I am accused of being a Food Spy. At least according to one very reputable current affairs program, all food bloggers are guilty of culinary espionage, and should thus be summarily hung then drawn then sewn into Matt Preston’s pants. “Will Shinobi Valley release an official statement?” Not just yet; response from our team will be released in due course. But all must agree that threat of Food Spies is grave indeed: not only a threat to entire food industry but also to ninja families worldwide (dangerous source of competition for business). In fact, scouts recently uncovered Food Spy plot to take over one of Sydney’s restaurants. Took the mission myself and reserved a place amongst the Spies’ comrades in order to observe their machinations, then expose and defame in order to safeguard Shinobi Valley’s reputation. “War is won before the first spear is thrown” – Sun Tzu. A bloodless takedown would be optimal here.

Of course, things never turn out as planned. The four Spies involved turn out to be very well-trained, highly charismatic, and extremely good at what they do. This report will hereforth profile each of these four Spies, with intent to highlight potential weaknesses and demonstrate the calibre of our new enemy. My personal recommendation is for immediate liquidation with extreme prejudice. The time to act is now.

-REPORT BEGINS-

The Elusive Man

Known only as “The Food Blog”, the Elusive Man has so far evaded repeated liquidation attempts on his person, and is believed to be in charge of the operation covered in this report. He is suspected to have connections to various paramilitary organisations and is reputed to be funnier than even the author of this report (despite no known instances of cross-dressing). Chooses a Shish Barak, “Middle Eastern style dumpling” adapted with the use of gyoza skin rather than traditional Lebanese dough. Tastes exotic, familiar, svelte, traditional: all at once. Like the man himself, Shish Barak is a triple-bundle of contradictions, an conundrum wrapped in an enigma wrapped in sensual deep-fried gyoza pastry. Might the operations man of the Food Spies ever come in from the cold? According to several reports, the Elusive Man is not of Asian descent, and might thus be outed as a heretic amongst his brethren: this could in fact be useful leverage for a bloodless neutralisation of the conflict.

The Infiltrator

He may look smiley and jovial, but the Infiltrator (code-name “A Table For Two”) is a colossal force not to be underestimated. Already notorious for his expertise with photographic espionage (the Shooter has so far declined a duel), he takes to the kitchen like a duck to Heston Blumenthal’s kitchen: with disturbingly delicious results. Weapon of choice tonight is Twice-Cooked Pork Belly, resplendent in beetroot sauce with a splash of apple foam. Pork crackling turns out to lack characteristic crackle but Infiltrator pre-empts this and duly apologises to crowd before I can deploy defamatory tools. Tried to fault other aspects of dish – the creamy pork fat, apple foam injected with a thousand pinpricks of delectable electricity, colour scheme of beetroot – but was unable to find any other weakness. Do not let Infiltrator’s penchant for sexual innuendo and boyish charm fool you. Only attempt liquidation with at least two teams as back-up.

The Charismatic

Very well-liked and amiable, making liquidation highly problematic in terms of collateral to Shinobi Valley’s reputation should involvement be discovered. Homely code-name of “Citrus and Candy” belies highly honed combat skills which can be deployed with brutal precision at a moment’s notice. Weapon of choice, Beef Cheeks in PX Sherry, is deceptively plain but fills the stomach and warms the senses with its reams of faty veins, slickly cleansing cauliflower purée and general meaty goodness. Highly effective “Comfort Food” which can easily melt the defences of even a battle-hardened ninja. However, Charismatic eats lots of cakes and sweets, providing a potential avenue for poisons like karaage. Liquidate from long range.

The Closer

If the Charismatic lowers one’s defences, the Closer (code-name “Linda”) is the one to finish off the target. Diminuitive in stature, humble in address, and unstoppable both in a team and as a lone agent. Elegant custom-weapon known as “This and That”, a two-part package made up of Lemon Olive-Oil Ice Cream and Chocolate Cake w/Chocolate Brûlée and Salt; ice-cream slides across the palate with a tangy-metallic sheen of an aftertaste, before chocolate cake heralds a full sensory assault of gooey chocolate and crackling brûlée and the merest zing of saltiness. Very, very effective. By herself, Closer is formidable; when operating with three other Food Spies, liquidation is virtually impossible.

Finally, a quick shout-out to Yas for defecting to Team Shinobi with his iPad light.

-REPORT ENDS-

The Food Bloggers’ Dinner was hosted by Merivale at their soon-to-be-closed Bistro CBD. The Ninja was not a guest of Merivale, and doubts he ever will be.

