The rains, they’re a-falling, a-drenching our spirits,

And putting our stainless-steel swords to good use;

But inclement weather does have a few merits -

To start off, it’s good for declaring a truce

And giving the minions a couple days joy-leave;

Or bunkering down with a mind to reduce

The piles of detritus and mind-clogging refuse

Which are (for this ninja) a terrible peeve.

Let’s sort out these memories, decaying to history,

Elided by arrows and teardrops of time -

Why, yesterday’s happenings feel like a mystery

(but I’m pretty sure they weren’t set out to rhyme).

We toss out the humdrum, like house-chores and shoot-outs,

And focus on polishing relics sublime -

To write off the past is quite surely a hate-crime

A fact of which good ninjas never have doubt.

So back to the Hunter we go, to Verandah,

Where fine Aussie tapas don’t need politesse:

Just sip, clink and burp while you gossip and gander,

And don’t fear your napkin sustaining a mess!

Because if you do, you’ll not taste the flavours

Pressed fresh into triple-hit combos (the best)

Like ‘Shrooms Goat-Cheese Pumpkin requiring bedrest

To fathom the taste-symphony which one savours

When joining three disparate shards in this Trinity.

Or maybe a zesty slap from Blue Crab Fingers?

You’ll feel like you’re tumbling into infinity

Lullabied by sour crustacean singers

With prawn-tails for noses. Now Saffron Potato,

Quite redolent with crispy sweetness that lingers,

Brings lightness of being (like two black-clad harbingers

Who once popped a hostile skull like a tomato).

The wine sloshes round in the brain, swilling synapses

Full with the scent of Slow-Roast Lamb and Jus -

The combo’s enough to elicit fine lapses

Of judgement in knowing what’s false and what’s true.

Is it that this beef really tastes so delicious?

Or am I being suckered by alcohol too?

It doesn’t quite matter; what does is the loo -

My bladder’s a torrent of curses quite vicious.

The rains, they’re a-falling, a-drenching  us fast,

But good food and wine lasting stories do make.

Don’t ever forget that the storm-clouds will pass -

A single fine memory’s all it should take.

Mushrooms, Goats’ Cheese and Pumpkin

Blue Spanner Crab, Vinaigrette, Salad

Potato, Pesto, Saffron

Lamb Shoulder, Kipfler Potatoes

—

The Verandah Restaurant

Location: Palmers Lane, Rothbury New South Wales 2320

Taste-type: Australian-style tapas

Price: Plates (4-servings) $14-36 (2-serving plates available)

How to get there: Use a map and a paradrop

Contact: 02-49987231

The festive season’s come and gone again,

And now’s the time we really need some grog:

The contracts flooding in – but we’ve few men

To hunt down foes in tower, street and bog.

We need some wine! To keep our spirits up

And slake our thirsts with vessels fillable.

We draw good cheer and warmth from each mulled cup

As we accrue our hours billable.

A quick selection from a nifty shop

Doth get us back in business rather quick -

Delivered fast, expending not a drop

Afore our Semtex timers start to tick:

The wine helps to our memories reset:

We literally fire and forget.

Been in the desert till your vision’s gone

And you can feel your life-force start to drain?

Just pop and chug some Jackson’s Semillon - 

You’ll dehydrate, but you won’t feel the pain;

A little tart, but goes quite well with fish,

Fruit salad types, and cyanide in the throat.

Perhaps you pine for something more delish

Which also helps assist a corpse to float.

Then Peterson’s fine Sparkling White may do:

It’s sweet with piquant notes to fit your lunch

And liven up your dull shorthanded crew;

The bubbles also pack a ditzy kind of punch.

But all in all, one cannot whine ’bout wine:

The substance does make us feel divine…

Wines generously provided by Keep Left PR on behalf of Wine Selectors.

