EatingAsia

San Francisco Ferry Plaza Farmer's Market

Our trip to San Francisco last April was not all leisure.

Ferry Plaza clock tower. Trams Electric-powered light rail cars run along theSan Francisco Bay-fronting Embarcadero.

Dave pulled himself from bed early Saturday morning to shoot the photos for the write-up on the San Francisco Ferry Plaza Farmer's Market which appears in this month's Flavours magazine. The article was penned by our friend, San Francisco-based freelance writer and food blogger Catherine Nash. I tagged along for the snacking.

If a trip to San Francisco is in your future it's well worth staying over a Saturday to catch this market, with its numerous goodies to eat on site and plenty more to cart home. Catherine provides a round-up of the best eats at the end of her article.

Mission Possible

When we lived in the San Francisco East Bay (a total of about 6 years between 1990 and 2002) we were lazy. LA-ZY! I can probably count on my fingers and toes the number of times that we made it across the Bay Bridge for fun (Dave went in 5 days a week as did I, for a period, for work).

There are good reasons for this. The East Bay boasts what was, for years, the area's very best cheese store (The Cheeseboard, where they don't just let you taste, they insist on it!) and tapas bar (Cesar) and what still is, I would wager, the best place to buy fresh pasta and macaroons (Phoenix). And too many great restaurants to list. The East Bay's weather rules. Folks unfamiliar with the meteorlogical vagaries of San Francisco (the summers are colder than the autumns, for one) might not appreciate this ... but we used to stand in the hot sun on our front porch and watch the fog roll in - over the City, into the Bay - and then stop, just stop and hang there, where it would stay all day.  We'd laugh, do hi-fives, and then head out with the dog for a glorious run in the East Bay hills (100+ miles of trails, trailhead exactly ten minutes from our house), followed by a slice of Cheeseboard pizza. Smugness really stokes the appetite.

Still, we do regret - at least a little bit - missing opportunities. We should have taken in, during those years, more of what San Francisco has to offer. Now, when we go back to the US for a visit, we make up for it. We stay on the foggy side of the Bay, run the Embarcadero to Fisherman's Wharf, and follow our noses to the sea lions. We do the Saturday Ferry Plaza Farmer's market and upscale restaurants. And we seek out, in the City's 'hoods, tastes that we'll never in a million years find here at home in Asia.

Which brings us to the Mission. A few Sundays ago, after Dave had done his out-of-the-hotel-at-6am-with-my-camera thing, after I started my day on a bench by the Bay with a latte from our beloved Peet's and freshly squeezed blood orange juice from a Ferry Plaza shop, we headed to the San Francisco Mission district to take in its community murals and hunt down a Salvadorean tamale.

The Mission has been a predominantly Latino area of San Francisco since the 1970's, and the murals there go back almost as far.

They are everywhere - on the sides of buildings, on fences, overlooking a playground, and lining a narrow through street (between 24th and 25th) called Balmy Alley. They are amazing, both for detail and range of subject matter, which touches upon the political, the cultural, the historical.

We wish we'd known about the mural tours (both private, by appointment, and weekly, open-to-the-public) offered by the Precita Eyes Mural Arts and Visitors Center.

Nonetheless, we got an eyeful.

Oh, by the way - we ate well too.

Twenty-fourth Street is the place to head if serious mural viewing is on the agenda. And it's possible, with an adventurous spirit and an empty stomach, to eat one's way from the 24th Street Bart Station up eight or so blocks.

We started with a panaderia (bakery) at 24th and York called La Mexicana and, applying the method we often employ here in Malaysia, when faced with way too many kuih to choose from, bought one of nearly everything. Unfortunately we know the Mexican names of nothing that we tasted, but we do recall that La Mexicana's version of the delicate pastry sometimes called 'elephant ears' was spot-on, shatteringly crisp, crackly layers glazed with just the right amount of sugar.

Further down the street (toward Mission), this sign for a BBQ place caught our eye. It's a little sick, if you really think about it, but its folk art-iness suggests that deliciousness lies within the walls on which it was painted. It was closed, unfortunately.

We drowned our sorrow in more pastries, this time at La Victoria, on the corner of 24th and Alabama. We'd had more than our fair share of sweet stuff at this point but the seductive window display was impossible to resist. (Note the pineapple tarts in the lower left corner of the photo.)

