Steak N' Chicks Tuesday #12 - UNIFEM Charity Gala

Phew.
It's been a long wait between Steak N' Chicks reviews, but it's taken me this long to both digest all the food and wipe the smug, self-satisfied, charitable grin off my serenely gluttonous face.

You see, we did what is commonly known as a Good Thing. Sure, it looked like we were just stuffing our maws with gourmet deliciousness, having a right old girly gab-fest and taking home mounds of prettily-wrapped spoils, but what we were really doing was raising money for charity. I know, I know. I always get those two mixed up, too.

Gone are the days where being charitable goes hand in hand with sensible shoes, humility and spartan self-deprivation. For July's Steak N' Chicks Tuesday, to mark the one year anniversary of the oestrogen fest (Est fest? Festrogen?) Alex had the sterling idea of throwing a charity gala and raising money for a good cause. Alex is superb like that. She's the brains. I'm the… er… well, I suppose I'm the bottom. Anyway, put together charity and chicks, and what do you get? Unifem, the UN Development Fund For Women, the organisation we chose to support. For the bargain, costs-less-than-a-decent-lipstick price of twenty-five dollars and a plate of food, the benevolent bevy enjoyed gastronomic goodness, seemingly endless cups of fermented grape juice, conversation and networking with the most fabulous women alive, and three tickets in an extremely glamorous raffle. What does one call such a thing?

The Steak N' Chicks Anniversary Charity Gala and Whopper Raffle for UNIFEM.
Alex's house, Bellevue Hill.
http://www.unifem.org.au/


The Place.
Everyone who visits Alex's house says the following things:
At the front door: "Oh, this is cute!"
In the kitchen: "Wow. Nice kitchen. I do love the spacious preparation island. It's choice".
In the loungeroom: "Ooh, I like your painting. Is it by som… GET STUFFED. That is not your view. Look at the size of that freakin' boat!"
On the stairs: "Jeez, this place just goes on and on! I wouldn't want to do these stairs drunk, though".
In the courtyard: "I've been looking for a table like this. Are those the herbs you planted like, three years ago?"
Much later, on the steep stairs again: "Bugger. I wish I hadn't had that second flagon of wine. Where are my crampons?"

It's nice, is Alex's house, and the perfect space for girly gatherings and food consumption.
As always, I do need to mention the bathroom facilities: Shiny. Modern. With signs pointing towards it saying "Toilet", because Alex thought of everything.

The People
Lordy, what a turn-out.
Much as I'd love to, I won't list all the windswept-and-interesting attendees, because:
a) it's pretty much guaranteed that I'll miss someone out; and
b) if you're only reading this to see your name on the internet, then sucks to you, you egomaniacal trollop. And thanks for coming. We love you.
Suffice to say, a whopping great thanks to all who turned up, all who didn't turn up but still donated prizes, money, or food, and again to all who turned up, because you deserve it, and because I'm probably still drunk. I didn't write my name on my plastic cup of wine just to under-use the thing.
And here you are. Hands up who likes cupcakes!

The Food
Jings, what a spread.

If I wanted to set a trap for fashionable sophisticates, I'd just put a whole mess of spicy meatballs, cupcakes, dips, mini-quiches, lasagne, wasabi tuna balls, chocolate brownies, cheeses, incredible salads, roast vegetables, pastries, spinach triangles, more cheese, and a never-ending stream of wine in a cage and just wait. If you cook them, they will come.
Nothing brings good food to a gathering like charity, the rumblings of one's own stomach, and the promise of some friendly gastronomic competition. From the fresh raspberries tumbling down the brownie mountain, to the painterly daubs of wasabi circling the tuna balls, to the great wodges of steaming lasagne, to the orgasmic squeals emanating from salad-filled mouths, this was a feast indeed. Anyone who claims they didn't go back for thirds is lying through their well-employed teeth.
Ladies, never has the call to "bring a plate" been so artistically and deliciously answered. You rock. And you completely ruined my diet. Beeyotches.


The Raffle
Blimey, what a bounty.

When Alex and I put out the call for raffle prize donations, we desperately underestimated the generosity and well-connectedness of our friends. We take this opportunity to apologise for merely expecting a couple of cleanskins and a lip-gloss sampler-pack. We didn't know.
On offer, prompting many to take advantage of our constant encouragement to buy extra tickets, was:
Napoleon cosmetic pack
CDs from SonyBMG, Warner, and Universal
DVDs from Warner Vision and BBC Home Entertainment
Magnum of champagne
Australian Idol Sing PlayStation game
Book pack including tomes by Janice Dickinson and Martha Stewart, my polar-opposite heroines Yoga Mat
Tickets to Australian Idol

We were all winners. Well, except for those people who didn't win anything. Mind you, we all became aware of the spooky fact that, if your name starts with 'E', raffle tickets are magnetically drawn to you. Odd.


The Summarising Bit
I'm not sure I remember feeling more satisfied after anything, ever (sorry, gentlemen – you were great, really. A for effort). There was food. There was drink. There was a festive, chatty, I-love-your-hair atmosphere. There were prizes. There were cupcakes on more than three available flat surfaces.
We raised just shy of nine hundred dollars for UNIFEM. It wasn't only easy, it was outrageously enjoyable.
If you were there: thank you so, so much.
If you weren't there: go and hold a charity face-stuffing fiesta of your own. Great for that warm fuzzy feeling, catching up on gossip and instant social advancement.
Plus, there's wine.

Steak N' Chicks Tuesday #11

If you're on stage and people throw food at you, it's called 'heckling'.
If you're at summer camp and people throw food at you, it's called 'food fight'.
If you're at Steak N' Chicks Tuesday and people throw food at you, it's called 'Teppanyaki'.

In icy rain, nipple-hardeningly cold weather and an official Sydney cyclone warning (which turned out to be a Category Two Breeze), a bunch of swish broads descended upon North Sydney for this month's Steak N' Chicks Tuesday.

19th June 2007 – Shinju Teppanyaki, Berry St North Sydney
http://www.bestrestaurants.com.au/restaurants/nsw-sydney-shinjunthsyd.aspx


The Place
This joint ain't half cultured n' that. I suspect that when it was being fitted out, the owner just handed the builder a copy of The Vapors' album and said "Track Two". To get to the main Teppanyaki Temple, one is led by a kimono-ed hostess past a tasteful and quiet bar, across an indoor bridge (over which we insisted on walking as if on a Fashion Week catwalk), and artfully-designed rocks into a black-lacquer, bamboo-ey room of typical Japanese comfortable sparsity. Like, everything's really rectangular, y'know?
A clutch of large teppanyaki grill stations dominate the room, emanating their gratefully-received heat and less-gratefully-received promise of food-related humiliation. And the plates were nice.

The toilets were, unfortunately, a different story. I asked a quiet hostess where they were, and she bowed her head and directed me with a subtle and polite hand gesture. She could just as easily have said "Follow the white rabbit down the burrow until you smell armpit". Two short corridors and a steep flight of echo-ey stairs get you to the bathroom, seemingly furnished from Crazy Dave's Tired Old Plumbing Supplies, and I think Crazy Dave threw in a can of Rugby League Air Freshener. Nup.
Amanda advised that the boys' toilet had much nicer toilet paper than the girls' toilet. She's such a freakin' huss.


The People
Alyson organised this month's culinary shenanigans, and anyone who can get eight chicks out of the house in unglamorous temperatures is indeed a Girl Of Social Talent. Also present were tireless regulars Claire, Alex and myself, consistent attendees Lucette and Amanda, and virgins Kelly (a virgin in the ways of both Steak N Chicks and teppanyaki, so immediately challenged to eat a prawn head) and Nikki.

Other diners included what looked like family and work groups, none of whom were a match for our decibel-heavy repartee, facilitated by a few warm-up drinks at The Firehouse on Walker St beforehand.
Staff were easily placed in two categories: Quiet, Dignified and Polite (the wait-staff), and Smutty, Smutty, and Not Very Good At Throwing (our grill-man, Rici).