Location: 730-742 George St, Haymarket NSW 2000

Taste-type: Desserts

Price: Two scoops (glass or waffle-basket) $9, Premium flavours +$1. Dessert dishes around $14

How to get there: Train or tram to Central, then a quick walk inside Capitol Theatre.

Contact: 02-92818322

The heat continues to crash down in lethargic waves upon the denizens of Sydney and Shinobi Valley, so the Trainee and I seek refuge in a well-known oasis of desserts.

With two outlets in the city (the other shop can be located near Town Hall station), Passionflower has a reputation as one of Sydney’s more eclectic dessert houses, offering Asian-style ice cream desserts at a reasonable price. More pertinently, their ice cream is cold. The Trainee and I limp sluggishly into the confines of the Capitol Building with relief. Bandits and samurai fall easily to my blades, but fighting the temperature is a tasking battle for even a skilled ninja.
We find salvation scooped up and dumped in thick (and edible) waffle-baskets. I cut into my combination of Lychee w/ Rose Petals and Green Tea with gusto, letting the smooth blend of flavours dissolve creamily on my tongue as my titanium core slowly expels steam and floods with liquid nitrogen. The tinge of rose-petal is hard to discern but adds a refreshing touch to an already pleasing lychee flavour, although I note the green tea has none of the sharp freshness evident in higher-quality ice-creams of this flavour.

The Trainee goes for the rather more pedestrian combination of Cookies and Cream and Hokey Pokey, but seems to enjoy it all the same.

We also spot a pair of prospective lovebirds snacking next to us on ice-cream and waffles. However, the Trainee’s subsequent reconnaissance reveals this dish to be less than aphrodisiac for the pair. We offer our commiserations to the male but chuckle all the same.

Once again, I fail to try the more exotic dishes in Passionflower’s range like the much-vaunted Final Fantasy, but remain satisfied with simple scoops of ice-cream from this dessert parlour. Unfortunately, my katana warps when we step back outside, creaking with an old blade’s groan. I am similarly displeased, for all-black jumpsuits and summer weather do not mix particularly well.

Ed: there are actually 3 Passionflowers in Sydney, the third being in Darling Harbour (thanks CitrusandCandy)

Location: 336 Pacific Hwy, Crows Nest NSW 2065

Taste-type: Japanese

Price: Sushi and Sashimi Platter $29, Small Bara-Sushi $29, Green Tea Ice-cream $9

How to get there: Train to St Leonards or bus to Crows Nest.

Contact: 02-94381468

Some say time flows like an ever-rolling stream, others that it flies forth like an arrow loosened from a celestial bow. For ninjas, time’s passage resembles the cherry blossoms in early spring, days and minutes swirling and bobbing in the breeze as we wend our way along a path we ourselves can barely see. The moments taunt us, tempting us away with illusions of purpose, at once stretching as far as one can see yet floating tantalisingly out of reach. Sometimes a single instant seems to freeze in mid-air, like a blossom caught motionless by the push and pull of the winds, and time appears to stop. Then the petals tumble and we stumble forth once more.

The restaurant is empty, an oasis of cold in the clammy heat of summer’s grip. My guest and I have laughed and sighed and talked about everything from fast-food to dreams of travel to old history that only happened yesterday yet feels like a lifetime ago. Our conversation twists and turns until, as though out of breath, a silence falls upon us both.

The silence is not awkward but fresh and cool, like the seafood we have come here for. The daintily flavoursome morsels of sushi and sashimi which have accompanied our conversation are second to none, evidence enough for Sakana-ya’s formidable reputation in these parts. The fine cuts of salmon, kingfish and scampi cool our tongues as we talk, playing counterpoint to our often too-loud voices. In the silence, I pick at a piece of ginger; she nibbles quietly at a slice of bonito.

Eventually the silence will lift and the cherry-blossom will tumble away in the breeze. We will finish our dinner with the gusto it deserves and our chatter will draw peeved glances from the dirgeful others who have begun to populate the restaurant with their soundless appraisal of their meals. Doors will open and crossroads will determine the end of the night, and my katana will get itself inappropriately wedged as I hurdle the ticket-gates in pursuit of a departing train. I will roll like sushi down the steps and, some painful hours later, the next day will come. But for now, I am still. Sometimes even a ninja has to rest.

Location: 242 Military Rd, Neutral Bay NSW 2089

Taste-Type: French

Price: 2 Courses $47, 3 Courses $62

How to get there: Bus to Military Rd near the McDonald’s. Parking is available around the side-streets but availability can be unpredictable.

