Tannic Teeth

Tapas is today what “sun-dried tomato and basil” was in the 1990s.

You can’t dine at any small bar without hearing the words tapas, tapasy, share-plates and the likes.

In many ways it’s a welcome change to the usual stiff formality of  Anglo-Gallic cuisine that calls for the traditional entree, main, dessert.

We live in an age where we like to have more options. And let’s face it, we all know the questioning eyebrow we flick when we see a fellow diner order something better only to look down at our lack-lustre plate-of-boring.

I guess, it was only a matter of time before people wanted small meals that actually filled your belly like a bigger one. Diners needed options, and the Spanish had it for ages. The benefits are — for those who like to try all flavours under the sun — an endless procession of flavour.

Tapas etymologically is derived from the Spanish word tapar “to cover”. One of many tales of tapas-genesis are the Andalusian sherry drinkers who wanted to keep away hovering fruit fly. Committed not to have a fly in the ointment, they covered their glasses with a slice of bread. Bits of cured meats — salivatingly salty — served along side the bread, gave sherry drinkers a reason to stay on. To abate a salty tongue with more alcohol, restauranteurs loved the idea. Ta-dah, tapas!

True tapas is a mix of seafoods, slow-cooked  and cured meats, cheese of every description, and seasonal veggies. Convergent evolution has it’s benefits — Asia came up with Yum Cha.

Erring closer to contemporary tapas than something that would be found on an Andalusian street corner, we sizzled a few chorizo, dry battered fingers of haloumi and crunched it down with Onion and Thyme marmalade on the now ubiquitous turkish bread. To provide the redeeming flash of cleansing acidity, Larry Cherubino’s — The Yard ‘Channeybearup’ Pemberton Sauvignon Blanc 2009 was all that was needed.

[Insert here: a dew-fresh night, a temperamental gas heater, laughter-lines and smile-creases of full bellies in good company.]

Tasting for Cherubino The Yard ‘Channeybearup’ Pemberton Sauvignon Blanc 2009

“Valiantly standing in the face of the trans-Tasman Sauvignon Blanc tsunami, The Yard gives Australia (and Pemberton) something to ripple back to NZ. It’s pristine and highly varietal on the nose, polished gem-like in appearance holds nothing back on the palate. Gooseberry, nettle, some white peach as well. With texture that you just want to nibble at, piece-meal at a time, for the flavours burrow down into your tongue like a little lemon-lime driven auger. Impeccably balanced with a keen eye set on longevity, akin to a white Bordeaux. It takes guts to make SB in a market full of cheap imports — then to do it so well against the tide. 18.5 pts”

Testament to the age of this wine, it’s curiously named Rhine Riesling.

Back in the good old days when European countries weren’t yet up in arms over wine appellation, you could name your wine in honour of the region of the grape’s birthplace. Burgundy, Chablis, Champagne. In many regards, Australians today have abandoned the ‘Burgundies and the Chablis’ but are still grappling with the term Champagne. I hear it thrown about on a regular basis when the term Sparkling wine is meant. “I am after Bella Champagne” — “No, you are after Bella Sparkling.”

Unlike Champagne, the term Rhine Riesling has too gone the way of the dodo.

On that note, wines made in the era of lose appellation often surface now and again. 1986 turned out to be pivotal for Leeuwin, the Rhine Riesling soon to become the ‘Arts series’.

Deep yellow in colour like when you have too many B vitamins, it has all the toffee notes from afar, that flitter from butterscotch to lemon whizz-fizz. The palate has softened, bringing with it what it could drag from the nose. Toasty complexity meets limey zing. A totally coherent little bento-box of surprises. The acidity (still fresh) is enough to bestow the title of Methuselah. If only it had been on screwcap it could live for another two decades. Once in a lifetime wine.

Now 1986 is almost quarter of a century of life in the bottle. And who does the best value-for-money age-worthy Rieslings in Australia?

Great Southern.

Producers like, Castelli, Castle Rock, 3 Drops, Oranje Tractor, Frankland River Estate. They all do fantastic wines.

