Tannic Teeth

If Chairman Mao were alive he’d like Kitsch Bar.

It might have been for the oriental beauties stoically smiling in the tawdry beer adds that canvas the walls. Or the palm-sugar-and-fish-sauce wafts emanating from the kitchen. One thing I’m sure, he would have agreed on though:

Kitsch can do good noodles. With somewhat Asian frugality.

My antennae for a meal was prompted by a friend who suggested to try the “pad thai and chang” night on a Tuesday.

Sure, $19.20 was a reasonable price to pay considering the location, besides, not having to find your way through an Asian enclave forfeits price for convenience.

For a Tuesday night, perhaps under the allure of the “pad thai and chang”, Kitsch was bopping along. A personable waitstaff greeted, spieled and serviced us with a less austere nature than most traditionally run Asian eateries. That I suppose is a bonus.

How was the Chang and the dimpled beer glass? Solidly good.

How was the pad thai? Damn good.

The complexity of flavour was like the yin and the yang. Spot on. Peanuts, beansprout, shrimp, fish sauce and lime juice all in direct quantities. The serving bowl is as authentic as the rickety wooden chair we sat on.

Though the noodles were gluggy in consistency, unlacing them with a fork was a feeble business—chopsticks would have been the perfect dining implement. I was actually surprised they didn’t have any upon request.

Strange huh?

Kitsch Bar has an Asian resort meets shabby chic meets post WWII prosperity feel to it.

The menu is neat and well thought through with the pad thai being as real-deal without the need to buy an air ticket. South East Asia is the Kitsch’s focus and street food what they wish to evoke.

Now if only they were at street food prices.

Whisper wine bar is my kind of (wine)bar.

It’s cosy, francophillic, and focuses on the company of others to entertain you. No LCD monitors playing the latest SKY broadcast here, just plain, unabandoned human interaction. The place could have been surgically removed from a Parisian corner if not for the lustrous Jarrah tables and floors which shine like spilt Burgundy.

On the other hand, I can see why some people wouldn’t like it. It has no coffee, only a handful of beers and even less Scotch (and you can forget the other spirits). And the approach to food is as canny as the reason for the choice of only just 7 wines by the glass. Keep it simple.

There is a very good reason why small bars work. Well, to begin with they’re, um, small. Size of a bar weeds out rambunctious behaviour for the same reason why we, as humans, go inexplicably silent when riding a lift full of strangers. The staff at a small bar provide efficient service because the ratio of staff to patron is higher. You get to know the staff and the exchange is mutual. It’s the same reason why you’d want to be on first-name basis with your butcher, baker or candlestick maker. Whisper’s reception is warm, casual and intellectual. It’s geared more like ‘that corner bar’ feel that you’d pay several thousand dollars on travel to experience in France.

The menu is astonishingly simple. Fresh baguette and duck pate. Marinated octopus and goats cheese. These are bold flavours that have several wine-match options. There is something provincially satisfying when you have a chalky dry white back-to-back with a liver pate and watch the street turn sepia in the sun. People travel farther to France, pay more, for less.

Whisper Wine Bar has a saucy little cellar of wines spanning very reasonably priced Australians through to cherry-picked Frenchies. You can find that eclectic trove up stairs in a glass vault, although it’s only marginally more seducing than the romantic balcony that overflows with views of Essex St.

I’d wish to see a rambling cobbled Parisian back alleyway, but you can’t have your crêpe and eat it too.

Naming a restaurant is tantamount to naming your first born.

Pink Zulu then is atypical, slightly jarring and borderline irreverent. Pink could be interpreted as of leftist ideals, youthful or rainbow-flag waving homosexuals. Zulu on the other-hand, are more-than-able bodied African warrior soldiers.

I’m not quite sure as to the implication for the name Pink Zulu, and I’m sure it’s something to do with the fetish of all things pink and African.

You will find this restaurant slash cocktail bar along Napoleon St in Cottesloe, a five minute dawdle from Cottesloe train station.

Aside from the garish pink walls and hyper-baroque thematic furnishings, Pink Zulu is a spirited joust into African cuisine. I’m no expert on the cuisine of the Dark Continent and I’m not calling the shots as to what is a regional speciality, whether it’s done right or wrong, or what receptacle it’s traditionally served in.

I want to know:

1. does it have a good balance of flavour?
2. is there a depth of flavour?
3. are the texture/s matching the overall impression of the dish?
4. how much am I paying for it, and can I make it at home better?

In the case of Pink Zulu the menu is well considered and the flavours work very interestingly. It’s a case of the, “oh, mmm” head-cockingly pensive look as you try an figure out the spice/flavour combo.

