Okra

The café. Not the vegetable. 

The new venue for the annual gathering of those few remaining volunteers who, at the turn of the century, formed the Newsline reading group for Vision Australia.

Last year I handed over the organisational reins for the annual get-together to Jane Strode of Strode Villa. She is more than well equipped to take on the task.  Jane is a can-do person.  

As a result, our small group arrived at the restaurant yesterday at midday, sat around the table where we talked, ate, drank and generally had a fine old time.  In order to accommodate my current unwillingness to use stairs, a downstairs table had been booked. Upstairs is sometimes quieter but if there was a problem with quiet in the restaurant this year, it might have originated at our table.

We were welcomed with big smiles; the Okra staff know how to look after their customers and the food is excellent.  It was a hawker’s lunch and we chose to share dishes with two or three people making their choice; the rest of us agreed and the food appeared on the table. I made a poor choice, steamed chicken - bland - it wasn’t as good as I anticipated.  We ate it. 

When you don’t see people for a year there is always plenty to talk about and the talk ranged over the usual topics: sport, travel and health – we are mostly Older People these days. Occasionally controversial matters arise and heated discussions follow; nothing too controversial this year and when the discussion centred around roast vegetables we were all in furious agreement.   We were as one voice; you can never bake too many vegetables with the roast. Everyone had their own idea about how the left-overs could be used. Much laughter greeted one observation, that in their house there were never any left-overs.

A good time was had by all and we were all pleased to have made the move to a new venue.

International flavour

An international flavour was an added extra at our lunch table today.

The flavour did not arrive on our plates as part of the food order; it was seated at the table. Lady Gallant of Gallant Drive, Mississauga, Ont. is visiting our fair city and what better place to take an international visitor than to dine at the seat of government in this state – Parliament House.

And to the Stranger’s Corridor dining room.

The Strangers Corridor was opened in 1892, as a place where members of parliament could dine with visitors while doing deals and attending to the wants of their more important and influential constituents. As the name suggests the dining room is set in a corridor, albeit a very wide one, with wood panelling, carpet and side alcoves for more private occasions.  

Sounds all very grand doesn’t it?

Lady Gallant didn’t think it was very grand at all. Looking around, she remarked on the scarcity of diners, assuming it was a place neither well patronised nor well advertised. It is not a restaurant vying for a place at the top of the best restaurants in the world and usually attracts members and their invited guests in non-parliamentary sitting days, plus other people in the know.

I chose this venue for one reason in particular; the Stranger’s Corridor dining room is quiet. The floor is carpeted, there are no glass walls and no concrete floor.  Plus it has the aforementioned alcoves; we settled into one of those.  Ideal for three ladies and their accoutrements.

The Old Girl, who arrived from her country seat earlier in the morning, found her way upstairs and we eased ourselves into the comfort of the alcove seats. Seafood linguine was the choice for everyone, and the conversation flowed in a constant stream as you might expect at a table where grandmothers gather and the first topic of conversation is grandchildren. Once the grandchildren were dealt with and it took some time, talk moved onto other happenings, here in Melbourne, in regional Victoria and across the Pacific in Canada.

All this chatter left us without time for coffee.  The Old Girl had a country train to catch at 2.30 so we shouldered out way onto a crowded tram and arriving at Southern Cross station, we walked the long walk to the country train platform and waved The Old Girl goodbye.

These biennial lunches are quite special for us, separated as we are by the Pacific Ocean and half the land mass of Canada.

Alcove for three - Strangers Corridor dining room.

Eating out in January

It’s not always a simple exercise, choosing a place to eat out in January.

Yesterday's outing was an example. OCCm2 arranged for three of us to go to a nearby suburb and have lunch at a garden centre. I wasn’t too enthusiastic; I had been there before and the menu wasn’t anything to write home about and the prices were in the upper range of café pricing.

The garden centre cafe was closed and our plans were altered; we ate instead at a tearoom-style café a few streets away.  I was pleased about this change as I have often considered eating at Ruby’s T’s. My fellow diners are very conservative about their eating; one is a vegetarian which often means there is not a lot of choice on the menu and the other has her main meal in the evening.

I’m happy to have my main meal in the middle of the day, so I promptly settled for a tuna pattie and salad.  A single, very large tuna pattie, sitting in the middle of the plate, surrounded by salad, arrived at the table. It was very good and I enjoyed every mouthful. Ribbon sandwiches for one and a plate of chips for the other diners filled the remaining orders for the table.

One of the good things about this tearoom is the quiet.  You can actually have a conversation without having to shout above loud music. It might be something to do with the patrons being mostly senior age people.