Yes, a teppanyaki chef should be entertaining and charismatic. He should not, at every possible opportunity, direct the table's attention towards a diner's boobs or arse. Doesn't matter how funny it is. And it's pretty funny.


The Food
Good teppanyaki is flavoursome, crispy 'round the edges, deep in saucy brownness and of the kind that shouts "Hello, Lucky Tongue!".
This was not good teppanyaki. It was, y'know - fine. It was not good.
We went (except for Claire, who opted for the vego menu) for the Osaka Set Menu for $32 a head, which consisted of:
Salad – which was 100% fat-free. It was also 100% salad-free, as it never actually arrived on the table.
Miso Soup – Miso is miso is miso, and this was some. Not bad.
Prawns – Quite nice, and actually full of flavour. Unfortunately some of that flavour came from the pooh-tube that had been left in mine, despite Rici's artful knifey removal-theatrics.
Vego Tofu – this was part of Claire's menu, and Rici deftly cut a big block of the stuff into smaller blocks which, really, anyone with a blunt knife and a trained monkey can do. Carnivores who were still hungry after their single prawn were offered a piece of tofu by Claire, who found herself with around sixteen pieces of it. It was nice - but it was still tofu.
Fish – disappointing. Pale and flabby, with not much flavour.
Beef – After slabbing half a cow on the grill and slicing it up, we expected grandness and received blandness. I'll throw some points on the board for the mouth-melting tenderness, but the flavour gets one-and-a-half disgruntled bovines.
Vegetables – by "vegetables", I apparently mean "onion and cabbage", which also means "keep the bedroom window open". I never, ever say this, but: more salt, please.
Chicken – oh, okay. Delicious.
Vego Vegetables – Claire's special veg consisted of baby corn and mushrooms, which tasted exactly like two different vegetables in like, sauce.
Eggy Rice – everybody knows that this is the throwy-catchy bit of the Teppanyaki Experience (more detail below), and all I'll say is that for the entertaining, hilarious trauma we suffered through to get it, we really should have been rewarded with more than bowls full of anaemic, tasteless glug. It was, again, sort of okay. It was… there.

The Show
Oh, Rici. You're so fine. You're so fine you make suggestive comments about food and body parts. Phnar!
I'm not sure if Rici had a bung throwing arm, or if he was just intentionally getting food all over us and the floor so we'd keep wiping ourselves off and bending over. At any rate, I learnt, the hard way, to never wear a suede skirt to Teppanyaki again.
Highlights:
· Eggs balancing on end on the grill. I know they do this at every Teppanyaki restaurant, but it still looks cool. I wish I didn't always imagine that there was a chick inside, wondering why its arse was suddenly getting hot.

· Whenever we were required to catch something in our bowls, Rici would shout "Open your legs, please! More wider, more better!". Rici. You randy goat.
· When my egg landed squarely on the aforementioned suede, Rici said "Take it off – I'll clean it for you". Rici. You horny bastard.

· Rici asked Claire to close her eyes and open her mouth. Repeatedly. He then, without actually throwing any food into her mouth, just thanked her and went about his business. Rici. You saucy devil.
· Rici asked Nikki to sit backwards on her chair, then he asked me to spoon rice down the back of her top. Rici. You sneaky arsehole.
· Nikki caught an egg in her crotch.

· Rici asked Alex to stand up, move back, turn around, bend over, and hold out her bowl between her legs. In what then became Teriyaki Porn, he shouted things like "I'm coming!", "Don't shake or I can't get it in!", and "Wider!" before throwing egg and rice all over her. Alex, gastronomically showered, said quietly "That was the lowest point in my life".

· Rather than the traditional "Thank You", Rici spelt out "Rici's Angel" in salt at the end of the meal, illustrating it with twee lovehearts and an angel. Rici. You tacky motherf*cker.

The Summarising Bit
Teppanyaki is nothing if not entertaining, and we laughed until we hurt. I've definitely had better food before, though, and if I have to open my legs and mouth that wide, I usually expect a bit more.
Don't wear anything dry-cleanable, and bring your own salt.

Steak N' Chicks Tuesday #10

Or, more appropriately, Steak N' Tits Wednesday.
Sharpen your pencils and adjust your bra-straps – this months' (okay – last month's – I've been running a bit behind) Steak N' Chicks Tuesday (okay – Wednesday) included some fast-paced games of bingo and a Dolly Parton impersonator. Throw in a hooker, a murder, and a roulette wheel and you're practically in Vegas.

Except we definitely weren't. We were in Erskineville.

16th May 2007 – The Kurrajong Hotel, 106 Swanson St, Erskineville.

The Place
The svelte and glamorous Claire organised this month's Steak N' Chicks, which, ironically, was held in a venue that, whilst heavily endearing, would never be described as svelte and glamorous. The Kurrajong has read the 1979 Australian Pub Manual from cover to cover, and followed almost every guideline with refreshingly old-school results.
A barn-sized space has its massive U-shaped bar impressively plonked right in the centre of the room, with tables (the tall kind, featuring the all-too-rare thigh-height handbag shelf) scattered throughout the remaining space. The kitchen is off to one side, pokies are out of sight, and larger, less comfortable timber bench tables run along one side of the bar for groups like us, or even those with blokes in.
One very important point, though: if you want to go for a beer in Sydney in anything except a Rabbitohs NRL jersey, go somewhere else. I've seen Rabbitohs banners, flags, and supporters before, but when you see Rabbitohs window decals on every available glass surface, you come to fully realise the depths Bunny-backing can reach (Brendan McMahon being the obvious exception, of course). The Kurrajong is no stranger to old men's bum-cracks or badge-draws either, but none of this is to say it's not a Bloody Nice Pub. It has a feel that too few pubs in Sydney still have, and so many think they're too cool to try and emulate. You'd be comfortable bringing your dog to the Kurrajong, and a lot of people do.
To me, though, the single most attractive thing about the Kurrajong, and in fact the reason that Steak N' Chicks Tuesday was held on a Wednesday this month, is Dolly Parton Bingo. Bingo hosted by a woman dressed as Dolly Parton, speaking with a bunged-on American accent, and stopping between games to belt out some of Dolly's biggest hits (say that fast – it's funny). Incongruous – perhaps. It's like someone starting a Charlie's Angels-themed darts tournament, or a Sister Janet Mead Spelling Bee. But it works. Bingo and Dolly go together like… well, Bingo and Kenny.
The obligatory toilet review must make mention of the many doors one must pass through before actually coming across any porcelain, statistically making Narnia a little quicker to get to. In all other aspects, though, the plumbing facilities get a resounding and relatively non-descript "meh". They'll do.

The People
For the first time ever, I couldn't keep track of all the attendees, so at the risk of leaving anyone out a-la the Romper Room Magic Mirror, let's just leave it at Claire, Alex, me, Mel, Tash, Amanda, Ella, Elly, Charlotte, Rachel, Belinda, Tina and Tori. If I've left you out by accident, I encourage you to make a more significant impression next time. If I've left you out on purpose, you were probably rude to me, and I'm sulking. All in all, a resoundingly bonza bevy of beauteous birds which, with the addition of beer, wine, music and competitive pencil-based parlour games, became resoundingly resounding.
Staff here are what you'd expect in a pub like the Kurrajong – friendly, no-bullshit, and mostly built-for-function, with the exception of one or two bar-chicks fairly obviously thrown in for eye-candy for the mostly male clientele. A succinct summary (for a change) can be drawn from the fact that when we arrived, the girl behind the bar said "Oh! There's girls here! If we'd known, we would've put a few more male bar-staff on". Call them. We'll wait.
Claire nudged me and pointed to an extremely short, fashionably-dressed, moderately-breasted woman across the room, whispering "That's Dolly!". Apart from the mild disappointment arising from the fact that I'd half-expected Dolly to be a man in drag, I was reassured that the final, costumed result would be much more impressive.