Jackson’s Hill Semillon 2011

Peterson’s Sparkling White NV

Dashing through the trees with an army in pursuit,

And all I want’s some peace – I’d better stash this loot;

Dump amongst the vines, send some decoys out,

Pause to dine on meals fine that’s what the season’s about -

Jingle bells, jingle bells,

But ninjas make no noise;

This bistro serves up French repas

With great élan and poise and

Lots of wine, lots of wine

Winos everywhere

Drink one drop and you won’t stop

When chugging Hunter fare

Duck pate’s a dream of lushly layered love,

Choux cheese strong on cream but well-crisped by the stove;

Juicy fruits de mer ensconced in Scallop shells,

Don’t you wish that you were there amongst the muscatels -

Now here comes, now here comes

The canard à l’orange 

Tender, sun-kissed, citrus-soaked

Un beau merveil qu’on mange;

Goat Tagine‘s pretty mean

Though Veal‘s a tad well-done;

Sit back and relax and let your

Palate have some fun.

Cap off with dessert: take a glassy crème brûlée

Which snaps when you insert your spoon into its tray;

It sings with soft-sweet verve, a master’s symphony

To savour – for there’s no love back in the cacaphony of

Christmas time, Christmas time,

Red in tooth and claw,

Birthday boy will find no joy

In retail pimps and whores; So

Hide your children hide your wife

And hide your stash of beer,

And patience misanthropic ninjas -

We’ll take revenge next year. Hey.

Famously famous duck pate

Gruyere cheese in choux pastry

Scallops with cheese and green stuff

Best duck ever (canard a l’orange) with bacon bits and peas and a view

Goat Tagine with rice and crispy bread things and a nice plate

Veal escallopes with more bacon bits

Creme Brulee

—

Bistro Molines

Location: 749 Mount View Road, Mount View (Hunter Valley) NSW 2325

Taste-type: Contemporary French/Algerian

Price: Entrées $20-30; Mains $38-40; Desserts $15-17 (menu changes daily per seasonal produce)

How to get there: Main road, sealed road, dirt road.

Contact: 02-49909553

Queue up for the hype?

Fresh pasta, decent prices -

Pretty pukka stuff.

Breads with herb pesto, balsamic vinaigrette and metal box

Balls LOLOLOL Smoky scamorza arancini

Crispy squid with “garlicky” mayo

Berludy Badass Buffalo Ricotta Ravioli

Awkward-sounding Bucatini Carbonara

“Give the bone a spoon” Risotto Milanese

Insert pun here

Note: When the bucatini carbonara turned out to be undercooked-on-arrival, we spent the next 15 minutes trying to get the attention of our waitstaff. When we did get their attention, however, they immediately returned the dish to the kitchen, delivered Bucatini Redux some 20 minutes later, and offered us each a complimentary dessert “so you don’t have to sit around waiting”. Some would be offended. I was impressed. The service-time is an issue, but hopefully it straightens out as the restaurant finds its jubbly-legs over the next few months.

—

Jamie’s Italian

Location: 107 Pitt St, Sydney NSW 2010

Taste-type: Oliverian Italian

Price: Decent – around $10 for starters and $20 for pastas.

How to get there: Walk down Hunter St from the George St exit at Wynyard Station, then take a right onto Pitt. Look for rustic wooden interiors, high ceilings, and queues.

Contact: 02-82409000 (no reservations, as far as I know)

I once went running over Sepia’s roof.

I didn’t know it at the time, of course,

Or I might well have dropped in for a bite

And drink or two. It’s quite a tour de force

Of haute couture and class, to tell the truth

(The roof I mean). The restaurant’s also quite

Enjoyable despite the dearth of light

Which I’m fond of but bloggers sob about:

“What horrid planning! Made me bring my flash…”

But all in all, it’s not like other joints

Where anyone who looks a tad slapdash

Is slain on sight. Jeans and a t-shirt flout

The rigmarole that fine dining’s main point

Is dressing up. And Sepia’s got some clout

When dealing in fine restaurant stakes (and steaks).

To dine in constant rapture for four hours

Is not something you’d do just every day.

But while your wallet wets its hide and cowers

In your pocket, take stock of what makes

This ten-course degustation just so fey.

Too lazy? Let me help you out, I pray:

The Amuse Bouche‘s a uni-lover’s dream,

Despite not bearing union-led discounts;

Take nori, add some monstrous Scallops and

You get a dish upon which food-snobs pounce;

The Tuna Tartare quickly wins esteem

With tuna raw and egg-yolk which demand

Attention like a naked marching-band;

To cap the entrées comes a Crab Risotto

Which foams with rabid glee at its success;

Some Hiramasa Kingfish topped with Scampi

Begins the mains with tantalising zest

Which, even if you were completely blotto,

Would lace your drunken haze with dreams of scampi.