Now I know about Ruby T’s; anytime I’m in the area I know where to go and I know if I am with others I will be able to hear them and they will be able to hear me.

A win-win situation.

More Roses - Coombe Cottage, Coldstream Vic      Photo File: Nov 2005

Annual event

New Year’s Day, another annual event.

And, as has been in the case for the past few years, Neighbour Heather and I set off on our annual event, New Year’s Day Breakfast.

 A repeat this year; it was NH’s choice and we revisited a hotel in Spencer Street where we had previously enjoyed breakfast a couple of years back.

However, time passes and things change and we felt it was not quite as enjoyable and relaxed as in the past; most of the food was prepared well in advance, meaning it doesn’t have that fresh look and taste.

 There is a good reason for this preparedness from the hotel kitchen point of view.  It means they are ready for the rush of latecomers who sleep in and then rush down to the dining room and as we heard, complain vociferously about having to wait.  Waiting for breakfast is not always an option, especially when you have a clutch of children in tow.

We noticed on the way into the city some cafes were open for business.  At last they have realised there is business to be had and money to be made on New Year’s Day morning.  Maybe the reduction in payment to staff on public holidays has made the difference.  Who knows?

Leaving the hotel behind, we stopped at a café not far from home, where we had excellent coffee. After a careful reading of the menu and a good look about to see what other diners were eating, we decided that next year this café may well be our venue of choice for the Annual Event.

And to you Dear Reader, I wish you a year much like the lighthouse below.

 A year that stands tall, has few clouds on the horizon, wide blue skies and suggests you make time to relax and bask in the sun.

Airey's Inlet lighthouse       file photo 2005

Zinnias

 One of my favorite flowers, though I have had very little success in growing them.

I found these blooms along the way to my Christmas Day lunch and have saved them for the special occasion of appearing in the often difficult Z slot in my blog posting.

Oh happy day, when I found them.

Their bright red cheery countenances made me smile as I walked along the top end, once dubbed the Paris end, of Collins Street. 

I also considered their colour fits well with the traditional Christmas colours; red and green.  

Best lunch this month

I know. 

It is very early in the month to make the title statement but I am prepared to put down money which says there is only a very remote chance of bettering today’s midday meal  before end August.

This bold statement might have been influenced by yesterday’s meal which was ordered in anticipation of eating a delicious marinara risotto, only to find disappointment was one of the ingredients on the plate.  Along with rice, a vivid orange sauce, some reasonable prawns, a scattering of small, empty and unknown white shells together with some large and recognisable mussel shells; the last item was the big disappointment.  The mussel flesh appeared to have evaporated and a thin film of membrane and a tiny sliver of flesh were the only offerings.

I eat from time to time at this cafe and have never been disappointed in the past; the usual man in charge of front of house seemed distracted and perplexed.  The chef was new and hadn’t quite hit his straps and the waitress was handling her first day on the job relatively well, under the circumstances. Orders arrived at the tables of those people dining in the outdoor area, questions were asked and plates returned; not a happy day all round for either the diners or the staff.

By contrast, lunch today at Our Kitchen Table was so good.  No photos because my android phone and close up photos are incompatible.  A Mexican Rice Bowl, where every ingredient was beautifully presented, instantly recognisable and very tasty. I can assure you I could not have wished for a better meal

I was only half way through the bowl and already I was planning how I could return for another lunch.  Unhappily, it is a very circuitous route by public transport from my door to the café door.  However I like the occasional travel challenge and you can be sure if there is the faintest chance of a repeat visit you will hear about it at some time in the future.

And last but not least, the coffee was excellent.

Recent Investigation

The Moat Café below the Wheeler Centre has been on my ‘to-be-checked-out’ list for quite some time and today it was crossed it off that list.  I was on my way to do a spot of hospital visiting and had some time to spare, so I stopped off to investigate.

It was a rather horrid, windy, dusty, hot day and some time in an underground haven out of the heat, dirt and filth seemed like a good idea.  It seemed an even better idea when I sat down, looked through the menu and found The Moat version of an Eton Mess.  Perfect antidote to the day outside.

Almost perfect – it’s not your standard Eton Mess, when it has tapioca as an ingredient but this minor variation on the theme didn’t stop me from ordering it. The ingredients are:  vanilla tapioca pudding,  rhubarb, strawberry, mint & lemon curd.  A tarted up and distant relative to the original Eton Mess.

A slightly messy photo of The Moat version of Eton Mess

I ate it all, tarted up or not, like a good little girl. And then I ordered coffee, helped myself to a book from the shelves and in Cameron Forbes’ Australia on Horseback I read an account of the Warrigal Creek massacre in 1843.

