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.

I often wonder what the owners of that cafe on the corner of Newcastle and Oxford think when they look down the road towards 224 Carr Place on Sunday morning.

Perhaps we should refocus our menu?

Maybe serve unsacrificed coffee?

Or that we should check out the competition?

Whatever the sentiment, I’m sure there is infatuation at a distance with the crowd tapping their watches waiting to get into a cramped little hive — Sayers.

There is no way I could call this a ‘find’ no sir-rey.

Most people know Sayers is one of the places to take your East-Coast mates because you’re petrified with what you’re going to be culinarily spasmed with outside the know-zone of cafes in Perth.

This place – like Mrs. S – does a roaring trade.

Why? Inspiring dishes. Check. Reasonable prices. Check. Amicable staff. Check.

A confident yardstick to base your dining experiences on is your desire to replicate what you’ve seen on display. I call it inspirational. Sayers is inspiring.

After making stilted small-talk on the footpath outside Sayers with other hopeful walk-ins, we were seated on the large centre table. Two other odd-ball groups shared our table at the same time. Apparently three patrons is an inauspicious number to dine with. You’re not quite a four seater but you’re too big for two.

Sensing my level of nitrosamines were down for the week, I chose the spicy italian sausage, scrambled egg, wilted spinach with toasted extra virgin olive oil ciabatta. I’m curious to know where they source their italian sausage from. It’s not Mondo’s. I know that sausage…um…quite well.

Misshandmaid,who effused all morning about the coriander & cumin beans, babganoush, poached egg and toasted rosemary oiled turkish bread, was duly ecstatically satisfied while covetously glancing at the our friend’s potato rosti, poached eggs and bacon with onion jam and lemon scented wilted spinach.

These are meals that show there is more going on in the engine room. A love of food–an impetus for imagination–atypical of the humdrum Perth cafe.

To benchmark the coffee (long black), it was a straight-down-the-line uncomplicated style. Nothing too overpowering or wild and woolly going on. Hazarding a guess it’s denoticlly South American.

In all honesty you could whinge about how there was no cold water, or that the glasses were still warm from being washed, or that we had to inflict ourselves upon a shared table. But I believe in all fairness, Sayers does something extraordinary everyday 7am–5pm by inspiring diners with dishes they’ll strive to make at home.

Maylands is turning out to be quite a neat little suburb.

I say that because the times when, by happenstance I venture down the profoundly named Eighth Ave, I find boutique ready heritage-encrusted buildings and the hope that local government zoning will catch up with sweaty-palmed developers.

There will be more of the Mrs S type shops soon — for this is a recipe worth replicating.

The cafe is by most standards, honest, upfront, and accessible. How the hell can you classify a cafe as being honest? Are there dishonest cafes out there?

Well all truthfulness considered, what makes up an honest cafe is the fact that when you go there, despite how busy it is, the staff are accommodating (regardless of the amount of tables turned over), the food is plated up well, the flavour is on the mark, and you can walk away without the feeling as though you’ve burnt a hole in your hip pocket.

Mrs S is a high-ceilinged, pastel daydream, hyper-nostalgic offering that everyone wants a slice of. Just check the glistening (slices) out. It’s a pin-up girl of hipstamatic ecstasy.
We went to Mrs S on a cramped and humid Sunday morning. Hard walls do nothing to absorb the sound of happy patrons.

I opted for Granny June’s cornbread, bacon, poached eggs and maple syrup. While the flavour was all there, the cornbread had the character and texture denoting a creamed-corn element, something that perhaps makes it Granny June’s recipe.

The cornbread I’ve had in the past (not from Mrs S but from a place to be blogged) was firm, moist, and with a peculiar granular corn-meal texture (akin to polenta). This was a ‘close but not cigar’ moment of matching for Mrs S. Bread with a firmer texture can hold its ground against bacon and poached eggs or else you’ll end up with a pappy mess.

Both those two elements (the eggs and bacon) were both fine examples of a kitchen doing it right. Besides, if you eff up these two elements, then perhaps undertaking would be a worthwhile career path.

Finally what to say about Mrs S’ coffees?

The barista on the day certainly knew his way around the machine and top marks for that. The long black delivered, deftly retained the crema for a considerable time and my partner’s macchiato would certainly precipitate a return visit.

Would this be a place I’d return to? Yes for coffee, Yes for atmosphere and God yes for cakes. But perhaps I’ll try the Big breaky next time.

I was recently asked to present an eight course degustation paired with wines at Clairault Winery, Margaret River. This quintessential Margaret River winery was host to 70 diners on a perfect autumn day. The only thing missing here is the sultry sound of jazz by Michelle Spriggs and Kevin McDonald.

To keep all our belts from prolapsing, I’ve presented the degustation in segments. Enjoy part one.

[Play music]

Noodle soups are the 100 metre sprint of dining. And if a one bowl wonder is the fastest race on earth then degustations are the marathons of culinary arts.