Why did I choose to end that line with scampi?

The Beef with mushroom foam and paste disproves

The theory that “meat and two veg” be dull;

The Venison is just a little weird -

One really could the cocoa powder cull

For when it comes to meat, nothing behooves

It more than simply “medium, rare or seared?”;

Perhaps it’s meant as segue to revered

Dessert-time! Not a second steak this time,

Instead, this Jelly Thing to freshen up

With tart gelato and a drop of red;

And then upon Spring Forests we do sup

Redolent with choc twigs and fingerlime,

Topped with fresh sorbet royally-born and bred

To cool the jaded diner’s sleepy head.

I traversed Sepia’s roof in quite a hurry

For I was racing ninja wannabes

To show them that I was a force to fear.

If I had known of Sepia under me,

My focus would have surely gone a-flurry

With thoughts of good food, good friends and good beer.

I’m glad I finally made it back here.

 Amuse Bouche (Sea-urchin, wooden spoon, other cool stuff)

‘Scallop Sushi’ – nori-rolled scallop, pickled ginger, puffed sushi rice, avocado cream

Tartare of yellowfin tuna, poached egg-yolk, soy & wasabi sprouting caviar lentils (!!!!!! seriously!!!!) , amaranth grain

QLD spanner crab and buckwheat risotto, mustard butter, shellfish essence

Spiced roasted poetically-awkward scampi tails, roasted Hiramasa kingfish, scampi cream, baby fennel lemon, saffron + shiso + shellfish jus

Char-grilled pasture-fed completely-bossing Angus beef tenderloin marinated in Hatcho miso shiitake  (magic without a capital M) mushroom custard, nameko (??), miso mustard, barley miso

Cocoa and sansho-seared Mandagery creek venison, baby beetroots (not the band), rhubarb chocolate (?!?!), beetroot and boudin noir crumb

Pre-dessert (cucumber gingersomething sorbet somethingsomething jelly etc etc) (thanks, Moonfairy)

‘Spring Chocolate Forest’ – Soft chocolate, chestnut, native fingerlime honey cream, blackberry sorbet, blackberry candy, green tea, (very subtle) licorice, chocolate twigs, berries, crystallised fennel fronds (thanks, Moonfairy)

Sepia Restaurant and Wine Bar

Location: 201 Sussex Street, Sydney NSW 2000

Taste-type: Contemporary Australian

Price: $150 for ten course degustation

How to get there: Train to Town Hall or bus to QVB, then walk down to Sussex Street. Sepia is just next to Darling Park (PriceWaterhouseCoopers office).

Contact: 02-92831990

Although he came from further South,

They called him North, and in his wake

He left a swathe of longing ache

In many a grasping paw and mouth.

This North, he looked to carve his name

Into the cheek of restaurant fame.

He opened shop and whipped up funky

Things for diners with some nous;

The Ocean Trout was pride of house,

And one could tell there was no monkey-

Business round back kitchen-side,

Such was this dish’s verve and pride

In colour, spark and allergens.

For those not fruits-de-mer inclined,

A slash of glazed Pork Belly rind

Might well suffice to make amends

(As long as one’s cholesterol

Could manage to ingest it all);

To ease one’s guilt? Lasagne armed with

Soft, wet, gold, irrupting yolk.

“It may be meat-free,” say some folk,

“But call it healthy? That‘s some myth

To rival that apocrypha

About the Ninja’s skirt and bra…”

But that’s a tale for adult ears:

This review must stay innocent!

Much like ninjas when they’ve bent

Too many people round their spears

Whilst fighting for the last Date Tart

Or Cheesecake broken down to parts

Of gooey, crispy, old-school soma

Much like reality TV

Upon whose stage you’ll often see

Our head chef North, whose screen persona

Quite resembles Fruity Jubes -

Refreshing, tangy, comes in tubes,

Goes well with wine or Matt Moran.

Although the bittersweet blood-orange

Offends the uncouth palates of my minions as much as I’m offended by the lack of words rhyming with orange,

We leave with tastes more sated than

A zombie in a crowded mall.

