Tannic Teeth

Fluffy was its name,

And when the hungry journos called,

Fluffy met the flame.

Well something like that anyways.

It was at the West Australian that Fluffy was interred, if it could be said, in the bellies of journalists and writers.

Courtesy of food critic and columnist Rob Broadfield, Fluffy was indeed fleecy nubile from York — fed fat on mother’s milk — and slaughtered perhaps facing east.

A message was tweeted out. A call for four individuals to join the editorial team for a quick luncheon, made by the man that makes most restaurants quiver like noodle box of shredded nerves.

Rachel Breidahl, Jason Jordan and I got dibs in first to sink our canines into Fluffy, then Michael Collins came running after a cool call-out for a fourth guest. It was in the lunch-room of the West’s offices, that became the final curtain-call for Fluffy who was now reduced to a stainless steel bain-marie  tin half its former size. There is much to say about the sense of peculiar gratification when a mob of hungry humans descend on the roasted carcass of an animal. Fluffy did not last long.

Rob said the sectioned lamb was slow roasted at 140 degrees Celsius for four hours. Lemons, garlic and rosemary spun the backdrop of a baste slash marinade.

I heard from Rob this breed of sheep is not your humdrum Merino, but rather a Dorper hybrid. Also the fact that its milk-reared from Momma makes for tastier fat.

This is true.

On first impression this lamb appeared subtle when compared to the archetypal piquant lamb character we’re all used to.

However there is a tender balance at play here. I would hazard a descriptor to say the meat appeared brighter, cleaner and more pronounced. Not of the lanolin spectrum. But clean. It carried the flavour the marinade well.

Served on 7 grain bread, it was simple but precise in its execution of flavour.

Thumbs up Rob, Fluffy was well appreciated.