La Victoria has a great vibe about it. It's an old-style panaderia cum coffee shop (the blackboard menu lists espresso, cappucino, etc.), great for takeaway but with a few tables to eat in, staffed by young hipsters but frequented by old-timers. Everything looked tempting but we limited ourselves to a ricotta tart (below, lower right) and a pre-wrapped slice of Mexican bread pudding. The tart was superb - light but very cheesey, with a flaky crust - and the pudding incredible, moist and studded with cheese and raisins and fragrant with cinammon. One piece could easily have served four as an after-meal treat. I would return to the Mission for La Victoria's bread pudding alone.

When I went to the counter to pay for my sweets I was dismayed to see several types of fresh tamales for sale. With no kitchen to take them home to I couldn't takeaway. And I was unable to enjoy one in situ because we were headed across the street to La Palma Mexica-tessen for something I dream of often here in Kuala Lumpur: freshly made, hand-patted corn tortillas.

Kudos to the La Palma folks for allowing Dave to take photos. They said 'no' at first request, then quickly reconsidered and invited him behind the counter. We don't know La Palma's history, but we do know the tortillas are luscious.

They're available for purchase, by the bag, or to eat right there, with a choice of taco fillings.

It really doesn't get much better than this (unless you are in Mexico, or at Chicago's Sunday Maxwell Street market, I would suppose): supple corn tortillas, made to order, topped with chunks of tender pork stewed in green sauce, a dash of zippy tomato salsa, and a sprinkle of cilantro. La Palma makes each taco with two tortillas, to prevent accidents and shirt-soiling messes (it works!). We appreciate the extra dose of richly corn-y masa flavor. We had some lovely meals in San Francisco, but this was probably, next to the porchetta, the best thing we put in our mouths that weekend. Heavenly.

And substantial. Probably too substantial, given that we were headed up Mission Street to El Zocalo (3230 Mission Street, tel. 415-282-2572) for Salvadorean tamale. The place was recommended to us by our hotel's doorman, who'd grown up in the Mission, the son of immigrants from El Salvador. We figured that when it came to Salvadorean food he probably knew a thing or two.

Mexican tamale, with their thick corn wrappers and usually spicy fillings (I love them) are an entirely different animal to the Salvadorean tamale. Salvadorean cooks somehow transform masa into an ethereally light wrapper. El Zocalo's version consists of mildly seasoned (Salvadorean tamale usually are) tomatoey potato and chicken filling encased in a skin so airy it could almost be custard. These tamale should be experienced for their incredible texture alone.

We left the restaurant stuffed, happy, and wondering how we could possible work up an appetite for dinner, Dave's last of the trip, at a San Francisco institution . (Happily, we managed.)

Road Roaster

Nobody does it better than Chinese Malaysians. Roast pork, that is.

But the pork masters of Malaysia have a serious contender in this San Francisco Bay area porchetta peddler. Thomas Odermatt, a Swiss national, roasts pork, along with whole chickens and the occasional leg of lamb, in his rotisserie truck and sells the finished product at area farmer's markets. We found him a couple of Saturdays ago at the San Francisco Ferry Plaza Farmer's Market.

Porchetta (por-KET-ta) might be called Italy's favorite sandwich meat. We first sampled it a few years ago in southern Piemonte at the Fiera del Bue Grasso, a celebration of the Piedmont region's native (and truly enormous) bue grasso beef cows.

On the way back to our car after the festivities we passed a husband-and-wife team doling out porchetta from a white truck much like Thomas's and then, unable to resist the clouds of meatiness following us down the street, doubled back. Before diving in we beheld our porchetta sandwich  - an inconsequential white roll straining under a streaming, fragrantly herby tower of  roast pork slices - and melted the snow clinging to our brows and lashes in its heat. That porchetta, moist and piggy in a way that American pork so rarely is, stands as one of the 'top tasties' of a two-week stay in one of Italy's most-lauded gastronomic regions.

Thomas's home town isn't far from the Italian border, and he does his porchetta a la Italiana, long and slow and loaded with herbs. The dish is traditionally made with suckling pig ('Not so nice,' Thomas says, referring perhaps to the American reluctance to stare one's meal in the face); he uses a whole side or shoulder of the animal and rolls it around a stuffing of garlic, fresh herbs like rosemary and marjoram ('Not too much; it can be overwhelming.'), cracked black pepper, and fennel seeds, which he roasts 'until they pop, for the most flavor.' The 'pork roll' is skewered on the rotisserie and cooked for about four hours, until the skin is browned and crispy and the meat meltingly tender.

