

Tangy and I are easily seduced by the Tortellini Tartuffe, the cream sauce of which is silky-smooth and unusually – although not unpleasantly – soupy. While a seedy membrane has formed over the soup (I suspect the dish has been left to cool for too long), this does little to detract from the fluffy tortellini and its potato interior, which are light enough for us to avoid the cloying palpitations which usually accompany such rich dishes.

Lennycakes’ order of the Veal Scallopini is a clear winner: the veal provides little resistance to each wakizashi incision and has been finely crumbed to produce a sultry golden-brown hue. The star of the dish is the pesto sauce which resembles a magma of radioactive sludge but is superior in taste, swimming with smooth piquant streaks of oregano, basil, and other mystery ingredients. Each bite of the dish has a homely poignant aftertaste which conjures up memories of now-endangered old-Italian trattorias. I would cry in homage except my tear ducts have been sealed with plates of lead.

We leave with full bellies and rejuvenated muscles, ready to carry out our next mission which involves fire-arrows and a substandard adaption of Mozart’s opera. I am tempted to leave a tip, but the promise of good karma sends me sprinting for the door.

Location: 2-26 Elizabeth St, Melbourne VIC 3000

Taste-Type: New-Age Fast Food

Price: Box of fries $4.95 (Cone $3.95), Classic sauces $0.75, Deluxe sauces $1.25

How to get there: Train or tram to Flinders St station, or just walk to the corner of Elizabeth and Flinders St.

Contact: 03-96545673

The team has just parachuted into the heart of Melbourne and are feeling slightly peckish. We reconverge with little difficulty on the rooftop of Federation Square and I direct my comrades towards our first checkpoint. My three team-mates are at first suspicious of this hole-in-the-wall joint; Brian scrutinises the menu intensely before choosing his target. With its lurid red signs and rapid-fire, 24-hour service, Lord of the Fries provides ample ammunition for those wishing to compare the food industry to the sex trade. The use of special sauces on the fries further compounds the problem.

We extract from this bordello of cheaply satisfying fast food within a few minutes, bringing our captured targets to a nearby park for thorough interrogation. First to go down is the chip-box with Belgian Sauce(bottom left), a generous slathering of allegedly European-style mayonnaise. The team is enraptured. Mayonnaise with such an alluring peppery tinge and lasciviously creamy-slick texture has never been encountered before. Even worse (or better, from a culinary perspective), the African Sauce(bottom right) mixes this mayonnaise with onions and tomato sauce to create a potent blend of salt and spice. Each mayo-covered chip suddenly becomes a deadly weapon of addiction, threatening to enslave the very ninjas targeting it. I act fast. My katana and wakizashi slip from their sheaths and shred the mayo into its molecular components, leaving my team-members blinking as though awaking from a dream or intense game of Defence of the Ancients.

Fortunately for my team’s collaborative and moral integrity, the Satay Sauce is less seductive, with its putrid yellow-brown hue making even the numerous flies around us take flight. While the peanut taste in the sauce is strident, the honeyed overtones tend to numb the tongue with their intensity. I soon stop eating these fries, evaporate them with my portable flamethrower, and take to halving flies in midair with my fingernails.

Much like the streets of its namesake, the Italian Sauce looks to be filled with rapidly-decomposing roadkill and excrement. This sauce is a disappointment: the mince-meat has not been heated and subsequently takes on a curdling-heavy weight that is difficult to digest. While the cheese is fresh and tasty, my comrades and I were expecting it to have been melted on the meat and are sorely displeased as a result. The flies are delighted by the excremental appearance of the sauce, but I slay them before they can fully express their opinions.

A lunch of golden-salted fries and exotic sauces is not the best choice for the health-conscious. In fact, I feel my vision blurring as we head to our base of operations and am forced to take a cyanide pill to freshen up. However, the value and quality that the Lord of the Fries offers up are difficult to surpass, with the brilliance of the Euro-mayonnaise drawing crowds at all times of the day for good reason. A fly buzzes around my eyes, trying to suck up some traces of mayo on my balaclava. I kill it, slit its throat, and pop another pill.