Contact: 02-99091969

I do not trust the French. Much like their capital city, those of the Gallic persuasion too often conceal a sea of virtiolic excrement beneath the polite-chic je ne sais quoi that is so attractive to non-Europeans. When I think of France, I think of spit-slicked cobblestones under moonlight, of grey colonnades and hushed bagarres between the pews of stain-glassed cathedrals. Happily enough, it is the other, more genteel side of France on display at Mrs Top. Piano-accordian music pinks and twirls around us as we enter the softly-lit chamber, empty save for ourselves and the waitstaff. The hiss and din of the road outside is near completely dampened as the restaurant’s glow envelops us like a French letter.

The owner of the establishment takes our orders and pads away along with his aide-de-camp, bringing out our entrées in a reasonable time with clockwork precision. Our eyes widen. A hush falls upon us. My hand crawls out across the tablecloth, snatches a scallop of the Coquilles St. Jacques, and pops it into my mouth without leaving me time to think. I crush the scallop slowly, having some consternation at first at the chewiness of the cut but soon falling under the spell of the red onion confit, a lushly unctious hybrid of oil and crunchiness that is akin to liquid velvet. I am also pleased to note there is no excrement in sight. With a deep breath, I slowly raise the scallop-shell to my lips and let the confit shimmer down my throat, letting my senses arise to the astral plane. This brew explains why the French conquer in love, and never in war.

Papa Ninja has procured the Escargots a la Bourguignonne, that flagship stereotype of any Gallic meal. Like compressed golf-balls the snails sit in their dimpled plate, stewing in Cognac butter like so many turds in the petites rues of the arrondissements. I am pleased to discover that the escargots have neither the texture nor the taste of their likenesses: each snail has a gummy texture to it which is mellowed by the Cognac butter’s rich creaminess. Considering the freshness of the snails, I ponder whether a basin of the creatures might be hidden in the behind of Mrs Top.

Having barely commented on the ineptitude of our point-and-click system of ordering – speaking French is so passé! – our waitstaff manoeuvre around to deliver a visual spectale to our table. With its rustic plating and look, the Beef Chateaubriand (Thursday Special) grabs my meat-loving attention and holds it at cutlass-point like a rum-imbibing pirate with a sexy maiden. However, much like the maiden I am somewhat disappointed with my captor’s performance: while cooked finely, each slice of beef proves somewhat stringy and tasteless. Gravy and bearnaise sauce manage to carry the day, but I maintain that this is the hole in Mrs Top’s otherwise formidable Maginot Line-Up of dishes.

Like the tip of the Eiffel Tower at sunset, the Confit de Canard a l’Orange sparkles with verve and passion, the vibrant orange of the citrus sauce and sultry brown of the duck making even my haughty katana sweat with anticipation. Sure enough, as I place the first portion of duck upon my tongue I am hit by a bedazzling burst of flavours, of citrus and honey and crackling duck-skin and a wash of herbal tinges that nearly send me reeling. The duck seems to float on the bed of citrus and Grand Marnier, the skin is none the soggier for the sauce surrounding it, and nibbling the mandarin slices strewn on the plate is akin to a splash in the face with a delicate yet invigorating perfume. Each bite sets off sparkles and a haze of technicolour in my eyes, reminding me of the time I battled with the legendary monster Jacques Cousteau (who I defeated with superior SCUBA-apparatus skills and a pipe-bomb).

As the restaurant begins to fill, we watch as the waitstaff of two weaves in and out, barely speaking yet working as though each man were but an appendage of some larger consciousness. Without delay one of them inquires as to our dessert preferences, and soon the Crème Brulée graces our table with its charred allure and silky insides. The crust of the crème brulée cracks with a most explosive report when I launch my attack, and the hints of strawberry sauce add a fruity surprise to an otherwise traditional dessert. I note a certain frostiness to the vanilla ice-cream, much like that of French travel agents, and would not be surprised if it was home-made. My senses tingle with each scoop of this dish as it conjures up faux memories of rollicking countrysides and sexy maidens in the hills.

And as though to complement my errant daydreams a la campagne, the Tarte  Tatin‘s crackly-brown crust and juicy fruits arrive a moment later, a humble homage to pre-industrialised France and the millions of blades of grass slain by the incorrigible march of progress. I cut a dollop of ice-cream from the main scoop, place it upon a sliver of tart, and lever it into my mouth. And again, and again. I do not wish this mission to end. I wish to drift off, on a sea of French cuisine, bobbing amongst the excrement and baguettes if it means this taste of joy. I still distrust the French. I still eat their food.