His biggest challenge? Finding pork that's up to the task of spending an extended time over the fire without drying out. That means meat with the fat and skin intact - a given in Asia (thankd goodness!) but a rarity in the US. His pork, which he sources from a supplier out east, is raised on a small farm in the midwest.

The American fear of fat is evident in the faces of the folks queuing in front of Thomas' truck. Most, opting for a takeaway of roast chicken and potatoes (which, cooked in a pan below the rotisserie, are bathed in bird juices), eye the slab of pork on his cutting board warily. 

Poor souls - they don't know what they're missing. We - Dave and I and a good, carniverous friend - nabbed the last bit of pork, and, after much inhaling accompanied by 'oooohs' and 'aaaaahs', ate it with our fingers. Within minutes every piece of crunchy crackling and yielding, herb-infused meat was gone. I continued to pick at the wee bits of soft garlic and shreds of meat left in the tray as Thomas, obviously (and justifiably) proud of his product, gave us the low-down on his method.

This porchetta rivals any roast pork we've sampled in Asia and - yes, it's true - beats our fondly remembered Piemonte version, hands down. Pork-loving San Francisco visitors - if you're in town on a Saturday, make time for porchetta! And if you're a resident and haven't partaken of Thomas' masterpiece (and have no dietary or religious strictures), what the heck are you waiting for?

RoliRoti, San Francisco Ferry Plaza Farmer's Market, Saturdays 8ish to 2pm (though the pork was gone by 12:30p). Find Thomas, his truck, and his pork at area farmer markets on other days of the week (he roasts pig knuckles for the Thursday Phiilippine market in Daly City). www.roliroti.com

If You Happen to Be in Chicago On April 15th...

CHICAGO FOODWAYS ROUNDTABLE

UN-CANED MELODY

In Southeast Asia, Palm Sap is Transformed Into a Sugar That Hits Sweet, Smoky, and Bitter Notes

Present by: Robyn Eckhardt and David Hagerman

Sunday, April 15th, 2007     10AM     Kendall College, 900 North Branch Street, Chicago

Cost: $3 per person, free to Kendall students and faculty with ID

Palm sugar, a key ingredient in most Southeast Asian cuisines, is little known outside the region. Few fans of the dishes that benefit from this sugar's low-key sweetness are aware of the laborious process that turns palm sap into gold. Fewer still know that this sweetener's flavor profile can vary widely as a result of sap origin, production process, and attention to detail on the part of the producer.

Join Robyn Eckhardt and David Hagerman as they take us from a town in southern Malaysia, where a retired imam cooks up golden gula Melaka (Malaysian coconut palm sugar) delicious enough to be eaten on its own, to a village in Northern Sumatra where a second-generation maker produces dark and smoky gula aren (sugar from the aren palm). Along the way we'll find out where this truly artisinal product comes from, how it's made, and how it's used in the region's cuisines. We'll also learn how economic realities in some parts of Southeast Asia may result in the eventual demise of asli ('pure' - that is, undiluted with cane sugar) palm sugar. We'll taste some sweet and savory dishes that highlight the sugar and - border control willing - indulge in a 'tasting' of palm sugars that David and Robyn have collected on their travels.

This program is hosted by the Chicago Foodways Roundtable. To reserve, please call (847) 432-8255, then leave your name, telephone number, and the number of people in your party, or email to: chicago.foodways.roundtable@gmail.com.

Incredible, Edible Oz III: Sydney (Other Notable Nibbles)