Some dishes conjure up the memory of an Indian curry, others are crisp and fresh. They are sound, confident and have a good direction. Given some of the awkward ingredients, I’m happy to part with my money for the experience.

The wine list is clearly the meddling of a Constellation rep and they’re pitched at a reasonable price point. But being a oenophile by trade, I’m overly critical here in saying it’s the wines and glasses that are the Achilles heel of the restaurant — I want a roomy Spiegelau, not an 80s goblet. The cocktails look more worldly, and the organ of bottles behind the barman suggests they know the score at least on that beverage front.

The coffee of Pink Zulu is house blend of single estate Africans — the roaster’s name escapes me, but Tanzanian and Kenyan feature prominently.

Pink Zulu is an intriguing space for a decent night out, where ideas are playfully stirred, if not just yet, to full potency.

(08) 9384 7688

6 Napoleon Street
Cottesloe, 6011

Skirting around the faux pas food–wine matching, Shiraz and Asian is an unlikely combination. But it’s a folly well played.

I know food and wine matching goose-steppers would resound crisp Riesling or Sem Savvy Blancs with Asian food, so it was with stubborn denial that I ventured with a friend to Hawker’s Cuisine with a McLaren Vale Shiraz in tow. The aim was to see what dishes this rickety bee-hive of a restaurant had to offer.

Upon first impressions, this restaurant looks like any grime encrusted eatery in China Town. If the jittery queue of people trying to get in is anything to go by, they would sure be blind to this fact. We were assured our table would be ready in 10–15 minutes. No biggie. I wouldn’t have expected a place bursting at the seams to accommodate anyone as a table walk-in.

After having a stroll around Northbridge to kill some time, we entered Hawker’s Cuisine again, bumbled around inside for a few more minutes, then sat at a table. I would imagine everyone goes through this triage in order to dine. Our waitperson scurries off with an order. Wine time.

While at Steves earlier on that day, I had bumped into a young winemaker, Tom Stransky. A graduate from UWA’s Viticulture and Oenology, his curious intensity lead him around the world in 13 vintages to almost every wine producing region bar Spain.
He has delicately made small-batch wines from McLaren Vale fruit, and had them emblematically labelled. The Mo’ Shiraz it’s called. Profoundly, it has a Mo’ on it.

Tom was to save the only spare bottle he had that day (the gold mo’s are apparently for family) to give to his uncle, but he graciously gave it for tasting. [Tasting note at the end]

We ordered Spicy Squid Tentacles (they apologised and brought out sliced squid tubes instead), Beef Rendang and Tofu Veggie Claypot. Aside from the squid being a little too oily with a thin batter, the flavour of intensity were commanding. The Rendang espically married the wine, a soft sweet fruit immixed with the star ainse based beef. The tofu came out on a little tea-light burner to keep it hot, was as expected in quality and mass.

This is a place for a no frills midweek meal. The service is edgy but effective.

Like most people dining outside, we disregarded the cockroach crawling up the wall in favour of a steaming bowl of Asian love. Really hits the spot.

Thumbs up for Hawker’s.

The Mo’ Shiraz 2008 (Mt Compass, McLaren Vale, Clarendon)
If supple could be used as a descriptor in wine, this red is a Russian contortionist. It has a chunky fruit-jube character on the nose, it’s a ripe temptress. Slurped with gusto over the tongue, The Mo’ is lighter than expected in tannin profile. This gives two impressions. One a bendy, flexible nature to it — a fleshy skinned plum cheek. The other, it’s not as tapering or elongatedly thread-like. It ends solidly with ample fruit weight. 17.1

Mexican cuisine to the USA is Vietnamese to Australia.

We can go to pretty much any city and get decent true-to-form Viet fare. I can’t really say that for Mexican.

It’s not suprising (given our proximity to Mexico) we have a reached a glass ceiling on the stretch to fine mexican cuisine. Stodgy, canonical and banal would round up a usual “Tex-Mex” offering.

I’m not a pro when it comes to Mexican food — I don’t get the chance to eat enough of it. But when I do, it’s gormandised so quickly I’m usually left with a crusty adherence around my mouth — possibly resembling refried beans or tortilla crisp that people poke fun at long after I’ve left the table. This is what happened at The Flying Taco. It was a piece of lettuce that covered my tooth however, so I resembled  someone who had a misadventure in pub brawl. The food was spectral. A rainbow of flavours. My eyes had finally opened to Meh-hi-co.

The Flying Taco is an honest, approachable entry into Mexican food. It has a modular menu which consists of a subway-esque ordering method. First choose your (carb) style, then your filling, then a salsa. It’s a chicane of possible flavour matches spurring a flexible choice for people that would tire of same old same old.