And so we might say, all in all,

That North did etch his name quite well

Into this band of brothers’ hearts

With little pomp, with no false starts

Which otherwise might oversell

his fame. There’s really nought to whinge a-

bout for this reviewer-ninja.

SCORECARD (scores out of 10 unless otherwise stated)

Service: Effusive

Hen-themed props: 9.5

Minutes spent waiting for guests to arrive without any remarks from staff: 55

Confit Petona ocean trout, smoked scallop, radish, wasabi

Caramelised pork belly, crispy prawns, pickled Granny Smith, cider vinaigrette

Burnt spinach lasagne, local asparagus, slow-cooked egg, parmesan flakey things

Fried potatoes and prosciutto, the Ninja’s pick for Cardiac WInfarction

Caramel date tart, Early Grey tea syrup, burnt-butter ice-cream

Brilliat Savarin cheesecake, Champagne, mandarin sorbet

Market fruits (blood-orange and pineapple): jubes, gels, sorbets

Etch

Location: Intercontinental Sydney, 62 Bridge St Sydney NSW 2000

Taste-type: Contemporary Aussie

Price: Entrées $20-25; Mains $34-36; Desserts $16

How to get there: Train or bus to Circular Quay, then loop around to the East and walk up the hill towards the Museum of Sydney. Hotel Intercontinental is on the Eastern side of the road, towards the Conservatorium.

Contact: 02-9247-4777

“Satay is universal food,” says Florence Tan as she bastes another mush-dripping rack of meaty skewers, passing them off for immediate grill-treatment with a flick of the wrist and trademark beatific smile. “Doesn’t matter where you’re from, everyone loves satay!”

It’s true, at least to an extent. When I was mini-ninja, satay was the only food from the Straits which I’d deign to eat. Sizzling fat-spattered chunks of beef, lamb, chicken (none of this stuff) tossed about in the fire, impaled on waterlogged bamboo, bundled up with cucumber chunks and rice blocks and hyperchunky peanut sauce . But the most enjoyable bit was sabre duels using the bamboo skewers. There weren’t any other ninjas to play with, so I would take two skewers and engage in mortal combat with myself, twisting and parrying until the hand of my surrogate antagonist capitulated in swooning mock-agony or I got bored or hungry. Sometimes I wished for a real opponent, but I wasn’t sad. Nowadays I have more opponents than I can count and it isn’t as fun as my younger self might’ve thought.

According to Florence Tan, satay draws its name from sa tae, meaning “three pieces” in Chinese dialect. Good satay is marinated overnight, so that the teeming infusion of spices and powders and zests can thoroughly sink in. The heat should not be too hot. The skewer should never protrude through the final piece of meat because if it does the person eating might stab themself (although that happens once you get to the second piece anyway, Florence! Haven’t you ever done the awkward side-gnawing thing? Or is it just the savage shinobi once again?)

I don’t find satay as attractive as once I did. Maybe because my palate’s expanded and the sheer volume of sensory permutations out there makes meat-on-a-stick seem…well, rather pedestrian. Maybe because satay in Australia is rare, and good satay anywhere is hard to find. But what I come away with – apart from a box of ingredients which I will end up donating to my minions – is memories, of how fun it was to be a ninja when it didn’t involve slaying people and paperwork. There is nothing universal about sitting in a beaten-down restaurant playing at kendo with meat-encrusted sticks. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking on my part.

SCORECARD (scores out of 10 unless otherwise stated)

Taste: 7

Culinary Convenience: 0.28

Presentation: Nostalgic

The Ninja attended Florence Tan’s workshop as part of Malaysia Fest courtesy of Ogilvy PR.

Thanks to a loyal fan/friend for the Ninja dolls.

Composed for a little ninja (you know who you are)

Thanks for your time!

]]> http://theninjareview.com/index.php/2011/10/the-cautionary-tale-of-babushka-ninjutska/feed/ 12 http://theninjareview.com/index.php/2011/10/how-do-you-translate-akogare/ http://theninjareview.com/index.php/2011/10/how-do-you-translate-akogare/#comments Mon, 03 Oct 2011 09:24:58 +0000 The Ninja http://theninjareview.com/?p=2820

Nijo Castle is falling down. The builders and repairmen will be in soon, scuttling to erect their spindly scaffolds and trellises, but for now one can still see the bald patch on the outer battlements where the typhoon hit. Ironic, says our guide, given that Nijo never once fell to forces of the human sort. Lightning, yes, and fires too, although that’s nothing to be ashamed of. Rather than change to stone or brick, the Japanese persisted with building their castles and shrines out of wood well into the civilised ages. When the elements struck, razing their structures to the ground, they would simply rebuild.