The Food
As a rule, the food is too big for the plates at the Kurrajong, and I suspect the calves they slice their veal from are from meadows in the Chernobyl outskirts. People do not go home hungry from this pub. Meals are pretty standard pub fare, with cheap burgers, steaks under twenty dollars, fish n' chips, pastas and mixed grills taking up most of the menu space.
The chicken burger, especially when upgraded to include cheese and avocado, seemed to be the pick of the night, and universally enjoyed, although the somewhat drier beef burger, orange-hued wall of veal schnitzel, soggy chips and not-bad pasta had less glowing reviews. Yeah, the food's fine. As a restaurant, this place is a great Bingo joint.

The Bingo
Dolly re-appeared in costume during dinner, and even in nosebleed heels only came up to my chin, although with parts of her now well-padded, if measured whilst lying on our backs, she'd have been at least two norks taller. And what a hostess.
After the distribution of bingo cards, Dolly commenced the evening's entertainment, which consisted of some really-rather-well-sung Parton tunes interspersed with bingo games at breakneck speed. And I don't care what anybody says. Bingo is exciting. Shut up.
Our table became louder and louder, both with the singing along and the bingo enthusiasm, and the noise built and grew and we ate and scribbled and laughed and swore and then BINGO!! Belinda and Tori provided our raucous table with a total of three wins, although neither name was drawn out of the hat for the big $500 prize. We did, however, snicker conspirationally every time the number sixty-nine was called, and we fat-ladied and legs-elevened at all the appropriate moments. Dolly finished with a "comedy" version of "I Will Always Love You" called… wait.. still laughing… "I Will Always Hate You" – see what she did there? Because she changed the wor… never mind - which included conversational anecdotes between verses like "I went out with a builder. He was always coming… next week!" Boom, I say. And furthermore – Tish.

The Summarising Bit
Go and do Dolly Bingo at the Kurrajong. You know there's a bit deep inside you that wants to. Garn.

Steak N' Chicks Tuesday #9

Lots of little bits of food in lots of little dishes rock the house.
This month's Filete e Chicas Martes had a distinctly Spanish flavour as we hauled our castanets to the city's centre for jug after jug of deep and fruity sangria. And a bit of a nosh. And a little bit more sangria.

3rd April 2007 – En Casa Restaurant, Pitt St Sydney.
www.encasarestaurant.com

The Place
In the words of Chris Martin, it was all yellow.
Bright mustard-coloured walls encase En Casa, its dark polished floor, its long shiny tables and its awesome, nose-hair-curling, saliva-squirting garlicky funk. The front room contains numerous smaller tables, with the pizza-making hombre glassed into his little pizza zone, and the main kitchen at the back. Turn the corner and there's a room with larger, longer tables for groups, banquets, and rugby teams, all presided over by the standard decorative motifs of Dali, Miro, Picasso, and big fat guitars. And everyone's favourite: Spanish bagpipes.
At first glance the toilets were unimpressive, but I took a closer look. Running short of paper products at home? Then this is the place. Roll upon roll of soft loo paper and paper hand-towels are piled shoulder-high, with a conveniently-sized window over the basin to facilitate thieving by uni students who spent all their money on beer and crystal meth. And the water in the toilet bowl? As blue as the Mediterranean.

The People
The lovely Tegan organised this month's Steak N' Chicks Tuesday, and it must be noted that she was the first to actually draw up an Excel spreadsheet to do so. Geek or Goddess? You decide. SnC virgins this time were Amanda, Olivia, and Tash, with Tegan, Me, Alex, Claire, Alyson, Angela and Elly helping to make their first time as gentle as possible.
Clientele mostly consisted of couples in the front room, with groups and families in the back room, making it noisier and dramatically more interesting. Not much evidence of the ubiquitous Sydney backpacker despite the restaurant's location, but we picked what definitely looked like a footy dinner – 2 tables of burly blokes whose combined shoulder-width left little room for sunlight. Hi, boys.
Staff in the kitchen were an interesting multinational mix, although wait-staff appeared uniformly Iberian, uniformly attractive, and, although their warm welcomes and decent service may contradict the fact, uniformly enveloped by an air of what Claire and I dubbed 'flamenco disdain'.

The Food
Don Quixote would sell out Sancho Panza for this food. I'm not going to lie – this is some of the best tapas I've had, mostly because it was fresh, understated, and not tongue-shrivellingly salty. In a nutshell (although none of the food was served in one):
Olives: subtle, not too briny, plump and tasty.
Sardines: fresh, chunky, fishy, and fantastically garlicky
Garlic pizza: salt on toast, but surprisingly morish
Chilli Prawns: doused with tomato and chilli, the perfect amount of kick and a wondrous plate-wiping sauce
Baby Octopus: charred, lemony octagonal heaven – every tentacle wrapped itself around my heart
Garlic Prawns: hot, saucy and orgasmic – halitosis never felt so good
Mussels : so fresh they almost wiped your palate clean – subtle tomato and garlic sauce
Garlic Mushrooms: two of the best things in the world, together in a clay pot, then in my mouth
Potato Tortilla: quite bland, but well-timed for sauce-mopping purposes
Sangria: I've had good sangria, I've had bad sangria, and I've had woeful sangria. It's all still sangria, and it's always still fun to slurp your way around your eighth glass trying to get the last bit of apple out.

The Summarising Bit
Don't breathe on anyone for three days, except to tell them about this tapas. Or to tell them they have revolting body odour, because then they deserve it. Seriously, pant-wettingly good food, and bloody cheap, too. Get your burro in there.
Mention must also be made of the Return Of The Great Limp-Pumping Elixir (see Steak N' Chicks Tuesday #6). This is, for the uninitiated, lip gloss that stings like bejeezus, but makes your lips swell for about an hour, giving you that just-pashed-a-man-with-stubble look that drives 'em crazy. Beauty is pain, people. You heard it here second.

Steak N' Chicks Tuesday #8

A three-month hiatus between Steak N' Chicks Tuesdays is, quite frankly, too long. Mixing red meat, oestrogen and good shoes is a thing which needs to happen monthly. It's oestrogen's way.
That said, it was gorgeous to start this year's Steak ball rolling with a good turnout, some decent weather and the obligatory teetering mountains of food and wine.

27th February 2007 – Cabana Bar and Lounge, St Leonards.
www.cabanabar.com.au

The Place
It's hard for me to be objective when describing Cabana Bar, as this was hardly my first visit. It's about fifteen minutes' walk to my home (mostly downhill, I might add – both geographically and metaphorically), and just across the road from my workplace. I've been visiting this place in a liquid context since before the recent-ish makeover, when it was just known as Norths Rugby Club, in the old days of ugly club carpet, old men with bum-cracks on show, and general derision shown to anyone without a jug of VB on their laminex table. In its new guise, Cabana Bar is all schmick shiny floors, funky-arsed décor, cruisy-de-la-schmoozy outdoor area and general laid-back fanciness. There are only two things that give away the fact that this is still a rugby club – the fact that you have to 'sign in' at the door, and, in Winter, the disproportionate number of thick-necked male clientele hobbling around on crutches. Cabana is massive, with a whoppingly impressive outdoor area, a huge indoor area with a large bar, pool tables, function room and separate dining bit, and a largely forgotten (and often closed) balcony. The main outdoor area is the business end, though, with a seating choice (if one arrives early) of undercover cushioned comfort, massive logs of bottom-receptive wood, outdoor booths, plastic-backed chairs or odd, white and orange capsule-shaped stool-pods. A hint – do not choose a plastic chair on a hot day. Trust me on that. There's umbrella shade and breeze in Summer, and absurdly effective heating in Winter. My favourite outdoor feature (although not in operation last Tuesday), is the massive white-bricked building next door, which is often used as a screen for projected football and cricket games, movies, and the oddly engaging Fashion Channel. I likes me tele-visual entertainment LARGE.