You can pick up a feed for less than $15 making it a port-of-call for frequenters of the Rosemount Hotel up the road.

I got a Burrito + Mole Poblano + Salsa Chipotle. It came nestled in a basket, resembling a soft glittering infant, warm from maternal care with smokey chilli-garlic sauce at its side.

And the taste? Round and fruit-inspired, the beans and rice gave an interesting texture to the soft flour tortilla. The salsa is where the joy was at. Piquant and agreeably hot (could have been hotter!).

I guess what stood out for me was the freshness and interplay of flavours. Not everything tasted like Old el paso taco seasoning. It’s the mantra that is written conspicuously on the back of the flyer.

“Genuine, healthy, homemade, fresh food — made to order, with love, quickly.”

Flying Taco doesn’t stray from that point.

The Flying Taco

40 Angove Street, North Perth, 6006

Wed — Sun

Noon– Late

BYO Cash & EFT

P: 08 9227 6393

If there ever was a country’s dessert that could be classified as “comatose” for the level of sweetness, Turkish would be number one. (Indian a narrow second)

The fleshy cubes of rose-pink sugar-frolic, Turkish delight, is possibly the best known export. I speak from experience; I remember in my childhood years, hyper-speed afternoons spent in the yellowing sun, bouncing off branches and trees, in the throes of a sugary orgy. Perhaps it’s the body’s own self preservation mechanism — to burn the energy off before type two diabetes sets it. Back then, to have coffee with it would have been instant-death.

Now it’s mid-afternoon salvation. (Though the module has slightly changed, and I can assure you there are no more orgiastic exertions.)

Baklava is what the grown-ups have. With a coffee (my preference for long black) and a quarter-plate of sweetmeats, it’s something to ward off winter by delicately layering down belly fat.

But it doesn’t stop there. There are various incarnations of Baklava. Formed into filo rolls there are Ladies Fingers. Fashioned into a circle and filled with pistachio it’s a Bird’s Nest. Or was the Bird’s nest the one with the pokey tips? The man spoke loudly but mumbled. I didn’t quite get the last one.

These are some of the best Turkish Sweets you can find North side of the River (albeit in the ghetto). He sells it by the kilo ($16 last time I was there) and they are baked in an endless procession, as people winnow away his store. To be honest, I don’t even think the shop has a name.

You can find him inside Farmer Jack’s (review coming soon) in Girrawheen.

It’s further away than I would normally drive for food, but it’s well worth it.

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”

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.

Golden King BBQ Express is a place like this:

You order, you eat, you leave. Done.

Any given lunch service will see all tables turn over at least thrice with a queue of takeaway-ers clogging the procession of those filing in. I’ve been shoved onto a table with a complete stranger before. Now sharing a table with a stranger may be one thing, but the food is the reason we all endure such comical economics.

For 5 years I have viewed this haphazard approach to service. Why? Because the food is excellent. Their egg noodles are cooked to perfection, roast duck – tender and char siu draws a queue out the door. They don’t care much about presentation here either. The decor is tacky and all you can really hear is the bone crunching sound of a meat cleaver sectioning off duck, and roast pork. Who cares if the service is rushed, inattentive and lost in translation. When I get my plate of combination wet fried ho-fun and with egg sauce, all is forgiven.

I challenge any reader to find me a better ho-fun anywhere in Perth. And for the price.

Shop 19 Morley Markets

Morley

Monday – Sunday 10am – 9 pm

Phone 9375 666

You’ll have to put your blinkers if you’re sensitive about dining in places that err into third world territory.

There are probably only a hand full of restaurants around Perth where you can go at any time of day, day of week and get consistent quality food. Cantina in Mt Lawley is one of those places.

It’s looks like it’s an a small cafe that burst at the seams and spilled tables and chairs into the near by arcade. I’m sure this has been a crafted entrance as much as the menu is every few weeks. Yes I said every few weeks. There are a few dishes that are the mainstay but other than that, the produce is seasonal. I like that transitory nature of things. It keeps things interesting. Interestingly Italian.

The wine list is well chosen with imported reds sharing the carte du vin as much as Aussie ones.

I tried the slow cooked duck cannelloni with pine nuts. It came out bubbling like some primordial lava pool in a stoneware dish that retained the heat long after it disappeared. That was prequeled by seared chorizo with caper berries, The chorizo is as good as it gets this side of the equator. It’s made by local señora, Rosa.

This place is a no brainer if you don’t want to be disappointed.

Cantina 663.

663 Beaufort St, Mt Lawley