To be at the receiving end of an eight-course procession at Clariault winery by Jone of those “watch-this-space” chefs Jake Drachenberg, is an instructive experience. Firstly, Jake insists on sourcing locally. So much so, the kitchen staff multitask as green thumbs to Clairault’s vege patch.

Clairault’s Local Degustation teed off with “Little flavours from all over” (unpictured). Sauvignon Blanc 2010 with its attentive lime-zest timbre, quelled the spicyness of the chilli-pineapple seared scallop. It was succulent and thick in the maritime juice it exudes when cauterised on a hotplate. This was part of a canapé procession: shortcrust leek tarts, beef and caramelised onion and venison rounds.

The first entrée, another quattro of flavours: salmon, occy, cuttlefish and mussel came plated in a mild acidic jus – two nipples of homemade mustard a nod to the wasabi–sashimi tradition. Each of the creatures, wickedly different in their nature, had the saltwater tang the ocean imprints. The SSB 2010 became Poseidon’s trident, commanding the dish together. Vegetal citrus SB and the steely cool edge of Sem is an easy win with seafood.

Most playfully experimental and borderline Tim Burton of the courses: Orange Brioche, chardonnay jelly with beetroot and curd. The starchy butteryness, with orange zest played off the lactic goat curd with ease. Chive flowers that exploded in alliaceous tingle, while the beetroot – sweet and earthbound – gave the dish bassey brown tones. The cube of wine jelly – the umbilical cord – a mild genuflect to the racy Estate Chardonnay 2009 of which it was paired.

The course of whiting, zaalouk (eggplant), labne (hung yoghurt) with sliced fennel and cardamom was the older sister to the entree. Yes, it was another easy win. But to have whiting so unapologetically fried with nothing but salt, on a bed of cardamom infused eggplant? Here there was dynamism, confidence and a gesture to Middle East, and with the Estate Chardonnay 2006 unfurling in the glass beside, stole the show.

[Jazz music fades]

I know it’s a sycophantic real estate agent’s phrase but — location, location, location.

Sure, it’s a ‘partially obstructed view’ but it’s also a ‘fixer-upper’ that’s ‘freeway close’. In other words, you’re pretty sure the house has a view of the neighbours fence, more-or-less has four walls a roof and a floor, but also the fact the sound of traffic will soothe you to sleep each night — it’s a first homebuyers dream!

I can only imagine the kind of fluff the real estate agents were blossoming during the sale of the lease here. But enough about real estate. Food time.

I suppose the preface above was to highlight a place that, beyond the threshold of the cafe, seems at odds with the surroundings (or maybe not?). Pearfect Pantry it’s called. Complete with the kawaii misspelling.

The Pantry’s food is modern Australian with all kinds of curious adventures occuring beyond the IKEA Expedit used divide cafe and kitchen. Savoury goats cheese and fig tart, chicken and bacon baked risotto, white chocolate and blueberry cupcakes. The list could be a stock-ticker at the bottom of a foodies’ thoughts.

The shelf holds jumbo bibliothèque enough to make any chef touretically intense. This is where the kitchen plucks recipes and pulls them together under no real Ramseyesque theatrics.

This cafe is of the same league you’d find along Beaufort and Oxford St except it’s a little cheaper, and you have to travel from the city core. Yahava is the coffee poured and while I haven’t had a knee-bucklingly good brew, I haven’t had an immolated one either.

It’s that maxim — location, location, location.

I’ve been there to see an ad hoc approach to feeding afternoon tummy-rumbles. Another batch of muffins crust out of their cases because the last ones ‘went like hotcakes’.

Pearfect has a shabby-chic direction in its feel, with the decor appearing as though it was convincingly taken from curb-side collection. Unmatched plates, IKEA coffee mugs, old chairs that creakily struggle with normal loads.

The cafe is located in the complex of Moondyne Gardens. The 1970s monolithic brown-bricked housing complexes that flank the cafe, are either ecstasy or doom depending on how like your architecture.

Walk past the bore-stained signage, past the equally as old, bore-stained laundrobar and your nose will probably pick up a heavenly concoction underway at the pantry.

Has pearfect potential.

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.

Gourmet Burger Bars.
Ah yes, they’re taking over the lions share of wherever ‘the burgers are better’ and where you’re ‘lovin it’.

For too long we have been subjected to mass produced, paltry, mechanised and formulaic meat between two buns. Now we’re spoilt for choice, we quibble over whether Jus is superior over Flipside,  and who has the best chippies.

Another bar-raisingly fine example can be found at 400 South Terrace Fremantle (corner of Harbour Road). This child-friendly, playful, never-never land of burgers and chips is one of Perth’s newer burger joints.

Missy Moos shares the (South Terrace) strip in Freo that is still in its cafe strip infancy, and bodes well for parking (conveniently at the rear of shop) as parking in Freo is always a hassle.

On the chalk board you’ll find nursery-rhyme character-named beef , chicken, and vege burgers. And what self respecting burger bar in Freo would be devoid of fish? Yep, it’s here too.