Delicious Dishes

• duck liver pate at Sean's Panorama. Had one bird liver you've had 'em all, right? No no and three times no. Imagine the deepest, darkest, richest chocolate ice cream you've ever had. Imagine it's spooned from the tub with a long, heavy ice cream scoop and lands on a plate in a thick, wide, ribbon. Now imagine it's liver. Liver pate -- the richest, smoothest, light-but-not-fluffy liver pate you have ever in your life eaten. And it's served with delectable sweet and sour onions en agrodolce and "pulled sourdough" which is -- get this -- sourdough bread that's been literally pulled from the inside of a big, fat loaf, resulting in unevenly-shaped, jagged-edged pieces of bread pockmarked with cracks and crevasses, all the better to catch dribs and drabs of the extra fine olive oil that's been dribbled on top. This dish was not a dream, but I'm still pinching myself whenever I think of it.
• smoked butterfish at Yoshii. This sleek little Japanese spot near Circular Quay is supposedly where Sydney chefs go when they want knockout sushi. Yes the sushi is good, but Yoshii is, seemingly, an artist in the kitchen and this place is about so much more than raw fish. A perfect fillet of butterfish, graced with a single, highly fragrant mushroom of one variety or another, is sandwiched between two paper-thin slices of Japanese kigu wood and placed in a very hot oven. The wooden packet arrives at the table edges charred and still glowing embers, and it encloses an exquisitely flavored fillet imbued with the unfamiliar smokiness of the kigu and the musky essence of the mushroom. The fish's texture is indescribable -- firm yet gelatinous, charred yet moist. Part of 6-course set lunch menu that included other masterpieces such as tuna belly marinated in soy and truffle oil and a soft-shell crab salad served with a chilled but still-runny poached egg. My biggest regret about this trip? That we didn't have an opportunity to revisit Yoshii for dinner.

Best Oysters

Dave and I disagree on this one. I vote for Manta in Woolloomooloo. It's a matter of technique; Manta serves theirs with the muscle uncut, so eating the Pacifics or Sydney rocks requires a couple twists of the fork tines, which can be a bit laborious. But made worthwhile, I think, by the unwasted oyster liquor that can be slurped from the shell after the bivalve has been ingested.

In this category, Dave's vote is with Doyle's at Watson's Bay, a Sydney institution that's been serving the freshest seafood for over a hundred years. In fact, our entire lunch at this place was stellar. Besides deliciously briney Pacific oysters,

we devoured seafood salads (house-smoked salmon, more oysters, a few plump, juicy prawns -- admittedly, I might have done without the mayonaisy "cocktail sauce" that made an appearance more than once during this trip -- and half a gorgeous avocado at its absolute peak of ripeness),

and griddle-BBQ'd fillets (barramundi, below, for Dave and John Dory for I).  I've been cooking fish for many, many years, and I've yet to figure out how to turn out a fillet as beautifully done as this one. Cooked through yet supremely moist and tender.

There's a Doyle's at Circular Quay now, but if you've a few days in Sydney it'd be a shame to give the original a miss. The ferry ride is pleasant and there are some nice walks in the vicinity. The old building is a gem, many of the waiters are vintage -- go on a weekday when it's quiet, grab a window table upstairs, enjoy the view and some very fine eats.

Biggest Disappointment

Actually, our only disappointment in Australia, so perhaps I shouldn't complain. But Icebergs at Bondi Beach is so vaunted, so lauded, so praised in the press (not just the Australian press -- it received very favorable mention recently in both the New York Times and the LA Times) that I will allow myself to be the lone dissenting voice. Food? Good, I think. Service? I've had better service in a state-owned restaurant in early-reform era Communist China. For me, the two are intertwined, and the finest grub in the world served in the most exquisite surroundings isn't worth a ringgit if it isn't accompanied by something other than complete incompetence, which is what Icebergs dished up for us from start to finish of our three-hour ordeal (that's only up to and including entree -- we literally fled the place before dessert and coffee). I'm talking 30 minutes to get a drink in the bar, where we waited for our table. I'm talking finally getting the drink -- just one, not both -- and then waiting another twenty minutes to get the other. I'm talking a frosty waitress (it's not named Icebergs for nothing, apparently) who repeated her polished disappearing act whenever we had a course coming up. I blame whatever else it was -- besides adreneline -- that was coursing through her veins (I was tipped off by her bizarre fidgeting and the fact that she kicked me under the table five times while reciting the evening's specials ...without noticing). I'm talking a starter that arrived before wine, water, or any other beverage did (and was finished before we could flag someone -- anyone -- down to remedy the problem); a rocket salad that spent so long waiting to be picked up (AWOL waitress again) that the leaves were limp, soaked through with dressing by the time it arrived at the table; and I'm talking entrees that had to be inquired after twice -- waitress responded to our first inquiry with this witty reparte: "But this is only the first time you've asked about it!" -- before they finally made it to the table 45 minutes after appetizers were picked up. I guess we should have been tipped off when we called that morning to confirm our reservation (made by email two weeks earlier; email acknowledgment by Icebergs in hand when call was placed) and were told it didn't exist.