The People
A bunch of usuals plus a smattering of S'n'C virgins made for a particularly pleasant pot-pourri of chicks. This month Alex and I were joined by the newly-hitched Claire (who organised it this time – thanks, missus!), Vanessa, Alyson, Ella, and virgins Steph, Katrina, Lucette and new-to-Sydney Kristy. Ella again regaled us with tales from her work-related cosmetic-enhancement adventures, introducing the smirk-worthy phrase "naso-labial folds" into our general vernacular. Honestly, you can get practically anything cosmetically filled these days – conversation even ventured near the possibility of getting one's bottom crack injected with the surgical equivalent of PolyFilla, giving rise to the disturbing notion of a 'mono-butt'. But I digress.
Staff here are competent, polite, non-intrusive, occasionally bored-looking, and in a number of examples, good-looking enough to make their skills-set irrelevant. I love a hot young glassie. I do. I just wish I wasn't old enough to find myself almost revolted at the thought of buttock-contact with one. But I digress.
Clientele at Cabana on a weeknight consists of small pockets of rugby-esque gents and local residents, but is primarily made up of workers from the surrounding businesses, many of whom are from the advertising, photography, music or television side of life. This occasionally manifests itself in the form of way too many prissy haircuts and unnecessary sunglasses-on-heads, but never to an off-putting degree. In general, I'd give Cabana a perv-factor of five, although only paedophiles and people who like shrieking should make any kind of amorous investment after 9pm on Thursdays, Fridays or Saturdays. It's a bit like the playground of a primary school that has a really, really slutty uniform. But I digress.
The toilets are… well, they're there. What looks like a large number of cubicles becomes slim pickings if you discount the doorless or out-of-order, but they do flush. Usually.

The Food
The food at Cabana Bar is good.
Not give-me-the-recipe-and-a-change-of-underwar good, but adequately pleasant, with no distinct drawbacks. The menu looks tempt-a-licious, and it's genuinely difficult to narrow it all down to just one choice. Quality can be changeable, though – a dribble-worthy mushroom tart one week was a sloppy mush-fest the next.
One orders at the bar, and takes one's big number back to one's table to await one's delivery, surrounded by one's companions' numbers like a gigantic, fashionable bingo table. One becomes confused as food is delivered in completely random order.
I had an impressive slab of steak, cooked exactly how I'd ordered it and surrounded by too many chunky fries, exactly the right amount of watercress, a kickass gravy, and a limp-wristed hollandaise. All in all, it was good, and carved up with a steak-knife that would have sent Loreena Bobbit into paroxysms of envy.
Katrina and Steph both had the beef burger special, featuring cheese, bacon, and reportedly a "nice herby tinge". When asked their opinion, they both answered mid-mouthful with "goob".
Claire had the spaghetti with chilli, basil and tomato, normally served with prosciutto but served sans to comply with her vegetarian status. The verdict – "very good".
Pizzas ordered were Virginia Ham, mushroom, wild rocket & pesto pizza (Ella & Lucette – "almost exceptional", "thumbs up"), salami, artichoke, Spanish onion & goat's cheese (Al – "excellent"), and the roast vegetable & feta (Kristy, "good, but sparsely distributed vegies").
Vanessa, who had the roast butternut pumpkin (or "butt pump", as abbreviated by Katrina), mushroom and artichoke salad with baby spinach, pinenuts, red onion & feta, declared it the "best frikkin' salad ever", despite the pool of oil left in the bowl.
Alex tried the Vietnamese chicken salad, which was fresh, piquant, and caused her to mention something about Vietnam sitting on her tongue, and a magic lake of salad-water left on her plate.
It was… you know… good.

The Summarising Bit
I'm going to get all unimaginative and say that this Steak N' Chicks Tuesday was good.
Brilliant setting, with reasonable food and conversation ranging from cosmetic surgery to law exams, to Adelaide, to casual nookie, with some well-timed innuendo lobbed in at every opportunity, as is our brazen wont.
Cabana is absolutely worth a visit, and could really kick some casual gastronomic arse with a bit of consistency.
And finally, for the record, I would really like a mono-butt.

Steak N' Chicks Tuesday #7

It's been a while between Steak N' Chicks Tuesdays, but I think we more than made up for it this month. Do you know how I know? I wore a bib. That's a sign that I'm very, very serious about eating. It's possibly also a sign that I have a dribble problem, but that's neither here nor there.

This time 'round, we were looking for a place with an outdoor area and summery food to match the temperate climate at this time of year. We were looking for a casual atmosphere, a good wine list, an affordable bill and as many bi-valve molluscs as we could cram into our faces. An impossibly tall order, you say? Not at all…

28th November 2006 – Bungalow 8, King Street Wharf.

The Place
I have some considerable reservations about the King Street Wharf strip. It all feels so brand new, and the bars and restaurants that crowd its length run the whole gamut from Too-Cool-For-School to Someone-Just-Vomited-On-My-Shoes. Every now and then, though, I'll have a brilliant time there, and this was one of those. Bungalow 8 is a big, open space with a massive outdoor area, a kitchen at one end and a bar that runs most of its length. Outside is sheltered enough to protect diners and drinkers from sudden, pelting rain (as it did last night), but open enough to get some mild breeze fluttering through one's glamorous, fashionable hair. I have no idea how anyone stays warm here in winter, but the cane chairs, chunky exposed beams and blocky outdoor couches scream Summer to me. Although the place was heaving, it still seemed spacious and relaxed.
As usual, I can't move on without mentioning the little chick's room, and the loos here are like a lot of loos in newish Sydney venues – shiny, blockish, dramatically lit, with taps that need instructions and a basin that looks like it's going to leave a wet smudge on your crotch. But doesn't. Quite nice – earthy tones, funky locks on the doors, but (as I discovered too late), not up to scratch on the old keeping-the-toilet-paper-refilled front. Nothing humbles a girl faster than a shouted plea for paper over a cubicle wall.

The People
A good mix o' chicks – Me, Alex, Alyson, Di, Claire, Ella and SNCT virgins Milly & Rose – meant that as usual, conversation and wine egged each other on in a competition to be the most fluidly copious. More than one of the chicks had only eaten salad at lunch in order to leave their stomachs as ready as possible for disgusting amounts of food, which is the kind of forethought I really admire in a contemporary glutton.
The place was packed. Tuesday night is a popular night here, and I was very glad we booked ahead – easily three hundred people were fed and watered over the space of about three hours. The crowd was generally young and mixed, consisting of people from all walks of life who seemed to share a penchant for the Sucked Mango haircut. It's over, people. Let it go. Atmosphere was buzzy but not overwhelming, and if I hadn't been deep in both conversation and a pot full of mussels all night, I probably could have put in a good stint of conscientious perving.
I have never seen so many waitstaff in my entire life. The bar and kitchen area looked like it had just had a box of uniformed teenagers shaken open over it, swarming as it was with the keen-eyed, youthful help. Possible low-level brain activity was more than made up for with incredibly fast, efficient service. Empty glasses and teetering bucketfuls of empty mussel-shells were swiftly and effortlessly disposed of and (the best bit) replaced with fresh 'uns, and despite being almost overwhelmingly numerous, the staff were all so lithe and snake-hipped that they could swoosh past you with a tray full of empties and you'd hardly even feel the wind in their wake.

