Taste of Sydney Festival
We have landed in the wrong place. Just minutes ago, our saboteur and point-man extracted from the transport with a smile and jolly wave, leaving his company of heroes confused and directionless in enemy territory. The heroes sob a little at our despondent situation, but eventually we pick our way through the minefield of Eastern-suburbs terraces and quaintly urine-stained alleys to find ourselves at the entrance to the compound. We check our equipment one last time. We lock and load, or in my case lock and surreptitiously sharpen. The Shooter sends up a prayer to Artemis for good vectors and at least one working battery pack. Then we take positions, line up our targets, and fire away.
Set in the ruggedly verdant cricket pitches of Centennial Park, the annual Taste of Sydney festival takes a host of renowned restauranteurs, breweries and other food professionals, clumps them in a white-tented arena, and releases a mob of hungry urbanites upon them on a daily basis. Visitors trade in cash for Crowns, a geographically-limited currency which only works at the festival and not at casinos of the same name. Nevertheless, food and drink is generally cheaper than it would be in the Real World, although our wallets have already begun to quietly haemorrhage in low denominations.
As the sun burns brighter with a sudden flare, the shoe-scuffed grasses of the park seem to put nostalgia in the step of the many affluently-established visitors streaming into the compound. The festival is a chance to relive the halycon days, of libraries and women’s arms and Astroturf tables. It is a chance to conduct a symphony of the palate, sampling some of the finest produce and artistry by the movers and shakers of Sydney’s – and, indeed, the world’s – culinary industry. It is also a chance to hunt down Matt Moran.
Moving in for the kill and elbowing lesser and better-dressed hunters out of the way, we seek the man himself and petition him for a photo-opportunity inside ARIA‘s stall. He shakes his head, swears, and even threatens to head-butt us, but not only presents himself in a photo but even blesses the Shooter’s weapons with his touch. We experience that glowing feeling again when we sample his Cured Ocean Trout with Cucumber and Horseradish, a refreshingly minimalist construction which simmers ruby-red in the sunlight. A slice of trout drifts towards my mouth and I pinch it from the tip of my blade. It melts a little on my tongue, the creamy horseradish sauce diffusing slowly, before I chew away, the pungency and resistance of the trout being smoothed out nicely by the cucumber-horseradish sauce. The Shooter wonders offhandedly if writing Moran an aria might win us favour. His wallet cringes and dies a little more.
Next on the hit-list is the Beef Ribs Smoked in Watermelon (with Watermelon and Avocado Salad) from Jared Ingersoll and his team at Danks St Depot. Exercising our heightened powers of perception and recon analysis, we choose the largest portion on offer and lap up each juicy-tender chunk of beef (including a slimy-looking slice of gristle from the ribs’ underside). Our scavenging efforts are for a reason: the beef’s burnt-sweet sauce, the tenderness of the smoked meat, and even the scarlet watermelon cubes – infused with natural nectar and a surprising iciness – blend yin and yang in a pleasingly harmonious manner. Despite all this harmony, the Shooter and I end up squabbling over who gets the last piece of avocado.
We have no real need of an Assiette, being rather cleanly as all master assassins must be, but we still pop into the stall for the Miso-glazed Regal Salmon with Japanese Radish Salad. While the miso taste is hard to pin down, the salmon rightfully takes pride of place with its creamy, bouyant consistency and succulent smoke-scented flesh. The Shooter’s battery-pack dies and he curses the Goddess of the Hunt as I nibble quietly at the cool, fresh ginger and radish of the salad.
After much sweaty fumbling with the battery-pack, the Shooter calls for a drink. We execute a quick raid of the James Squire tent, but soon conclude that our finely-chilled refreshments call for a meal to match.
A bell clangs raucously to our right and we find ourselves confronted by a bubbling pan of epic proportions at the tent of El Toro Loco. Others have heard the bell too, and we make good use of the Shooter’s new battery-pack as we cut through them to our objective. The Paella a la Maestre is tasty, generous, and filling: just the thing to pair with fine beer. The freshness and spice of both rice and seafood are invigorating, so much so that the Shooter and I have a Mexican stand-off over who gets the last mussel. I win and force the Shooter to eat it at katana-point, which he does with much grumbling about the unfairness of using body-doubles in a Mexican stand-off.
The company of heroes reconvenes outside the Bécasse-Plan B-Etch tent, looking to sample each others’ purchases and bemoan the cadaverous state of their wallets and purses. Having been recommended by Justin North to try the famous Wagyu Burger of Plan B, I oblige the man but find it much the same as before: compact, simple, and sumptuously meaty (albeit pricier than the $10-version at Plan B itself).
North also suggests we try the Chocolate Soufflé, which turns out to be a dessert-lover’s wet dream of moist soufflé, slathered dollops of cream, and chocolate shavings. Innuendo and Shooter-Ninja giggling aside, we love this dish, savouring each bite of the airy, slightly (but charmingly) bitter soufflé, which is neatly balanced by the cream’s subtle and not at all cloying sweetness.Having schmoozed our way into photos with three of Sydney’s top chefs, the Shooter and I saunter around, swaggering and cocksure with our evidence of celebrity and James Squire sloshing around in our bellies. Then we spot MATT PRESTON and the Greek Guy from MasterChef taking photos with plebian visitors and we rush to assail them but before we can move in to targeting range they trounce away into the VIP arena, which is wrapped in a monetary force-field so powerful it makes our wallets scream like freshly-impaled babies. We mourn our loss and swagger no more, but find our dolour soothed by some homely cupcakes courtesy of Planet Cake, an effusive bunch of bakers from whom, we later learn, our saboteur acquired his sneakily-gained passes. By now the sun has fallen, but the night is still young. We check our equipment, lock load and sharpen, and start thinking about next year.