So, Icebergs -- wasted evening, wasted money, and --- what pisses me off the most --- with only 6 dinners to be had in Sydney, a precious one wasted.

Best Pizza

Let's not end this on a negative note. On our first night in Sydney -- the night of the Melbourne Cup, the race that stops a nation (and, apparently, gives it a legitimate excuse to get tanked) -- we sought one thing that's hard to come by here in KL: a top-quality, wood-fired oven baked pizza. Our concierge sent us to Arthur's, and for this alone I plan to write a letter of thanks to our  hotel. Arthur's is a joint, not a fancy-schmancy pizza "bar" or "cafe".  It's long and narrow; at the front, prep counter and ovens on one side and tables on the other, with more tables in the back. The door is manned by a couple of old Italian gents -- a good sign. Pizzas come in three sizes (facilitating sampling), and there's nothing weird like Thai curry pizza or some such on the menu. Pizzas are thin-crusted, brown and blistered from the fire, topped with quality ingredients. Surprisingly, for a pizza joint, salads are delicious -- for example, a rocket salad made with fresh, crisp greens mounded on a plate, simply and lightly dressed with good olive oil and topped with shavings of aged parmesan reggiano. Arthur's is BYO. Conveniently, there's a bar and bottle shop a couple doors away. And service -- provided entirely by young Japanese waitresses, not sure what's up with that -- is friendly and quick.

Icebergs management might consider taking a lesson from this place.

Best Way to Spend Your Last Day in Sydney

If the weather cooperates, which it did for us.  After our fair share of rain during the trip (not complaining; the nice thing about rain is it doesn't prevent you from eating) we were blessed with a final day that was not too hot, not too cool, sunny but for the occasional shadow created by a whispy puff of a cloud. So how to pass such a glorious day? Ferry out to one of the 'burbs, rustle up a picnic lunch (easy to do when every little town in the area seems to have a gourmet deli and a lovely produce market) and while away the afternoon eating, napping, and just generally relaxing under that deep blue Australian sky.

Sean's Panorama, 270 Campbell Parade, Bondi Beach. Tel. 9365-4924.

Yoshii, 115 Harrington St. Tel. 9274-2566.

Manta, The Wharf, Cowper Wharf Road, Woolloomooloo. Tel 9332-3822.

Doyle's Watson's Bay. At Watson's Bay! The older building on the beach, not the one right next to the pier.

Arthur's, Oxford Street steps from the Ormand St. intersection. Open till 11-12pm.

Incredible, Edible Oz II: Scrumptious Sydney (An Appetizer)

What could I possibly have to say about Sydney that hasn't already been said?  I'd heard that it's a beautiful city blessed with a spectacular setting.  It is.

I'd heard that it's nearly impossible to get a bad cup of coffee in Sydney.  From our admittedly limited experience, this seems to be the case.  Generations of Italian immigrants seem to have insured that every latte will be topped with a perfect, soft froth of milk and every cappucino with the ultimate crema -- in contrast to the sorry, airhole-pocked foam that too often bobs atop these beverages in the U.S.

I'd heard the locals are laid-back and friendly and they do seem to be.  In fact, I was waited on and helped by a number of teenagers while in Sydney; strangely enough not one snarled, smirked, or otherwise copped an attitude. Instead, they -- and every Sydneysider (Sydney-ite?) we came in to contact with -- were convivial to the max. I've heard that Australians bemoan customer service standards in their country. I say, just try ordering a foam-topped cappucino at some arty-farty coffee shop, or attempt to flag down any help in the average clothing store, inthe U.S., and you'll really know what sullen service is.

And when it comes to food ... well, on second thought, I do have a bit to share about Sydney. Too much, in fact, for one post.  Before getting to the meat of the matter (Bests, Worsts, Absolutely the Most Nightmarish Restaurant Experience in My Life EVER -- ANYWHERE, Must-Eats ... stuff like that) in my next post, I'll open with a fantastic lunch in a groovy little restaurant/cafe in what seems to be an up-and-coming good food 'hood, that happens to have some fine graffiti gracing its alleys.