A glass of wine or a book? Difficult decision.

Warrigal Creek was not far from my childhood stamping ground and at that time also the name of a large pastoral property, situated in the area of the creek of the same name.  This killing of aboriginal people was a black mark on the history of the district, and was very rarely mentioned.

According to Cameron Forbes' version of the story, it happened along these lines:

Brataulong Aborigines had killed a nephew of Lachlan Macalister, one of the more powerful of the Scottish settler’s.  In reprisal, the so-called Highland Brigade, formed by Angus McMillan the leader of the Scottish clan, set to and cornered the Brataulung at Warrigal Creek and killed what has been estimated at between 60 and 120 aborigines.  

According to local legend, and unsurprisingly, the creek ran red with blood.

Forbes’ account is in total contrast to The Valley of the Sky, a small novel which we read in the first year of my secondary education, some 60 years ago.  In the school version, Angus McMillan was a benevolent ruler of the lands he took in Gippsland, on good terms with the local aboriginal people and butter wouldn’t have melted in his mouth.

I close Australia on Horseback and this reflection on a dark part of Australia’s past, drain my coffee cup, pay the cashier and reluctantly return to the blast furnace outside. 

Anti-cyclonic gloom and another year.

I seem to have started the year off on a gloomy note which is not intentional. 

The gloom is a few days of repetitive, grey, overcast skies, something I am not crazy about but I have to take it or leave it.  I am not the controller of the sky.  Anti-cyclonic gloom was something I was unfamiliar with until I spent some time in England years ago where I became well acquainted with this weather feature.

I’m more of a blue sky person, especially early in the day.  If it changes later then so be it; at least the start of the day holds a bright prospect.

And so it was under a gloomy grey sky that Neighbor Heather and I set off on our usual jaunt to breakfast out on New Year’s morning.  Our hotel choice this year would not be described as up-market but the food was fine; omelets made to order were a feature and the outlook across the road was towards one of our lovely Melbourne gardens. 

The day continued under anti-cyclonic gloom with the prospect of more food and the fun of waiting in front of a supermarket near one railway station while the person who was collecting me was waiting at another railway station.

I had ample time while I waited to survey the car park and the people and note that shorts were the clothing of choice for most women; that it was very easy for two large 4WD vehicles to reverse out of their parking spaces and collide; that people are lazy, untidy beggars (my paternal grandmother’s polite expression) who just dump all their rubbish on the ground outside the charity bins; that there is always someone who will stop and sift through said rubbish for some trophy; if you stand in one place for long enough the whole world will go by and happily that includes the people who were supposed to collect you an hour ago.

New Year’s Day lunch was on the back deck at The Lovely Pamm’s with old and new faces, lots to eat including pavlova and chocolate roulade and a variety of conversation.

And so 2017 gets under way.

Macarthur Square - Carlton.  Dec file photo

Alice in Wonderland

There are some days when I feel much as Alice might have when she fell into that hole in the ground and found herself in an unfamiliar world.

As part of my serious work of assessing the various Eton Messes offered on menus around this town, today it was the turn of White Mojo.  I have had past problems finding addresses in Hardware Lane but today I am in luck. The café inside is packed and buzzing with conversation; it is noisy and I opt for sitting outside even though rain is threatening.

While I wait for my order to arrive I survey the scene outside.  It is like being in a foreign country without the expense and hassle of travelling, packing and spending a small fortune. At the next door table, queuing and waiting at the café across the street and later when I pay inside and look about at the patrons I realise that I am the white western minority.  This café is very popular with Asian people; mostly young, immaculately turned out, very well dressed couples, who may be visitors from overseas.  In this microcosm of Cup Day Melbourne I could be a foreigner in an Asian country.

 It comes as a surprise, sometimes, to realise how the face of this city has changed over the years I have lived here.   Today, for many of these people, all the hoo-ha attached to the day that stops the nation, the first Tuesday in November and the running of the Melbourne Cup, is not of the slightest interest.  They are more interested in sampling the food offerings in this fashionable part of town.

My Eton Mess arrives. A pink, gooey yoghurt with thin slabs of meringue, fresh and dried berries and a coconut concoction; it draws looks of wonder and enquiry from the Chinese family of three at the next table and I mime a response to their questioning looks.

The Mess is not the best I have eaten but if I don’t try it I won’t know will I?

Eton Mess - the breakfast version.

Going to lunch

Not just going to lunch, but going to breakfast too. Overreach if ever I saw it.