I opted for the “Humpty Dumpty” beef burger with pineapple, beetroot, free range egg, Margaret River tomato relish and baby spinach. The burger meat was very good quality and the chargrilled pineapple put an interesting spin on things. Using Jus as a reference point, it’s a clear tie for ingredients except the buns. It’s not that they were like those sugary Tip Top abominations that can be compressed to a small puck, but they just didn’t have the killer edge which Jus has. I like good buns — I’ll leave it at that. Speaking of killer edges, do all burger bars have a thing about impaling burgers?

The Perth gourmet burger standard is high, so really, what becomes the deciding factor?

Price, in my book.

In that regard, then it was good [value for money]. Not jaw-droppingly brilliant, not border-line OK, just good. The atmosphere is open and casual.

Missy Moos is working on a formula that is fail-safe, post-GFC and anti-global — local, fresh ingredients, local family, local customers. Wholesome food, family-first, casual dining.

Who would have ever thought?  The big boys must be squirming under their crowns and golden arches.

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

I’m a sucker for a good wine list.

It can tell a great deal about the experience and confidence the propriters have, their worldly awareness of all things vinous, and the degree of playfullness their clients have with the dollar bill.

At Lamont’s Cottesloe the carte du vin is as extensive as any cerebral bottle-shop — for it is a restaurant spliced with a fine wine store.

Set in a row of shops on Cottesloe’s Station Street, this Lamont’s is the forth incarnation by owner-chef, Kate Lamont. The vision of an enoteca, of serving wine by the glass, light meals to something substantial with an open option for cafe, came into fruition in 2008. Yes it’s a small bar, yes it’s a restaurant, and yes, it’s a winestore. The place is packed on the later days of the week with most of the movers-and-shakers of Perth.

Diners sit alongside the kitchen which stretches the length of the store — as do the wine racks — giving an involved atmosphere to the food. The dramatic face of the kitchen, with it’s many moods of the night, and gastronomic miracles woven, are for all for the viewing. You can sit behind a wall of Comte Georges de Vogue Chambolle–Musigeny and dream of drinking every bottle. This restaurant marries sense-of-place well.

Rolling with the seasons, the menu follows the cycle of years in thigh-cast ripples. It’s modern Australian in style, with no holding back on calories. Winter had the standout dishes of duck arancini and venison chorizo. Oh, and the memory of the pork rillette — my liver just got hard thinking about it. They’re full-flavoured, provincal-esque, and laconically satisfying.

The dining experience overall — each time I’ve been there — has been great.

It’s what you’d expect from the restaurant in Cottesloe and surrounds. And it’s what you’d expect to pay.

I admit I don’t usually dine out on Japanese anything past a quick sushi roll on the run.

It’s not that I find the cuisine any less intriguing than others of the Orient, it’s just in Perth a good Japanese restaurant is few and far between. With that said, it’s rarer still find an exceptional Japanese-Fusion restaurant. Perhaps until now.

When Melbourne food blogger Gilbert came to Perth on a recent vacation, we thought it would be a good time to check out this restaurant called ‘Bonsai’. I’d heard mummerings about it through two friends,  both who raved about the complexity and style of the food. So on a crisp Friday night, the three of us ventured.
Bonsai is half lofty half cosy establishment along Roe St in Northbridge. It is apparent from the interior design that the same creative hands also drew up Wolfe Lane. The polished-stainless-steel-meets-exposed-brick-work gives a feeling of rawness, which appears to be a common design trend. Dining in the restaurant section is a dimly lit and also cavernously airy affair. I don’t know whether it’s more romantic or spooky.

Sentiments aside, when it came to the food, it hit all the right pressure-points.

I hazard a guess the style of Bonsai is simialr to izakaya. The european parallel is mezze and tapas, and like many of those dishes, izakaya are designed to share.

Though I didn’t judiciously note the name of every dish, we had, among other things, seaweed salad, sashimi salmon on asparagus, agadashi eggplant and panfried mushrooms. The freshness of the ingredients was stunning; you can’t fake raw salmon and seaweed.

Bonsai had not one dish that fell below expectation in flavour or portion.

The complexity of flavours were in trinities and beyond.  That is, more than two complementary flavours or spices used. They were harmonious, balanced and expertly camouflaged. And from someone that likes to play the ‘guess-the-flavour-component,’ it was a joyfully vexing experience. It shows time and thought has gone through planning the dishes. Bonsai has approached the weaving of food with their brains.

There is a simple and honest wine list for the average punter, and a handful of interesting Sakes. If you’re not enamoured with the wine list, you can BYO for a very resonable price per head. We opted for genmaicha tea for its savoury complexity rather than turn friday-arvo-drinks into friday-night-drinks.

For those who have yet to try this place, it’s one I’d highly recommend.

Fusion is hard to do right — and for the price.

The Bonsai Restaurant and Cafe Lounge
30 Roe Street
Northbridge WA 6003
Perth, AUSTRALIA
+61 8 9227 5756