I'm referring here to Surry Hills. Not the swanky part of Surry Hills anchored by the street -- is it Waterloo? Crown? -- that's home to bill's 2 Surry Hills (no, we didn't eat at either bill's. Might've if we'd had more time. I've nothing against bill's, I know it's a Sydney institution and I'm sure the grub is mighty fine. To tell the truth though, isn't there something just a little bit creepy about how Bill Granger, on his cooking shows, flashes his pearly whites after every single sentence? Anyhow, maybe next trip.) 

I'm referring to a small patch of Surry Hills a bit further south, where Devonshire meets Bourke (and a few blocks up and down and to the east).  Quiet, tree-lined streets lined with vintage semi-d's adorned with wrought-iron gingerbread.  A few quirky boutiques, small eateries turning out tasty nibbles, a youngish population, lots of dog lovers (a positive in my book).

As it's name suggests, Book Kitchen is both a cafe and a bookstore. The selection of books is limited to cookery and other food-related books, primarily by Australian authors. The selection of dishes is limited to delicious stuff.

Ambiance is casual, service is friendly (and indulgent -- our waitress didn't blink an eye when we changed our order three times -- perhaps she suspected we were visitors the clock running and too much Sydney fare yet untried), fare is simple but crafted with the frehest, best ingredients. 

This is a breakfast and lunch place, and the entire menu is available all day long.  Which means you can have eggs at two in the afternoon, if that's what floats your boat. It did ours.

Behold my Spanish baked eggs. Not sure the photo does it justice; what we have here are two eggs done just right (yolks still plenty runny but none of that mucous-y goo that is the hallmark of an underdone white), slices of freshly-roasted red capsicum with bits of char still intact, shower of chopped Italian parsley and hand-torn fresh oregano leaves, a sprinkle of jazzy Spanish smoked paprika, on thick slice of lightly toasted dense and chewy, not-too-tangy sourdough.  The lot drizzled, not doused, with good-quality, peppery olive oil. Easy dish, but deceptively hard for a cafe (or me, for that matter) to do well.

And Dave's brekkie sandwich.

I didn't actually taste this porky, eggy bun-full (Dave wouldn't share ... maybe because I wouldn't), but from an arm's length away I got a clear schnoz-full of salted, smoked, bacon-y perfume that made me salivate like you-know-who's dog (this even as I was devouring my eggs). Dave pronounced this sam worthy of any rabid sandwich connoisseur's (he's part of that club) devotion, and I believe him.

And since we're carbo-loaders (just big eaters, actually), a side of chips, with malt vinegar and a saucer of crunchy sea salt (a wee bit precious perhaps, but in my book half of the appeal of chips is the salt they're sprinkled with, so why not make it a good one?).

Really more oven fries than properly, deep-fried chips (I imagine more than a few chips lovers are sneering at this very moment), these spud sticks were nonetheless golden and roast-y tasting and not at all limp, lovely dippers for the vinegar. I grew up eating ketchup (Heinz only) with my fries, but I am beginning to understand the attraction of accompanying them with a sour liquid instead.

We weren't sated after lunch -- well, that's not true, we were extremely, close-to-bursting sated, but when has that ever stopped me from pursuing gastronomic temptation when it looks me square in the eye?  So we stepped just across the street into a tiny breast pocket of a bakery right on the corner of Devonshire and Bourke.

This primarily take-out shop, which nonetheless serves coffee and sandwiches at one small window table and one outdoor table as well, was really doing the biz (the cash register jockey sent more than a few disappointed souls out the door with the news that the spelt bread had sold out) and no wonder; the aromas wafting out from the kitchen and hovering around the display case were intoxicating. Too much to tempt (including a luscious looking foccacia with black olives, oven-dried tomatoes and fresh rosemary) and, alas, not nearly enough empty space in my stomach.

I settled on a single ginger brulee tart topped with chopped pistachios (middle above). Creme brulee is a dessert that many restaurants attempt and few get right, and here it was in a substantial yet flaky pastry shell, heavily flavored with peppery ginger that did a nice job of cutting right through the rich, rich, rich custard, with a crisp, caramelized surface. Should have gotten 500 to go.

Can't recommend this yummy little corner of scrumptious Sydney highly enough. We discovered, as we were leaving Book Kitchen, that it's now open for dinner Thurs-Sat. I'm still carrying the xeroxed menu in my wallet (why? the only answer I come up with is that I'm a masochist). How I wish we'd had an extra evening to return for dishes like: ricotta dumplings with sage butter and bosco pear, tomato tart with tomato crisps and roast garlic fritters, fricassee of Barossa Valley rabbit with sauteed potato and fresh horseradish, roast spring lamb rump with blue cheese pithivier and eggplant salad ..... you get the picture.