The Food
There are few phrases more deliciously titillating in life than "All You Can Eat". Tack the phrase "Mussels and Chunky Fries" on the end, and you've got a slice of gastronomic heaven. Tuesday night at Bungalow 8 is All You Can Eat Mussels and Chunky Fries (AYCEMACF) night, and I'm now a complete and subordinate slave to the concept.
I've been wary of mussels in the past – I've had some ineptly-cooked samples in the past which were unimpressive, so I'll usually order something else if given the choice. Also, being an emetophobe, I cringe at stories of one bad mussel turning unfortunate people into three-day chunder monkeys. All of my concerns dissolved the moment someone lifted the lid on their pot of gloriously-scented, black-shelled nuggets of liquoury loveliness. Fantastic.
On AYCEMACF night, you order your mussels from the bar, pay your eighteen dollars, and get a fetching blue wristband, the adhesive from which, in retrospect, should not be brought anywhere near one's delicate smattering of arm-hair. Virtually as soon as you've plonked your buttocks back on your seat, you're presented with a big black pot of steaming Tasmanian mussels, a side of "chunky" (jury still out on definition of "chunky") fries and a basket full of torpedo rolls. Mussels come in five different varieties – Thai Green Curry, White Wine, Laksa, Provencale, and Tom Yum. Based on aroma alone (and helped a bit by the fact that I tasted a bit of everyone's dinner. For the review, you understand..), I'd recommend the Asian flavours, although all were tasty.
Alyson had the subtle white wine variety, but loudly coveted Di's Tom Yum for its more intense flavour, and because Di was making appreciative grunting noises. In like, a really ladylike and sophisticated way, of course. Alyson noted that it didn't matter what flavour you had, dipping the bread in the broth afterwards was the business. Alex had the Laksa mussels, which came with delectably massive chunks of ginger and lemongrass, whilst Milly, Ella and I had the Provencale, with wedges of warm tomato and flecks of bacon. Rose and Claire, who said thousands of quotable blog-gems all night, didn't have the mussels, opting instead for great mountainous plates of salt-and-pepper squid. Granted, their meals looked a bit like they were brought to you by Colonel Sanders, but one taste (for the review, you understand) proved I was reading a book by its perfectly-spiced cover. Chips (still not comfortable with the misleading "chunky fries" thing) were not the highlight. Unseasoned, lukewarm and powdery. But oh my lord, the mussels were good. Bib-worthy, even.
After a good half hour of the sounds of slurping, lip-smacking and the clink of empty shell against empty shell, our pots were removed, and we were asked if we would like some more. Yes, we said.
Special mention must be given to what was (hopefully) a sign of freshness and authenticity. All of us (but mostly Ella), fished a small number of tiny, curled up crabs from our mussel-pots. It's as if they knew that there weren't enough risqué joke opportunities afforded by a bunch of girls at a table eating de-bearded shellfish from Tasmania – now we all had crabs. Phnar! Final crab tally at the end of the night was a massive 15 crustaceans.


The Summarising Bit
Nobody looks good in a bib. Nobody.
This is an excellent, excellent way to spend a Tuesday night, particularly if you start starving yourself around Sunday evening. Table manners are difficult to uphold when you're wrist deep in a bucket of mussels, which is exactly how it should be – this place is about really diving into the fresh, fresh critters with unabashed gusto, and mopping up the spoils with crusty bread afterwards. A couple of perfectly-suited wines on the list too, including my first Pinot Grigio.
There's certainly a novelty element to AYCEMACF Tuesday, but it's competently backed up with really good food (meh to you, chunky fries), and quick service. There were only a few things missing, which I've listed below:
· Nobody made a model of the Taj Mahal out of the empty mussel shells;
· Nobody made any of the empty mussel shells look like they were talking;
· Nobody put on a tiny crab puppet-show – there were easily enough collected to stage a mini-crab Idol; and
· Nobody invited Clive Owen.

Never mind.

Steak N' Chicks Tuesday #6

It's all about boobs.

The latest Steak N' Chicks Tuesday had a charitable twist, being as it was in October, the Cancer Council's dedicated Women's Cancers Month. The Council encourages chicks (which we are) to host a dinner (which we did) during which you squeeze your mates for some cash to hand over to cancer research, particularly breast cancer. http://www.girlsnightin.com.au

Alex volunteered her and Anna's gracious abode as a venue, everyone brought a plate and a fistful of bucks, and we even considered a commemorative boosies-out salute. But we're far, far too cosmopolitan and sophisticated for that.
Really.
We made a few hundred quid for the cause, and I left before the cleaning up. Sounds like a perfect night to me.

17th October 2006 – Alex's house, Paddington.

The Place
Alex's house is tops. Any house right next to a pub obviously has an automatic head start in the points department, (I think the girls of the house may have referred to the pub once as "the outside fridge"), but who doesn't love a tastefully kitted-out 3-bedroom Paddo terrace? Just something about 'em. Alex, in a nod to Pink Ribbon theme, had decorated with all things pink, including candles and Hundreds And Thousands biscuits. Because Alex is Alex, and has talents bestowed on her by seraphim, she still managed to make it look understated and tasteful.
The kitchen at the house is brilliant – a great 70s-style, shiny-wood number straight out of a fondue-soaked ski chalet. Due to everyone preparing their plentiful plates, and Tegan's and my usual and predictable desire to show off our culinary skills (instead of, oh, I don't know – relaxing and being sociable), the Chalet Kitchen was a hive of frenzied foodstuff-related fussing – a blur of hands, "excuse me"s and wine-bottle-opening with bits of parsley and parmesan mixed in. Chicks made themselves comfortable in the loungeroom, dining room, and courtyard, and the atmosphere was brilliant – a bit of wine, a bit of gossip, and the thoroughly smug air of people gorging themselves for charity. Noice.
As usual, I can't move on without mentioning the ablutionary facilities. They're upstairs. And the soap stinks nice.

The People
It's easy to get people to attend Steak N' Chicks – there's just two things you have to do: Mention cancer and get them to pay in advance. A brilliant turnout, with 14 chicks in attendance – Me, Alex, Cherie, Tegan, Edwina, Claire, Ella, Alyson, Di, Sarah, Angela, Anna, and TWO Vanessas for the price of… well, two. The beauty of Steak N' Chicks Tuesday is that you just about always meet someone new, and, being the discerning and exclusive high-falutin' sorts we are, they're always good value. Conversation flowed as easily as the wine, which thanks to Anna's wheeling, dealing and price ceiling was outrageously plentiful. Conversational topics ranged from food, to trips overseas, to food, to men, to high school, to food, to galahs, to drinking, and settled eventually on Botox. At this point Ella whipped out something I'm calling 'Jolie Juice' – a vial of lip-gloss which has the added bonus of making one's lips swell. Naturally we all jumped on it, and in no time at all we were shiny, mildly puffy, and sporting the kind of extremely minor discomfort that all true beauty demands.

The Food
Us chicks know our grub. And how to amass great heaving piles of it. Claire and Alyson started everyone slavering with a gob-stuffing collection of cheeses and dips, including Claire's infamous Salsamole. Or Guacasalsa. Or something. The Pink Table was soon completely dwarfed by Ella's divine salmon tarts (and I know tarts, mate), the Vanessas' salads, (colourful, creative, crouton-adorned), Tegan's chicken & pesto gnocchi (I'd turn my head away from Johnny Depp for a mouthful), Edwina's pizza (god bless pizza – all the time, every time), my risotto (forgot the mushrooms, made up for it with garlic and parmesan), and my favourite of the night, Cherie's stuffed mushrooms. I never met a funghi I didn't like, and I'm thinking of eloping with these delicate, insanely delicious mouth-sized morsels. Dessert took the form of Di's chocolate fudge tarty/slicey thing ("wheat free!" shouted the normally pastry-deprived Angela), and Sarah's sticky date pud, both of which I'm entitling Things I Will Eat When Sex Is Not An Option. Magnificent.
My only regrets are not sneaking leftovers out in my handbag and not counting how many glasses of wine I had. I'm certain we all reek of garlic this morning, but in a self-satisfied, elegant way. Yes. We reek elegantly. And swear like brickies.
Anna has given herself the task of collecting everybody's recipes for the food they provided and collating it into some kind of commemorative pamphlet. The only thing we need is a title…..
The Boosie Banquet?
Nosh For Norks?
Foodie Fun-Bags?

No. No, of course not. Cancer is a serious, serious business.


The Summarising Bit
What a gaggle of magnificent women. I don't know about anyone else, but I came away with a smile on my face (with slightly plumper lips than usual) and a stomach girth the likes of which I don't normally lug around. Being charitable feels good, but being charitable by stuffing your maw with excellent food ROCKS.

So long, and thanks for the mammaries.
Sorry. Had to get one more boob gag in.

Steak N’ Chicks Tuesday #5

The road to Steak N' Chicks Tuesday this month was long, rocky, and full of chicanes. Date changes, venue changes, and last minute drop-outs meant that by the time we got it together, the chicks in attendance were gagging for a good feed, a glass or two of something supportive, and the traditional politically-incorrect chinwag.