Many years ago, I learnt that in any team-based endeavour, the team is only as strong as its weakest member. Up until now, my preferred solution for this law of handicaps has been to systematically remove all weaker members from my team, thus allowing me to exercise my full potential in endeavours such as long-range assassination, coups d’état, and table tennis. This is a viable solution for me because, until now, I have never found an individual as devastatingly capable as myself. The panache and notoriety of my fellow foodbloggers, however, almost has me wondering if I am this city-hunting trio’s weakest link. I put that disturbing thought from my mind and prepare for a sedate food-crawl replete with whimsical musings, tasty discoveries, and glory.

Lady Iron Chef has made a gastronomic pilgrimage to Australia and wishes to prove to the Sydney blogging cohort that he is not, contrary to popular opinion, a woman. FFIchiban and I wish to test his mettle with a no-holds-barred culinary tour of Sydney city. Our aim is to take down at least four or five eateries on foot, with no breaks and blithe disregard for the entrée-main-dessert order of Western dining. We are armed and ready and, at the agreed time and with a fanfare of trumpets and shamisens, converge on our first target.

Target 1: Plan B

Location: 204 Clarence St

After much time rollicking in mirth at the fact that our plan A is in fact Plan B, we reassert the fact that we are engaging in very serious business and commence our food-crawl with a Wagyu Burger. The Lady Iron Chef has heard much about this well-priced mound of juicy wagyu and gooey cheese sandwiched between a pair of crusty-brown hamburger buns. In a rather ladylike gesture, we divide a single burger into thirds to sample the taste: the wagyu lives up to the hype with its thick crumbling texture that dissolves saucily in the mouth, while the slightly salty crunch of the bread gently underpins the wagyu and the well-melted cheese. All three of us lament our ladylike decision but choose – wisely, as it turns out – to restrain our rampant appetites.

Target 2: Bavarian Bier Cafe (York St)

Location: 24 York St

To prove Lady Iron Chef’s manliness, we proceed to the Bavarian Bier Cafe, a stalwart of the Sydney dining scene and home to many a spilt tankard. While I secure the perimeter, the others procure an assortment of the restaurant’s specialities with the Bavarian Tasting Platter. We are, however, forced to wait nearly half an hour for this platter, in which time our tankards of beer are steadily depleted as our ire steadily grows: I eventually threaten to lob an explosive-note into the kitchen and receive the platter within seconds for my troubles. Out of the several items presented to us, the Crackling Pork Belly is by far the highlight, with a luxurious golden sheen and explosively sensuous crunch that makes each of us shudder in badly-concealed pleasure. The Chicken Schnitzel is surprisingly moist and flavoursome, while the sauerkraut and potato-mash are smoothly refined and mix well with the various sausages in the platter.

Target 3: Passionflower

Location: 580 George St

With our guest reeling after being hit by an unlicensed deep-fried sushi, we extract to a more pedestrian location to cool off in the turgid summer’s heat. Passionflower‘s range of esoteric and quirky ice-creams is an excellent salve to our wearying legs, with FFIchiban selecting the Burnt Caramel and Vanilla Hazelnut for our tasting. The Burnt Caramel is a surprise winner, bringing a sensation of crisp crackling to the tongue without the physical crackle itself: the caramel flavour is not too sweet and mingles well (if a touch overpoweringly) with the plain but still creamily delicious Vanilla Hazelnut, which contains quite generous lashings of nut-pieces for the joy of the non-allergic. We return to our sweaty stroll with more than a little sadness, grasping at the last remnants of the ice-cream’s coolness before we depart.

Target 4: Harry’s Cafe de Wheels

Location: Hay St, Haymarket

With the mercury rising and our hungers cooling, we stumble into one of the more famous tourist-restaurants of Sydney, in search of the quintessential pie-and-sauce for which Harry’s Cafe de Wheels has gained worldwide renown. Lady Iron Chef is not especially enamoured with the Tiger Pie, a beef pie topped with an abominably-green depression of mashed peas and potato filled with gravy, and I am tempted to challenge him to a duel but am struck once more with the altogether uncommon feeling that I may indeed come off second-best.

We all agree on the merits of a sausage between two buns, mercilessly finishing off the Hot Dog and its lashings of piquant chilli sauce and mayonnaise. It never fails to surprise me that one can extol the physiological benefits of drinking green tea and a second later scoff one of these highly-processed meats. While we ninjas hold our bodies to be temples, we are (given the frequency and high pay rates of less-than-pious jobs) partial to looting and sacking the temples from time to time. The hot dog is deliciously juicy and fatty and could well be used as a weapon against vegetarians.

Target 5: Le Patissier

Location: ?