I’m down to the scraps in the frig. and food cupboard now, so going to breakfast this morning seemed like a good idea.

Maybe not.  I had forgotten that Sunday breakfast is supposed to be a relaxed laid back affair and the service in the café of my choice was just that, relaxed.

Happily before I placed my order I heard the waiter tell a couple seated nearby that the oven had turned itself off, which delayed their order. I abandoned any thought of a cooked breakfast and settled for muesli and a coffee.

At midday I met Pearlie Shirley and the Godchild and BoyJack in the city; there was a sudden and unexpected change of venue when we found I had chosen a place closed on Sunday.  How smart is that?

We adjourned to another cafe nearby; moved tables which annoyed the waitress and then once settled, enjoyed our meal.  BoyJack who is not always happy about leaving home to do boring adult stuff was on his very best behavior, much to his mother’s surprise, and ate, chatted and filled in his activities book – with a some help from the old girls.  The old girls just ate and chatted, we don’t need an activities book to amuse us.

A couple of items on the to-do list have been placed on the panic back-burner for tomorrow and a couple of others were solved this morning by finding useful items already on hand.

The list of Absolutely Essential Items (passport, plastic cards, kick-off cash, airline tickets, cruise tickets – to name but a few )  has been writ large in the Holiday Pack Book and will be stashed into the ever reliable and well-travelled blue and red day pack tomorrow.

It may look less than chic but I can fit a good deal into the pack and it leaves free hands to wrestle with tickets and passports and other documentation.

Ah well; less than 24 hours now until Uber-M arrives to chauffeur me to the airport.  

 Ample time for a complete nervous break-down and those oft repeated words “I really don’t know why I do this.  It’s just not worth it.”

Autumn and aji chili peppers

I looked up today and discovered autumn has arrived and coloured a group of trees. The colour has turned in the last week or so, meaning autumn arrived at the end of February this year.  

One pair of trees has, sadly, only a short time to flaunt their colour.   I feel very strongly that next week I will walk by and those trees will have been bulldozed.  The trees are at the front of a building which is in the process of being demolished to make way for – yes, you’ve guessed it – yet another exciting new development.

This building was a reception centre for many years and in the days of long ago it was the venue where my workplace held their end of year function – the good old Christmas party.  The former work place and the former reception place have both joined the brave new world of apartment complexes proliferating all over the city, like mould spores on bread in humid weather.

The seasons have definitely moved forward in the past ten to fifteen years.  I also noticed last week the camellia tree outside my window has formed buds and is likely to bloom before I leave for Northern Parts in April.  When I first moved into the apartment, July was the earliest when the camellias appeared on the tree; well into winter.

Sitting at the bench in the kitchen at Villa Strode last evening and surveying the vegetable garden produce spread out in front of me, I dipped my fingers into a small bowl of very tiny, orange tomatoes. 

Or so I thought.  

At least I had the wit to ask what they were and received prompt and clear warnings about making the error of popping one into my mouth and biting.

The response was a very loud ‘No!  Do not even think about eating one of those!!’

They are, according to Steve who grows them in a tub in the back yard, Peruvian Aji Charapa chili peppers.   

As it is my nature to give almost everyone an argument about almost everything, I am here to say I think they may be Bolivian.  Of course all my research has been done on the good old internet, where many things are not what they seem to be, maybe Quintisho peppers even.  However I am sticking to my guns and I think they are Quintisho peppers.

Bolivian Quintisho hot peppers in fact, according to this place…

Happily there were no Quintisho hot peppers in our delicious dinner; oven-cooked ling, with tomatoes, garlic and a small amount of common red chili and sides of potatoes and garden-fresh green beans.

An evening of excellent food, wine and conversation.

Billiards and breakfast

Our posh hotel breakfast destination choice  this year  -  the Lindrum Hotel.  

A small hotel at the Treasury Gardens end of Flinders Street, it has a warm, friendly vibe.  The Lindrum was on my New Year Breakfast list many, many years ago and I recall some entertainment from the street, when a couple of dishevelled passers-by, who had celebrated their NYE until the late hours and were a bit the worse for wear,  paused to exchange greetings with the breakfast diners. 

Today there was no street entertainment; everyone was quiet and well-behaved, especially the small children at the next table who gained the Big Tick of Approval from our table.  The waitresses, as is often the case in this town, were girls from Europe on their Australian back-packing venture and were very good at their task.  One guest came down to breakfast and entering into the spirit of the Hotel Lindrum name,  picked up a billiard cue and played  a few shots before he sat down to eat.