26th September 2006 – Fringe Bar, Oxford St, Paddington http://www.thefringe.com.au/

The Place
A bit of a poop of a day weather-wise prompted us to change venue from the decidedly outdoor Bodhi Bar to the cosier confines of The Fringe Bar at the last minute. The Fringe has gone through a number of overhauls since my first visit, when it was just The Unicorn Hotel and hosted old men with bum-cracks proudly on display, spilling as they were over vinyl stools positioned with a good view of the horsies. A quick wood-based, sanded-back renovation later, and it was my Monday-night-after-uni haunt, being just across the road from my alma mater, and full of beer, food, and stand-up comedians. These days The Fringe seems to have decided that it's been around long enough to establish itself as that nichey-yet-proud phenomenon: The Quirky Bar.
Nobody should be able to (or allowed to) match black-and-white tiles, drippy chandeliers, red velvet curtains, randomly framed celebrity photographs and orange vinyl chairs with this kind of success, but The Fringe does. It has mild undertones of up-its-own-arse, but in a self-aware, aren't-we-groovy kind of way. It's a dark place – almost gloomy, and arranged in rows with a long bare-brick bar hugging one wall, a row of stooly tables, a row of pouffey tables, and a row of boothy tables. The bar was full enough for a comforting conversational buzz, but empty enough for us to have a range of seating options. So we sat.
As usual, mention must be made of the plumbing facilities, and I do love a toilet area in which you can sit down. Wait – that sounds obvious – there are cushioned stools running the length of the mirrors here, which means that the Fringe Bar is fully aware that merely ridding oneself of one's previous drink is only a third of the reason girls visit the loo – it's so nice to have a comfy perch for other necessities like make-up retouching and having a right old bitch. Framed celebrity images were unnecessary but appreciated.

The People
A modest turn-out this month, with two Steak N' Chicks Virgins, Claire and Vanessa, welcomed heartily into the fold. Alex, Erica and myself made up the numbers, with the usually-present Fee off on an interstate jaunt like the jet-setting mogul she is.
Clientele was a Paddingtonesque mix of suities and beauties, with a lot of people doing as we were and taking advantage of the all-you-can-eat pizza deal. The barman was short in stature but tall on charm, and the waitress, who took a while to warm to us, eventually did, and we to her. It's hard not to like someone who keeps bringing you food. Hi, Mum.
Conversation ranged from men, to Australian Idol, to nephews, to festivals, to (inevitably) men again, as is often the case when there's an absence of dangly-style tackle under the table and full, frequently-replenished glasses on top of it. The less said here about Erica-the-trauma-nurse's patient who took a marital aid too far, or the resulting chit-chat regarding scrotums the better. Enough to suggest that nostril-quivering laughter and forehead-smacking horror were expressed in almost equal measure.

The Food
The Fringe Bar has a thing which is a Very Good Thing, which is as much pizza as you can eat for ten dollars. You pay your money, the waitress brings out a plate each and a basket of really-quite-good garlic Turkish bread, and every twenty-five seconds (so it seemed, but some exaggeratory licence is to be expected) she returns with a fresh, shiny new pizza, wedges of which she dutifully trowels onto each plate with delightful regularity.
Due to this specialised arrangement, not all the pizza was as hot as it might have been, and although I accept that there are many different styles of pizza, The Fringe seem to have gone for the Quite Doughy Really option. The concept made up for the minor farinaceous shortcomings, though, because as they say about pizza and… well, some other things, there's No Such Thing As A Bad One. Toppings plopped deftly onto our plates by way of pizza-base were:
1. Antipasto – ample tasty toppings enjoyed by all, and one of the two vegetarian choices available.
2. Chicken & Sun-Dried Tomato – according to Vanessa, the chicken was "juicy", however all subsequent comments were obscured by the imbibing of the rest of the slice
3. Barbecue Meat – WAY too much barbecue sauce, but a good smattering of various cooked, sliced animals
4. Chorizo – great fat slices of my favourite smoked meat product, and probably the best pizza of the night. Unlike her personal life, Alex was deprived of ample sausage, and so had to ask for a second, more deli-friendly slice
5. Margherita – not so much the understated traditional version, but tasty nonetheless.

The food was certainly plentiful and constant, causing Vanessa to wonder if she could beat her Pizza Hut record as a sixteen-year-old of 24 slices in one sitting. No such luck. The waitress just kept piling slices onto our plates until I had to do the pizza equivalent of the hand-over-the-glass "no thank you", which means holding up one hand, turning a grease-smeared, puff-cheeked face to the waitress and saying "Mufankoo".

The Summarising Bit
Food isn't the focus here, but it is good enough to make the pizza deal a definite social and budgetary goer. Atmosphere is good, but a little disjointed for some reason (I may have had a bad chandelier experience in a past life, which only specialist hypnotists are qualified to uncover), but the staff are top-notch, and hold up The Fringe's decade-old tradition of Aesthetic Loveliness. All in all a good night out, albeit nothing to write home about. Except perhaps to say "Dear Mum, ate my own weight in bread and cheese products tonight….."

Steak N' Chicks Tuesday #4

Brrrr. And furthermore: BRRRRRR. A cold, dark night calls for a warm, dark pub, some Chicks to help fill it (at least one of whom is warm and dark), and any number of drinks at various temperatures, in lots of different shades.

1st August 2006 – The Australian Youth Hotel, Bay St, Glebe http://www.australianyouthhotel.com.au/

The Place
I’ve got a crush on this pub. I’m thinking of buying it presents. It’s got pretty much everything – a dark, pubby feel, an open fireplace with couches, lots and lots of different sorts of beer, an impressive menu, an impressive assortment of courteous and attractive bar staff, a restaurant, and a beergarden. And that’s just the ground floor, people. It also sports Sport and Stand-Up Comedy, and has a separate room called Nude, which I think has the singular purpose of keeping the Beautiful People separated from us decent, beer-loving normal folk. Bless ‘em.
The AYH is dark in a good way – like chocolate, coffee, or Johnny Depp’s stubble. It has nooks, crannies, and a bar which forms the centrepiece of the main ground floor room, glowing like a magical fruitbowl full of really, really good-looking apples. The ceiling and walls are adorned with flags and pictures of the sporting variety, the restaurant section is cosy and just classy enough to distinguish it from the rest of the pub, without making itself elitist and up-its-own-arse. The beergarden is spacious and inviting, with a lovely bricky, woody, tree-y feel not quite spoilt by the Very Ugly Tables. We counted five of those upright UFO heater things, none of which were turned on when we arrived, resulting in surprised yelps when we sat down on very, very cold metal chairs.
Music inside was unobtrusive and Coldplay-based, and completely outdone by the cheesy Hammond-organ-and-maraca based cocktail music outside. I felt a bit like a martini-sipping 50s housewife, an image only spoilt by the fact that I’m quite obviously a beer-gulping single sarcastic person. Nessie cocked her head and summarised perfectly by just saying “Murph and the MagicTones”.
Toilets were fairly non-descript (a silly thing to say when I’m about to describe them, really), comprising of two loos, two sinks, some tiles, and some wood.
Overall, a Bloody Nice Pub.

The People
A great turn-out this month – Alex, Fee (with gorgeous brochures again), Angela, Nessie, Meredith, Sam, Sarah and me becoming The Group Of People Too Big To Sit Anywhere But Outside. When Nessie, Meredith and I arrived we had our choice of seats, but an hour later the place was packed – the lovely staff in the restaurant initially told us we were welcome to eat our pub food (which is ordered from a separate menu) at the restaurant tables, but by the time we ordered, the beergarden was our only option. Luckily two members of the outrageously courteous staff toiled for several minutes to get us warm – the delightfully Scottish Neil led us outside and then, keeping some warranted obscenities un-uttered, struggled with a space heater until he managed to get it working. Thanks, Neil. Call me. Shortly afterwards, a female member of staff, with a Mohawk that detracted not one bit from her general aura of professionalism, tweaked the heater from My Coat’s Done Up To My Neck to Even My Toes Are Toasty, Thank You.
Have I mentioned that the staff here are lovely? I honestly don’t think I’ve come across a politer, more courteous and aesthetically pleasing bunch all in one spot before. The bar-folk were swift and pleasant, making sure we received our free meat-raffle tickets. I was a bit disappointed when they didn’t come outside to tell me that I’d won, although this was hardly surprising as my ticket didn’t have the same number on it as the winning one. Even the bouncer here was the essence of care and courtesy – opening the door for everyone, and asking Nessie in his Eastern European accent if she would like him to move every piece of furniture in the vicinity so that passing punters were less likely to brush past her shoulders. Bless you, Vladimir.
Clientele were just on the scruffy side of beautiful, and looked like they all had full bookshelves at home. Young and local, a huge number of them were scoffing themselves silly from the pub menu. And with bloody good cause, too…