While en route to Max Brenner, we are waylaid by a quiet café in the backstreets of the CBD. The three of us file into Le Patissier, picking out a dessert each and painfully unfolding our limbs into the comfortably air-conditioned confines of the shop. The Lemon Ganache is rather refreshing with its florid bursts of citrus, although the chocolate itself is somewhat dry and cloying. My Mixed Berry Tart has a simple elegance to it; the tart’s shortcrust crumbles happily with each bite, while each berry spits and pops between the teeth. Of the three, the Crème Brûlée is the biggest disappointment, inducing gasps of shock when Lady Iron Chef’s fork pierces the crust without so much as a crackle. The entire foil-bowl wobbles as though crying in dismay, but we discover that the cream underneath is in fact rather tasty and not too sweet.

As the clouds swirl ominously overhead and sweatlines of condensation drip down showroom windows, we bid each other farewell. We have reached our goals and enjoyed a pleasant day of good company and good food, and we are satisfied. I am glad to have comported myself decently in the company of these two fine foodbloggers, with little bloodshed and less drunken antics. At the crossroads of George and King we part, each of us striding away into our own personal sunset. I then realise that my sunset seems to be heading away and not towards Shinobi Valley, and I hurriedly about-face and chase after FFIchiban’s rapidly-disappearing basketball shoes.

Free Ice-Cream @Ben and Jerry’s

Location: Shops 5 and 6, 25-27 South Steyne, Manly NSW 2100

Taste-Type: Desserts

Price: Ice-cream free for the day, Fish and Chips $10.50 (from Manly Fish Café)

How to get there: Ferry from Circular Quay to Manly (take it from Wharf 3) or buses from Wynyard. Parking is notoriously sparse and time-limited.

Contact: 02-89669219

Emerald peals of surf lick at my toes as I cling to the portside of a Manly ferry, moving to locate and defend an illustrious group of erstwhile food bloggers. I ride completely unnoticeable, at one with the elements of water and air through which I speed forth.

I bypass the monochromatic amoebae guarding the entrance to Ben and Jerry’s newest outlet with little difficulty. The store’s grand opening has attracted hungry beachgoers and food-lovers alike, with even the police being called in to monitor proceedings. The crowd is, for the moment, as docile as the emblematic cows of Ben and Jerry’s business, although rather less productive.

As food bloggers arrive and take their positions in the queue, I deploy one of my many body doubles to mingle with them as I continue to scan the area from above. Around us, civilians jump at the opportunity to win free bags and assorted merchandise by answering trivia about the Vermont-based ice-cream chain, while PR floozies throw pamphlets and menus willy-nilly. The air hums with the festivities, a salty Carnivale amidst the laidback surfers and  lost tourists. Someone recognises Suze and sprints up towards us, gibbering and slobbering like a lovesick puppy. The speed and droll humour with which my body double drops the target make me proud.

We (I speak loosely here, being personally located some hundred metres above-ground in a surprisingly prickly pine-tree) are only in the queue for about ten minutes before we grab our spoons and napkins and some long-awaited free ice-cream. Before long we are back again. And again. The undisputed favourite of the group is the Peanut Butter Cookie Dough ice-cream with generously sticky lashings of peanut butter swirled through Ben and Jerry’s signature floury-sweet ice-cream.

I sample some of the Chocolate Fudge Brownie which swirls seductively around the palate but is somewhat tarnished by an unexpected slash of chewing-gum mint flavour and its accelerated puddling-rate. Suze is not pleased and nearly slays an amoeba.

Ben and Jerry have come down especially for this launch and are serving up ice-cream side by side with the hired hands. For two highly successful entrepreneurs, the two are wonderfully down-to-earth and friendly, greeting each customer with good humour and smiles that never seem to fade. Jerry’s strident calls of “move up” remind me of a drill sergeant acquaintance I met on a joint mission in North Korea which also involved a sexily-clad amoeba and a lot of plastic explosives.

Ice-cream is not enough for lunch, so we order fish and chips from the nearby Manly Fish Café: the fish is tender and fresh but a little too fried for my taste, while the serving of chips is generous but more soggy than not. The result is a stolid package which fills up even the toughest of our convoy.

We sit back at the water’s edge and contemplate such thought-provoking matters as politics, business, and walking around naked at home. Seagulls croak their way through the air and into half-finished cups of ice-cream, while children squall and tumble around upon the sands besides us. A bovine amoeba sneaks away for a quick drink and cooldown. My body double is busy making sandcastles with fully operational laser cannons and trebuchets. Beneath my black mask, no-one sees me smile.