Book Kitchen, 255 Devonshire Street, Surry Hills, tel. 9310-1003.   No-name bakery ('cause I didn't get the name, not because it doesn't have one), right at the corner of Devonshire and Bourke Streets.

Incredible, Edible Oz I: Emu Oil and Bugs

We kicked off our trip to Oz with a whisper.  Leaving aside the attractions of Sydney -- culinary and otherwise -- for a few days, Dave and I picked up a car on arrival and, after fueling up with a couple of bracing lattes (when I tasted that wonderful coffee -- from an airport concession stand, no less! -- I knew it was gonna be a tasty trip) and cluelessly circling the airport once or twice, headed on down south a couple hours, to Jervis Bay.

I boarded the plane in KL with a Hit List.  Keeping in mind that spring had sprung in Australia, markers of the season figured prominently: fresh peas and fava beans, artichokes, stone fruit.  Local cheeses, the likes of which I've been drooling over monthly upon flipping to Australian Gourmet Traveller magazine's dedicated section, were right up there.  Great artisinal bread, the kind we used to buy in the San Fran Bay Area and which I think simply does not exist in Asia (anyone in KL -- please prove me wrong!) sat right alongside cheese. 

Seafood sat at the tippy top of the list.  The plan was to gorge on anything and everything from the deep, to not leave a table without downing it in one form or five; to eat so much of it, in fact, that we would make ourselves nearly sick on the stuff (but not till the very last day) and thus avoid seafood nostalgia upon our return to KL. 

I calculated that we had 21 meals on Australian soil ahead of us (lunches and dinners -- we're not morning people) and it seemed reasonable to hope that we'd be able to grab all the golden hoops.

Less than an hour down the road -- bingo!  Just outside of Wollongong we chanced upon a guy parked on a pullout, selling fruit out of the back of his truck.  We braved the flies (the area is suffering this year from an unusually large housefly population, we heard on Sydney talk radio.  The unpleasant phenomenon is attributed to abundant rain, which resulted in unusually lush pasture, which results in, well -- a lot of farm animal excrement) and loaded bags with fragrant nectarines, peaches, and deliciously winey sweet seedless grapes. 

A further 45 minutes and we reached Berry, a charming old town with a kind of kitschy outback bygone-days touristy thing going.  We downed some pretty decent sandwiches at the Emporium, and grabbed some cheese -- a goat's blue and fresh goat curds -- there as well.  Across the street, the Berry Bottle Shop proved the source of some lovely local vino at jaw-droppingly low prices (we came from Malaysia, remember), and its proprietor turned us onto the Berry Woodfired Bakery just around the corner, source of amazing bread (including sourdough, my favorite) and sweets.  The bakery also sells a bit of produce from local small-scale farmers and wouldn't you know it -- this day one of the baskets was chock full of favas.  I bought every last one.

Out of Berry and just past Nowra, on the way to our rental in Jervis Bay, we detoured -- on, again, Mr. Berry Bottle Shop's recommendation -- at Greenwell Point to pick up a little something for dinner.

Thirty more minutes on the road and we were ensconsed in our home for the next 4 nights, a sweet little cottage with all the essentials: a reasonably well-equipped kitchen, a fireplace, a verandah with a view, and a user-friendly gas barby.

The cottage lies, with 4 very privately sited others, on a small farm about 5 minutes from the coast.  The farm adjoins a national park, and so its horses share pasture with these things.

You Aussies are probably rolling your eyes about now -- what, another roo shot??!!  But it just can't be denied that these animals are fascinating.  All the more so when there's 15 or so of them not 40 feet from your verandah, scratching their bellies, munching on green stuff, or grooming their tots.

That night we toasted, with a sprightly sauvignon blanc (no details on that -- you read the meme, right?  I don't do wine notes) our first dinner in Oz:  blackfish fillets and big, roe-attached scallops, rubbed with olive oil and BBQ'd with a sprig of rosemary on the griddle; fava beans gently braised in white wine; fresh tomatoes crowned with goat's curd; and fresh nectarine tart (frozen puff pastry, I'm not that much of a wizard in the kitchen) with thick cream.  No photos, sorry.  We were in vacation mode.