The Food
As soon as I walked in the door of the AYH, I just knew they’d do a Beef And Guinness Pie. You can just tell. They also do a Sunday Roast, as announced via blackboard, which also listed dribble-inducing items such as Peking duck spring rolls, salt-and-pepper squid, James Squire Fish & Chips (gotta love a place that’s this specific about its batter), smoked chicken risotto, marinated salmon & prawn pizza, steak sarnie, and pork sausage with mash and onion & ale gravy (I refuse to say “jus”).
Nessie wrapped herself around the salmon pizza with intense enthusiasm, dolloped as it was with chunks of fresh fish on a perfect crispy base. “Balanced”, she said, before gleefully inserting another piece. Fee, Meredith and Alex all had the steak sandwich, which turned out to be a massive Turkish bready affair with grilled Mediterranean vegetables and mountains of crisp fries. Granted, Fee had ordered chunky chips, but her initial disappointment disappeared pretty quickly. “Tender”, the girls announced, before helping it disappear. Sam had the sausages & mash, which looked exactly as it should – a pile of good, warming stuff paddling in rich, dark gravy. “Great!”, she offered, before chasing another bit of banger ‘round the plate. Angela had the smoked chicken risotto, which went against the tradition set by almost every publicly-available risotto by actually not being salty enough. The smoked chicken, which provided little nuggets of badly-needed flavour, were a little too sparsely distributed to really do their job. “Not bad”, she said, before tidily processing another forkful. Sarah and I both ordered the burger, which was Everything A Burger Should Be. Great slabs of powdery damper barely containing a fat, charry wodge of ground beef, slightly spicy sauce, beetroot, tomato, bacon and onion, dwarfing both its very necessary toothpick and the mountain of fries surrounding it. “Mmmmfffrrfff”, I said, before cramming another very unladylike chunk into my mouth.
Portions were plentiful, climatically appropriate, and worthy of another mention of the excellent chips. I’d eat here every day if I could. And if I jogged for the other twenty-three hours.

The Summarising Bit
I’m going to gush, I’m afraid. I love this pub, and I’m going back – for the very excellent grub, the numerous entertainment options, the loungeroom-esque, welcoming décor, and the opportunity to further perv at the bar blokes. The ugly beergarden furniture, mildly ineffective outdoor heating and barely significant food shortcomings are the only things stopping me from giving this place ten out of ten. Get your bum out of that seat and go and see Vladimir.

Steak N' Chicks Tuesday #3

Cold weather and the tyranny of distance kept this month’s Steak N’ Chicks Tuesday on the petite side. The mountain sometimes comes to Mohammed, but you just can’t get some chicks across the Harbour Bridge.

27th June 2006 – The Commodore Hotel, Blues Point Road, North Sydney

The Place
The Commodore is a pub most definitely suited to daytime Summer drinking, although it’s also well set-up for the lower end of the thermometer – very open-plan, with a magnificent outdoor area. A discreet pokie room hides in one corner, and is separated from the kitchen and swish bistro area by a long, meandering bar. The outdoor bit, which takes up over half the pub’s footprint, is strewn with umpteen tables and outdoor lounges, warmed effectively by umbrella-hoisted heaters and a cosy enclosed fire. The toilets are a bit of a low point, seemingly unbothered by the pressure of being attractive, and painted in a colour probably listed on a Taubmans sample sheet as “Mottled Vomit”. Not a significant drawback, but worth mentioning.

The People
Just four chicks this week, but quality. Alex, Fee, Jo, and Steak N’ Chicks newcomer Vanessa, who was originally only going to stay for a quick beer until she clocked the menu. Fee arrived laden with her impressively slick and gorgeous new brochures for her printing company, and several minutes were spent all gushing over them. We all agreed that the staff at the Commodore were very pleasant indeed, with manners my Grandma would have raised her teacup to. The glassies seemed to have been trained at the Ninja School of Bar-Help, as our empties kept disappearing conveniently and efficiently from the table with barely a shoe shuffle or a shadow. Clientele were plentiful without equating to a crowd (I’ve seen this place on Friday nights, and it ain’t arf heaving), and mostly young with a minimum of body hair. When an older-than-forty couple walked in, I almost imagined swinging saloon doors, a piano suddenly stopping and a distant tumbleweed, such was their seeming incongruousness. A handful of suits provided the obligatory lecherous stares to any bosomed people passing their tables, but as far as ogling office-workers go, they were non-intrusive and mild.

The Food
I think the Booker Prize needs to be expanded to include a gong for Best Descriptive Menu Sentences, and if they do, The Commodore menu would probably be a finalist. It’s hard to read when your dribble keeps obscuring beauties like Warm Tart of Balsamic Tomato and Onion Jam with Ricotta and Rocket Salad, or Home-Cured Gravlax with Caper and Dill Salsa, Seeded Mustard Cream and Sourdough Toast.
The chefs at the Commodore seem to have discovered a kind of Tardis Of Flavour – meals look reasonably tasty on the outside, but manage a good fifty square metres of intense and gorgeous flavour on the inside. Before we even ate, all our dishes easily managed big ticks in both the presentation and nasal waftage boxes, too.
Vanessa, starvacious as she was, ordered the fish & chips. Points initially lost for not-hot chips were redeemed when we considered that Vanessa’s your-food’s-ready buzzer was faulty (hence the meal was waiting at the counter for a longer-than-usual time), and also when we all tasted the Best Tartare Sauce In The World. Tartare Sauces usually fall into two general categories – too piquant or too creamy, but this was a perfectly-balanced mouth-party to which anyone with a few bucks can be invited. A brief cutlery shortage was sorted before the rest of the meals arrived, and Fee sat down to a subtle but flavour-packed pumpkin & ricotta ravioli with burnt butter, lemon juice & pine nuts. She ordered a crusty roll as she was picking up her meal, and managed to talk the kitchen hand down from the initial fifty-dollar price tag to a one-dollar final settling fee. Nobody was quite sure how that whole scenario worked, but Fee’s appreciative lip-smacking indicated that either price was a bargain.
Alex ordered the warm salad of winter vegetables with medium rare lamb loin and basil, featuring gentle chunks of pink, flavourful lamb with delicious lumps of non-stodgy vegetables.
I had “Sausages with Braised Onions and Potato Puree”, which we all know as Bangers N’ Mash, but proved itself worthy of its somewhat flowery menu description. Three fat, perfectly cooked and fork-responsive sausages nestled around a mound of fluffy, smooth potato, topped with sweet brown onion and fresh cress – islands of good stuff in a truly lovely pool of dark, intense gravy. I gave up daintiness for the joys of gorging, stopping occasionally to wipe smudges from the sides of my mouth. Quite possibly the perfect Winter meal. Portion size for all meals was ever-so-slightly-too-big, which is vastly better than the alternative. Bloody yummy, mate.

The Summarising Bit
Whilst truly worth a re-visit in some warmer months, and with an interior décor that seems to have been a little overlooked in favour of the far-more-popular outdoor area (save for the swanky bistro), a hugely appreciative and satisfied nod goes to The Commodore. The phrase “decent feed” was never more appropriate – nothing was sub-standard, and quite a few meal features, including bread, sausages, and sauces were spectacular. Go. Across the bridge wit ya.

Steak N’ Chicks Tuesday #2

The second Steak N’ Chicks Tuesday was better-populated than the inaugural, as is often the case with occasions for which invitations are a matter of honour and social standing. And because, like, more people came. The flexible ‘Steak’ requirement was bent a bit to include sushi, but the more rigid ‘Chicks’ requirement, although momentarily shaky once or twice, stayed intact.