This often causes confusion amongst the gai-jin when in the same sentence they hear that they are looking at the original castle and that it burnt down, oh, a century ago, not even, and that was the third time too. How can it be original? They cry. Surely it’s a copy, an imposter! But for the Japanese, the answer is simple. The wood and tiles may be different, but the castle – its spirit, aura, whatever you want to call it – is the same.

In any case, Shogun Tokugawa, with his anti-ninja floors and secret antechambers and dagger-wielding geishas – he never succumbed to sneak attack nor seige. No mean feat in the history of Japan. The guide says all of this to the gai-jin, not to me. I do not feature particularly highly on our guide’s list of priorities. In fact, I am unsure that he even registers my existence. When he speaks with the gai-jin, his wire-encircled eyes sparkle, his mouse-brown beret bobbing with zeal. He cracks jokes which the gai-jin laugh at, moreso because they understand the logic than because they find them particularly mirthful, and when they do his tweed jacket billows up in pride like an owl’s down or well-fed tanuki’s belly.

When he talks to me – and it is always to, never with – there is no sparkle, only the default sheen of politesse. How long have you lived in Osaka? Twenty years, mister. No bob, no joke. Words directed in the vague generality of my direction. I look at him, and he looks through me with owl-eyes so motionless they might be seeing anything or maybe nothing at all.

I am a gai-jin, in the technical sense of the word. Outside-person. Foreigner. But only in the technical sense. To truly be a gai-jin, you have to be noticeable. Everyone notices the gai-jin. They get stared at, bowed for, spoken to in brokenly melodic English. One of them is absorbed by a cloud of middle-schoolers as we breach the outer perimeter and hone in on Nijo’s and the shogun’s heart. They absorb him in order to ask him questions, about whether he likes Japan, how long he will stay for, if everything is to his fancy. This is a common exercise for middle-schoolers on excursion, aimed at fostering cross-border dialogue and improved cultural understanding. Our guide explains the nail-and-clamp mechanism of the anti-ninja floors, designed to creak with a nightingale’s strangled chirp at the lightest of footfalls, and the gai-jin obligingly demonstrate their cultural understanding with the usual jokes about ninjas and paranoid shogunates and Chuck Norris, but not without an erstwhile rollback of the eyes in case there really is a black-sheathed assassin in the shadows waiting to pounce.

I am not noticed. My presence is a brief elision, a man-sized gap in the roiling suit-mobs of the subways and arcades.They treat me as one of their own, until they realise I am not. Quizzical Kanji becomes How may I help you, Mister; konbanwahaidozoirraishimasen becomes This way please, Mister. A touch of disappointment always, as though expecting a kindred soul, or at least a flash of comprehension amongst the tramping huddle of gai-jin. Is it ironic, that these quiet-faced stoics would not have hesitated to eviscerate me in another lifetime? That were it not for the gai-jin’s fissile curse upon this land, I could have very well grown up in pachinko arcades and sake dens, scrounging for slap-free scraps of udon and okonomiyaki?

Who knows what the Shogun would think if Nijo was still his today. I doubt he would allow within his borders any cross-cultural exchanges with gai-jin, or any gai-jin at all for that matter. But what of outside Nijo’s walls? Not everything is so resilient to the advances of men. Perhaps he would have no choice but to commit seppuku if he saw the fawning zeal of tour guides, the fungal creep of neon and complacency up and around his home.

I have been in Nijo’s heart before. I know that if you tread slowly, at the edge of the room where wall meets floor, you will cause the nightingales the least amount of grief. The gai-jin tramp this way and that, our guide bobbing along in enthusiastic syncopation, and I tread softly. The breeze slithers through the floorboards, sweaty with the dying breath of summer. Good ninja, it seems to whisper.

