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: 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.