The food was the best of the to-be-expected breakfast fare and the salmon and poached eggs were excellent.  I’m always happy to kick off the New Year with good food and conversation and Neighbour Heather and I are never short of topics to discuss, whether they are happenings on the other side of the world, in this city or in our neighbourhood.

I’m already looking forward to next year’s first breakfast.

 And in the spirit in which this blog means to continue here is the very first in the on-going series of very bad photographs which will accompany some posts.

Tuesday afternoon at Andy’s

I walked in the door to Andy’s café this afternoon and it seemed like a second home-coming.

It’s a fine thing in this world of constant change, where the newest, most socially desirable  of cafes often  have queues of people waiting to get inside the door, to stroll up the street, walk in the door and be able to sit down, confident  all your food and beverage expectations will be met without fuss or attitude.

At  Andy’s it also means being greeted within a few seconds of walking in; this attention to customers, old and new, has its downside; if you were considering nipping in the door to run off with today’s Epicure lift-out, a free drink from the cold cabinet or some other small, easily concealed item, you would be making a big mistake.  Andy would be right onto any sneaky behaviour.

Today was a late lunch day for me and as my appetite is nowhere near back to normal, I am not yet back to eating everything in sight.  I ask Andy to split the serve and  eat half at the café and take the rest home for a meal tomorrow.

All is well with my new life today.

Seymour on Sunday

Seymour , on this end-of-July Sunday, is a bleak, uninviting prospect.  The sky is grey, the main street deserted and the wind would chill you to the bone.

Only one thing postpones our departure – the Godchild and I are both very hungry and on the way into town she had spotted tearooms, with a board outside advertising lunch.  

We stop to investigate.

We walk in and the clincher is the heater with a wood fire blazing merrily away.  There is a table for two right by the fire and in less time than it takes to tell we are seated at this table and poring over the menu.

The menu is basic and in short order we have decided; pumpkin soup for the GC and mushroom risotto for me.

Risotto was not the smartest choice but I persevered  much to the amusement of the GC.  I left a few spoonfuls  in the bowl; there is only so much gluggy rice I can eat before calling it quits.

Once we were out on the freeway the kilometers rolled by with only a stop to refuel.  The trip was uneventful apart from the distressing  sight at the fuel stop, of a handsome set of antlers protruding from beneath the tarp covering the back of a utility.  I couldn’t help but think the remains of a very dead deer was concealed beneath the tarp.

A trophy  for the great white hunters.

Out of luck

MVBFCarmel and I decide today would be a good day to go out to lunch at the Straw Bale. 

Driving into the street where this café is located we think something is not as it should be. There are no cars parked nearby in the street and when we get closer we discover fencing has been put up around the building: the type of fencing often found on construction sites.

There is a sign on the fence so I persuade MVBFCarmel to go over and read it.

We will not be eating at the Straw Bale today; nor will we be eating on any other day while I am in Shepp.  It is closed for some time; most likely the owner has gone back to Thailand for a holiday.

We are disappointed but not without other ideas for lunch; we head off in the direction of the main shopping centre.

Our destination - no open door today!

Jamieson

Today I let the moths out of the purse and treated the MJQ to lunch at Jamieson, a short drive out of town.

It has been the usual cold winter day; as we left town we saw a good number of people in the street who were on their way to or from nearby Mt Buller.   A trip to the snow or a skiing holiday in winter was something I looked forward to each year in the days of long ago.

That was then.

 

Now I prefer to be driving out to a small restaurant for Sunday lunch and I’ll leave the cold, wet and discomfort of the snowfields to younger people.

The restaurant is in an old house and has a space created from opening out two rooms.  There is an open fire and it is cosy and warm; two medium sized groups are already part of the way through their meal.

Mingo's

I finally settled on a Thai green curry fish dish with rice.  There was a problem.  No rice.  Would I be happy with pasta instead?  No.  I want rice.  I am petulant and three years old, stamping my tiny foot in a rage.  The chef is taken aback. 

No, the chef is not so much taken aback but irked that I am sticking to my guns.  Further tossing around of alternatives reveals the rice problem is one the chef is entirely responsible for, he neglected to pre-cook enough rice.

Can I wait while he cooks some rice?  Of course I can – after all I have been the one doing the foot stamping so the least I can do is wait while he cooks the rice.  The heat from the flaming gas jets in the kitchen would fire a rocket to the moon; heating the rice water will be easy and cooking rice does not take too long.

Open fire - well screened.

It is worth the wait, the dish is very good.  We finish our meal and our wine, decline coffee and after a short chat with Mingo the chef, who hails from the Canary Islands, we climb into the Royal Red Wagon and retrace our outward journey.