If you can track down a good Riesling and squirrel it away for 25 years, you’ll be surprised with what you’ll find.

Shit coffee gives me the shits. Well not literally.

It’s because I know I can do it at home—better, that, and the fact I just forked out $3.50 to pay some chump at a machine to immolate my long macchiato.

On the other hand, good coffee is like a bolt from the blue.

It sends filamentous sparks across my brain, and somehow the waxing misanthropy is abated. I want to hug people.

So it’s reassuring to know that there are more and more boutique cafes poking up-and-out of our sunny pavemented city.

What is so special about boutique cafes I hear you ask? They are focused on delivering good coffee, in unique surroundings. Just think. If a boutique cafe made terrible coffee it wouldn’t last long. It too would suffer from a (fiscally) fiery death.

Mooba in Subiaco is not a place where beans are sacrificed. It is a place to get coffee that delivers that blue–bolt with precision.

Curving to the street corners of Outridge and Railway Road, Moodba is a cafe that makes clever use of light, space and glass.

The ceilings are high and the network of upstair’s plumbing is unapologetically contrasted in red. Polished glass meets structural steel that is cool and airy. This meets the warm brown decor echoed in Mooba’s signage. Artist prints hang from the walls. The coffee just looks that little bit browner…

But enough about the space.

How is the coffee? Top-notch.

The long macc I had, was a double ristretto pour. A Mooba house-blend by 5 Senses, it was piquant and pure, rounded by the soft-sweet milk froth. (Abstract Gourmet said he’d hurt me if I used my wine terms for coffee, so I’m taking self-defence classes)

It’s what I would expect for a small business that is switched on. Facebook. Twitter. Blog. They’re there.

You need coffee on the run? SMS your order to the cafe’s dedicated number and pick it up as you breeze though.

Now that’s using the old noggin. And it the old noggin works best when it’s had a good cuppa.

Enjoy.

(Mooba also holds a small bar liquor licence)

The thought of eating raw meat isn’t something that I would entertain on a regular basis.

However, the curious experience of sashimi is always going to be a reoccurring daydream.

It could be because it’s insanely expensive, microbially volatile and possibly contains parasites. It’s like a culinary Russian roulette.

But the subtle sweet–umami character, with the texture that is both slimy and firm, propels me with edgy urgency for more. It’s a dish that polarises a lot of people.

Kalis Bros in Leederville is one of those places where you can get it.

I know it’s well known, but Kalis Bros. is a no-brainer for a good piece of fish, no matter what time of day, day of week, week of year.

However, if you are intending to eat raw fish and keep out of the hospital emergency department, there are a few things to consider:

1) Only buy ‘Sashimi Grade’ – this denotes the fish was killed by the Ike jime method. After being hauled aboard on a single line, the fish is quickly spiked behind the brain then plunged in a briny ice slurry.

2) Scope out the packaging date — only buy on the date packed.

3) The fish should not smell strongly! If it’s strong in smell, it’s going off.

Sashimi as a purist would have it, wasabi, soy, ponzu and daikon would be the only accessories.

I hear that nematodes dislike mustard.

That’s why I bookended my pieces with it, and put my sinuses into damage control.

A playwright friend recently asked if I could photograph his upcoming play.

“The Myth of Julian Rose” it’s called.

This solemn and distortive play opens a can of festering worms into the incredulousness of maternal sexual child-abuse.

An unsettling theme flowing though the play like a toxic undercurrent, the main character (and audience) is terrorised by a demonic Minotaur presumably an allegory of suppressed memory thanks to an ignoble mother.

The lack of forgiveness can be seen as a destructive energy, wreaking havoc upon personalities. Yet this morbid glee has another side.

“The Myth of Julian Rose” is elegiacally puzzling as it is avant-gardist.  It’s a squeamish, guileful and instructive invitation of contempt from the audience.

And if had that impact. It got through.

The Myth of Julian Rose, Perth Cultural Centre  53 James Street, Northbridge 8 – 26 June 2010, $25 Full/$20 Con

Bookings through The Blue Room Theatre or (08) 9227 7005