Dave got busy with the camera the next day at lunch.  It was back to Greenwater Point and Backgate Seafoods for fresh oysters and fish 'n chips.  Backgate offers eat-in (on a covered patio out back) or take-out.  I couldn't really imagine allowing crisp-fried fish to wilt in the bag the few minutes it would take to get to the beach, so we grabbed a picnic table set to salivating in anticipation of our feed.

The small, sweet, and firm oysters were local -- very fresh, even though they'd been opened a couple hours prior.  Nearly everything I look for in a bivalve (are they bivalves?) -- I like a little more oyster liquor in my shell, and that's the downside of advance opening -- these sweeties slid down easy.

Now, I'm no fish and chips expert.  In fact I generally avoid deep-fried foods; I'm American, I've seen what they can do.  And I know that some of my readers have grown up with this dish, so I hesitate to offer an opinion.  But geez, get a load of the crust on this fillet!

Never mind the chips -- which were, by the way, nicely crisped, low on the grease, and well salted.  This mammoth fillet of -- I want to say perch? but I'm not certain -- was cooked beyond perfection.  Little grease.  Very, very crispy exterior, nicely browned but not burned in any way, shape or form.  The crust enclosed the fillet, rather than fusing with it; the fissures in the shot above give a hint at how it just fell away from the fish with the poke of a fork, revealing a fillet moist and tender and steaming and oh so flavorful.  No sogginess here, no heavy, thick batter.  Fish and chips experts -- is this what you look for in your f 'n c?  'Cause this fish and chips sent me right to heaven.

Paying for lunch (not cheap but not expensive, given the quality and quantity of the pile of superfresh seafood we'd just consumed), we spotted dinner in the display case.

Moreton Bay bugs is the name they go by, I think; these ugly little critters, boiled and ready to eat, were the smallest I've ever seen, just about 5 inches long.  And in this case, small is better -- with a bit of cracking and shelling, they offered up the sweetest meat I have ever tasted in any shellfish, anywhere (as a point of comparison we sampled much larger bugs in Sydney a few days later: good, but nowhere as sweet as these little ones).

On the way out of town we stopped to watch the local pelican (???) population lunch on fish guts discarded by folks cleaning their daily catch on the dock.

And a eureka moment on the way back to our temporary nest -- a tiny sign nailed to a tree advertising "fresh artichokes", which led us to a farm just off Princes Highway where an extended family with an Italy connection grows olive trees -- brining some of the fruit and turning the rest into bright green, grassy olive oil with a peppery finish (it's ridiculously priced at AUD 12 a half liter) -- as well as the teeniest baby artichokes and big bushy bunches of chard.

And so dinner was born: pasta with favas, artichokes, and bug meat, doused with a generous glug of fresh olive oil.

More of the same for the next couple of days, in spite of 24 straight hours of rain that makes the tropical downpours we get here in Malaysia seem like a piddle.  In the middle of this rain we drove back up to Berry, to the Woodfired Bakery, for an unforgettable lunch (what else is there to do in a downpour but eat?) of Tasmanian mussels, shells as big as my fist, in a tangy sauce of tomatoes and white wine, leftovers sopped up with the bakery's luscious fresh bread.  Bread pudding, baked in the wood-fired oven, of course, followed.  This meal -- those mussels -- held their place as one of our best in Oz.  Anyone planning a jaunt in the direction of Berry would be absolutely insane to miss breakfast or lunch at the bakery (even I'd be a morning person for a couple of poached eggs with some of that bread).  Take note: it's closed Monday and Tuesday.

Emu oil?  Sorry, the title was a bit of a faker.  We did, in fact pass several times, during our time in Jervis Bay, an emu farm ahawking emu pies and emu oil.  The pies just didn't appeal.  And I don't even want to begin to imagine how the oil is extracted.

Backgate Seafoods, 107 Greenwell Point Rd., Greenwell Point NSW. Tel. (02) 4447-1231.

For lovely extra virgin olive oil, olives black and green, olive oil products, honey, veggies, and fresh eggs: Bruno and Maria Morabito, 1106 Princes Highway (about 1-2 km south of the turnoff for Jervis Bay), Falls Creek, NSW. Tel. (02) 4447-8791.