Location: 20 Campbell St, Haymarket NSW 2000

Taste-type: Thai

Price: Kai Dtun $7, Crying Tiger $12, Emerald Duck $15, Gaeng Panang Nuea $14, Green Mango Salad $18, Suep Nohr Mai $12, Pad Thai $12, Iced Bread $6

How to get there: Train, bus or tram to Central or Haymarket, then a quick walk. Chinatown parking can be found if you have the skills.

Contact: 02-92111808

Lennycakes is on the lookout for lady-boys. This is not because of any compunctions towards such specimens of humanity – as he is at pains to remind us over pre-dinner drinks – but because the Chat Thai experience is touted as being “great, fresh and authentic” and anything authentically Thai (or so his logic goes) must include lady-boys. Some of us hold that Lennycakes is taking this premise of authenticity a little too literally, but we are nonetheless expecting of a good night. Chat Thai’s reputation is somewhat legendary in Food Blogger circles and we are anticipating excellence.

While the only circumspect balls Lennycakes finds are those deep-fried and on the chefs’ counter, our experience of authentic Thai culture is about to get a rude awakening. When presented with a sizable queue out the front of the restaurant, we take a number and adjourn for drinks, thinking to come back in half an hour. Upon our return, my teammates and I are pleased to note that our number is on the verge of being called, and we congratulate ourselves on our time-management prowess. Unfortunately, just like any man picking up a lady-boy, we have toasted our success somewhat prematurely.

As time stretches on and our party is passed over again and again for entry, we begin to heat up without the need for any spicy Thai fare in our bellies. When we query the waitresses over this apparent oversight, we receive a response as authentic as Thai governmental practice: full of plastic smiles but completely lacking in competence. We are told again, and again, that the “Big Table” necessary to sit six people is unavailable and we must – despite the waitstaff at times sending seven or more customers in at once – simply stew and wait our turn. We are also made privy to the realisation that the restaurant is “extremely busy”, as though a rebuke for our impudence. Lennycakes becomes so incensed with this treatment that he moves to single-handedly slay the entire waitstaff, but I stop him with a quiet word or two.

When the People of Riling Smiles finally deign to let us into their kingdom, we are not given the promised Big Table but instead receive a cramped round-table as what seems a sort of conciliation prize. One guest wisely suggests the restaurant reinvest its obviously-burgeoning profits in extra tables and less uppety waitstaff rather than ornamental lights and overpriced streaks of paint on canvas. Having already experienced the authentic taste of Thai people-management, I take the extra precaution of checking for escape routes in case of a sudden and inexplicable riot.

When the food finally arrives, nearly two hours after we first took a number, we are somewhat impressed but not appeased nearly enough to make up for the poor door-service. The Kai Dtun simmers with a squishy, velvety texture, and is wolfed down by our team once we experience its eggy creaminess spiked through with grains of ground chicken. Despite being Number 2 on the menu, its taste is quite unlike that of a Number 2.

The Pad Thai is also above-average, fried nicely and topped with generous slabs of chicken and bean sprouts. However, it fails to amaze our tastebuds to the extent we might hope for from such a famous establishment. The staff put the customary peanut-sprinklings on the side of the dish when we inform them of allergy-issues, a fact I must commend them upon.

The meal at Chat Thai goes downhill after that. Most disappointing is the Green Mango Salad w/ Soft-Shell Crab (pictured), a hodgepodge platter of crab and various uncooked vegetables that resembles an appetizer more than a full meal unto itself. The crab’s batter, too floury for my taste, has slathered itself over and muted the juices of the crab. while the chili-ginger sauce incinerates any semblance of palatable subtlety with its fiery excess of ginger. The beef of the Crying Tiger gums up the teeth with its overcooked chewiness, while the Gaeng Panang Nuea is acceptable but somewhat dull in taste. We take to the Suep Nohr Mai like masochists to spiky chains, each of us ingesting a mouthful of violently incendiary salad and testing our ninja resolve to the limits.

The fame of Chat Thai’s desserts is widespread, superlative and, as we have ominously predicted after our experience so far, terribly undeserving. If sugar was a wild animal, then the famous Iced Bread would be its fecal matter. Drowned in rose syrup and placed on somewhat stale and sour bread, the flagstaff mound of ice in this dessert is barely edible, and the two ninjas who dare try it find themselves unable to suffer more than a few bites. There is no lesser indictment of the Iced Bread than the fact that we leave two plates of it barely eaten on our tables.

According to the preface of the restaurant’s menu, “Chat Thai” can mean two things: the literal “Thai Nation” in Thai, or the more buoyant and convivial “Talking about Thai” in the Western colloquial. There is, as many will know, another somewhat less complimentary meaning of “Chat” in the vernacular, one we believe is wholly more appropriate to describing the establishment. Even my stomach concurs with my team’s opinion, voicing its displeasure by evacuating its contents the next morning in multiple sittings (a concept apparently unfamilar to Thai restaurant reservations). Customer service and common courtesy are small matters, but they are increasingly rare in the restaurant environment and, in this case, are not even excused by excellent fare. The team is of one mind: Chat Thai must indeed Thai harder.

While I doubt the ability of my words to dent the voluptious reputation of Chat Thai, I feel it is my duty to at least make a stand. Such is the blessing and curse of being a food blogger: to be at liberty to speak freely, yet to at once know that one’s free speech is unlikely to be heeded. Yet a good ninja fights with all weapons he or she can muster, and words are often one – if not the most respected – of them.

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.