30th May 2006 – Zushi, Victoria Road, Darlinghurst

The Place
Zushi (http://www.zushi.com.au/) is a bit like Uma Thurman – long, skinny, sophisticated, endearing, and no longer doing rude things to Ethan Hawke. Maybe just the first four. At first glance it’s just another Victoria Road hole-in-the-wall eatery, but it doesn’t take long for its casual warmth to seep in, even on a crappy, cold, wet night. We perched outside on red-cushioned wooden boxes under a very effective heater, and despite being interrupted by an extremely loud fire alarm emanating from the ‘gentleman’s club’ across the road, we were extremely comfortable. Tegan, our resident songbird, managed to incorporate a bit of an impressive James Brown/Fire Alarm mash-up anyway, so no real harm done. Zushi’s interior is dominated by a long sushi bar with stools along its length, with an additional kitchen at the back. Whilst waiting for the loo, I had a quick squiz into the kitchen, which looked like an alcoholic ceramicist’s wet dream with its massive collection of both wine and tiny, gorgeous little plates and dishes. A highly-commended mention must also be made regarding the loo – standard spacious general facilities, with the piece de resistance – a floor-length skinny-mirror. How to make your customers feel good AND eat more? Make them look two sizes slimmer!

The People
A great mix o’ chicks in attendance – the ubiquitous Alex, Fi and me, plus Steak N’ Chicks virgins Tegan, Sarah, Erica and Jas. Erica had to rush off a bit early to go and be a nurse, which was a shame, but I suppose bleeding people take priority over slices of dead fish. Zushi was staffed by an extremely efficient and friendly waitress, a handful of sushi chefs (not to be confused with sous-y chefs) in obligatory headbands, and Ray the Owner. Fi knew Ray, who came over for several chats and made sure we were phenomenally well looked-after, although even half the level of service we received would have been more than adequate. Double it, and time probably would have gone backwards. Other diners, mostly couples, seemed to be taking advantage of the extremely generous half-price Happy Hour between 6 and 7, as the clientele thinned out drastically after that time. Fi’s fiancé stopped by, but was quickly banished due to his inappropriate genitalia.

The Food
If I only had space for one or two words to describe the food, I’d probably use ones like “Dribble-Worthy”, or “Congratulations, Tummy!”. Luckily on my own blog I can use as many words as I like. So I will.
From the moment we were seated until the moment we left, gorgeously-displayed dishes seemed to cascade onto our table, which, to people like me whose digestive system takes priority over, let’s see, breathing and circulation, was Very Good News. Goma-ae (spinach salad with sesame) and Edamame (known worldwide as ‘those salty bean-pod things you have to eat fifty of’) were welcome starters, after which (thanks to a conversation between Ray and Fi in the ballpark of ‘keep ‘em coming’) the following arrived:
Sake, and plenty of it (warm, sweet, syllable-removing)
Oysters with dressing (superbly salty-fresh, and two each – slurpalicious)
Snapper sashimi (SO fresh, paper-thin, with a gentle spicy sauce)
Zushi rolls (avocado, prawn, and eel finished with crispy noodles and Japanese mayo – subtle, flavourful and oh-bugger-the-plate’s empty)
Zushi ‘crunch’ rolls (similar to above but rolled in crunchiness, tasting like an attractive fish breathed on a pillow in heaven)
Gyoza special roll (gyoza INSIDE a sushi roll, which is a bit like wrapping Clive Owen inside Johnny Depp. Porky and magnificent)
Agedashi Tofu (the only mild disappointment – a teensy bit flabby and watery, with not much flavour)
Seafood Tempura (fantastically crisp and fresh – endearingly spiky)
Gyoza (not that there’s such a thing as BAD Gyoza, these were tiny, perfect packages of spicy softness with an ideal smattering of crunchy/chewy bits).
My recommendation for anyone is to also top off the above with gooey chocolate birthday cake and a quick champers at the Vic Room next door…


The Summarising Bit
After the MASSIVE amount of food that made its way swiftly from the kitchen to our lower intestines, I was ready to sell some assets when the bill arrived, but I was gobsmacked when we were only set back $25 each. The phrase “Happy Hour” is truly a wonderful thing in any context, but especially here. Bloody good food, excellent service, top sheilas and an effective heater means two enthusiastically soy-smeared thumbs up.

Steak 'n' Chicks Tuesday #1

Some weeks ago, my mate Alex decided, since we all have such frantic social agendas (being the sophisticated girls-about-town that we are), that we should make a monthly commitment to catch up for a pub meal. Enthusiastically received, the idea came to fruition, and hence I'm pleased to present the inaugural Steak 'N' Chicks Tuesday Review.

2nd May 2006 - The Grand National, Underwood Street, Paddington

The Place
The Grand National is what I've decided will now be known as a BNP - a Bloody Nice Pub. While it bears some obvious scars of the Great Late Nineties Pub Renovation Cancer Epidemic, it still maintains vestiges of a traditional pub feel. Its main room is dominated by the bar and a massive blackboard menu, whilst around the corner is a bit of a niche and a separate back room, the latter bearing the only clanging disappointment in the decor - a lurid mural that Salvador Dali might have painted if he'd just come from the supermarket. There is a separate Proper Restaurant, which won't get any further mention here - cloth napkins just isn't what Steak 'n' Chicks Tuesday is about.
Despite the presence in the Grand of three big screens - appropriately only one showing sport, and the other two stuck on the Fashion Channel - the pub maintains a cosy feel, mostly due to quaint touches like a homely shaded lamp emanating its soft glow atop the ciggy machine.
When we arrived and left, about 3 hours apart, there were tables and seats available, but at several points in between it was standing room only - not bad for a Tuesday night.

The People
Despite early enthusiasm, the inaugural Steak 'N' Chicks Tuesday was only a modest affair - Alex, Fi, Anna, Jen and me - just enough to fill a table and enable everyone to take part in the same conversation at once. Good bunch of chicks, really.
Staff in The Grand were refreshingly average-looking - good for clientele self-esteem, not so good for a good old-fashioned perv - and mostly female. Service was absolutely top-notch.
Clientele was extremely mixed early in the night, with lots of older locals getting in a feed before the younger hordes arrived. The crowd seemed overwhelmingly local, possibly due to the small size of the pub and the tucked-away-in-a-narrow-corner location. Alex bumped into 'thingy' from MTV (sees him everywhere, name escapes her), and Fi was relieved when a guy, who looked exactly like her ex-boyfriend, wasn't. A touch of eye-candy here and there, although (happily) of the quietly confident and relaxed sort. Marginally more blokes than chicks, but in nothing near wet-t-shirt competition proportions.

The Food
The Grand National is like a place to get food with beer attached. Its focus seems to be primarily on its gastronomic offerings, with really, really, satisfying results. The menu was long and full of opportunities to grunt appreciatively, with a couple of steak options followed by pasta, risotto, warm salads, pizzette, fish and chips, schnitzel and the like. Anna and Fi had a warm salad with dribblingly tender slices of lamb topped with a subtle yoghurty dressing, which was the perfect size and extremely fresh and tasty. Alex had a New York steak with salad and peppercorn sauce, and was thankful she didn't have the chips that would normally go with it. Massive pieces of steak actually cooked as requested (which is rare, in both senses of the word), and a fantastic sauce. Easily the meal voted Most Likely To Have Some Left Over, due to its gigantic size. I had seafood paella with chorizo, which made up for not-quite-enough-chorizo with buttery chunks of fish right through, and five mussels perched on top. It's rare to find pub risotto-esque dishes that aren't a salty, stodgy clump, so I was more than satisfied. Jen, having just come from a gruelling, 'I nearly vomited' training session, just sampled enthusiastically from our plates. Meals in general seemed to be the perfect size, especially for the girth-conscious, although an hour after we'd finished we were gazing lasciviously at our neighbours' two plates full of T-Bone steak and chorizo and herb pizzetta.

The Summarising Bit
Excellent. The second Steak 'N' Chicks Tuesday will have to try hard to top this one in food quality and venue coolness. We were left with warm fuzzy glows and comfortably full stomachs.