Shinsaibachi River by night

At Chibo Okonomiyaki, you cook your own food. Nothing unusual in that. A lot of places in the vicinity involve combining raw ingredients, searing cast-iron plates, and free-flowing alcohol. Apparently many people gain a sense of satisfaction from having some input into the making of their meal, most of whom are suit-clad managers and executives whose kitchen experience is limited to frequenting this sort of restaurant and opening cans of beer (bottles are often a little onerous).

What’s unusual is Chibo’s approach to their signature dish. In many similar places, the waitstaff simply slap down a hodgepodge mess of radish cubes, raw seafood and pork bits held together by the tenuous adhesive bonding of egg yolk and albumen (anyone who’s had this hodgepodge bundle decompose into their lap will know exactly what I mean by tenuous). When this mess hits the teppan, it sizzles. It pops a little. And then it becomes okonomiyaki.

You don’t get that at Chibo. Instead, you get a fully-cooked okonomiyaki ladled onto your heat-plate. The only act of culinary involvement which you need to engage in is to garnish your fully-matured okono with sauce, mayonnaise and/or bonito flakes. It makes sense, I guess. The place has by far outgrown its roots to become a five-storey colossus of Osaka dining, and enough of the many gai-jin who stream through its doors end up vexed by the very concept of okonomiyaki (“is it a pancake? Like crèpes? Does it go with ice-cream?”) that forcing them to actually cook such a meal might very well break the Geneva Convention. Again.

The Chibo experience leaves me happily full, sated, and feeling like I’ve missed something. It’s the same feeling that I get everytime I’m in Japan – perhaps it’s the wall of language, the quirky-perverted pop cultural artefacts, the glassy politeness that simply reflects your own social ineptitudes back at you with no hint of what sizzles and pops within. I feel like I’ve only scraped my fingernails across the surface and ended up with gold-dust on my hands: it’s rewarding, but there could be so much more. But on the other hand (pun not intended) I’m happy. I get my okonomiyaki, I take my first bite, and it tastes infinitely better than if I’d cooked it myself. And, with completely unjustified self-satisfaction at my phoney culinary skills, I take a swig of beer. From a pre-opened bottle.

Okonomiyaki

Go for glory because:

• They ain’t got a reputation as “best okonomiyaki in the Okonomiyaki Capital” for nothing
• Perfect harmony/Pork, seafood, bonito flakes/Deserves a haiku
• Lighter than any other okonomiyaki I’ve tasted – and anyone who’s eaten okono before knows how important that is

Don’t do it because:

• Seppuku-worthy insult to your hosts if you don’t finish every morsel
• Cannot resist the temptation to lather in mayonnaise
• Does go well with ice-cream

Wagyu rib finger (?)

Go for glory because:

• Shouldn’t the picture say it all?
• As marbled, tender and saturated with mind-poppingly luscious wagyu-unguent as the picture suggests
• Rub it in the oil on the plate before serving

Don’t do it because:

• Not vegetarian
• Not vegan
• Not enough left for me

Miscellaneous seafood (Prawn, Scallop, Octopus)

Go for glory because:

• You expect nothing but the freshest seafood and that’s what you get
• Prawns + butter + teppan = simplest and most entrancing butter prawns you’ll ever taste
• Look at the size of that scallop

Don’t do it because:

• Slower to cook than everything else
• Tentacles always weird me out/make me think of Japanese fetishes which also weird me out
• Look at the size of that scallop

Assorted Vegetables

Go for glory because:

• SMILEY FACE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
• Nice refreshing way to whet your appetite at the start
• Mushrooms have a way with me

Don’t do it because:

• Easily charred
• Who eats vegetables at teppanyaki
• Mushrooms also have a way with anaphylaxis

This is our last ninja food-review – stay tuned!

—

Chibo Okonomiyaki

Location: 1-5-5 Dotombori Chuo-ku | Minamai, Osaka [various branches around Osaka and Tokyo]

Taste-type: Teppanyaki

Price: High for JP, decent for AUS (2000Y for okonomiyaki)

How to get there: Errrrrrrrr “Chibo Okonomiyaki doko wa desuka?” (head to Namba station, walk North up Mido-Suji, then turn right at the Shinsaibachi River and keep walking)

Contact: +81-6-62122211 (from TripAdvisor)