Kowloon BBQ Restaurant

302 Victoria Avenue CHATSWOOD 2067
Phone 94112988

Review originally posted on the 4th of March 2003

A sign on Victoria Avenue Chatswood tells me the Kowloon BBQ Restaurant, situated directly opposite the Chatswood BBQ Kitchen has, so to speak, hung out its shingle.

What’s in a name? More than is in a sign, apparently.

The signage supplier to Chinese BBQ restaurants wearily maintains integrity to that archaic western perception of all things Chinese ie they all look the same.

Such an invariable format makes it impossible to distinguish one, in terms of potential quality, from another. That’s assuming the westerner is brave enough to enter at all. A national dread for eating anything but spring rolls and dim sims has become a heritage of our unwitting prejudice. Although, it’s keeping an important division of the chemical companies going - the fast-food industry…

The Kowloon kitchen's fixtures and fittings show refinement. Five cozy booths hug the right-hand wall, and a center-aisle runway has the narrowness of a cricket-pitch. A cleaver-wielding cook removes carcass parts from some vertically suspended hooks on one’s left, and further down, towards the batsman’s end, more tables are positioned outside a kitchen door.

Here the cooking not the cook possesses primacy. 223 dishes on the menu demonstrate cuisine as craft by fine-tuning through repetition. This isn’t art, because cooking isn’t art. 16 menu sections run through various ingredients prepared traditionally. Braised pigs’ ears, tongue, stomach or intestine, it’s your choice, become less daunting surrounded by golden stock, ginger and lotus root. The swine’s knuckle, served with jellyfish, balances richness with slippery crunch. For the less adventurous salt baking of chicken revitalizes the bird revealing fat slabs of white meat. Or braised scallops with noodles are lush and buttery tasting. The subtle nuance of this large menu avoids clichés, but more importantly, nothing I ate tasted like the refrigerator.

One waiter, in traditional white sox, a food runner, and the owner crack jokes in Cantonese while gently and purposefully serving students or grandmothers. Various other assistants wander from, and then back to the kitchen. Meanwhile Chinese Consulate officials - I love the company of spies at lunchtime - nab the best booths. In a similarly set up western place, like the beanery that keeps dropping those naff flyers into my letterbox, a short-skirted bimbo, or a Stavros type asking the “beyoodifool laydees” is, “everything all right?” would generate half the business and cost twice as much. Kowloon BBQ Restaurant is defiantly busy. It’s attuned to an area of Sydney once known as the Kowloon side of the harbour. And all this occurs without a chef’s name on the sign. Appearing, as it no doubt would, in the possessive case.

The Australian Hotel

100 Cumberland Street THE ROCKS SYDNEY 2000
Phone 92472229

Review originally posted on the 16th of January 2003


It is a truth universally acknowledged that cooking increases Serotonan levels; the terrific inbuilt feel-good agent carried by neurotransmitters. I can’t imagine why then people claim to dislike food preparation. (General jocularity.)

This same bliss is gained from eating and drinking.

Then why do nearly 40 eateries close or go bankrupt nationwide daily?

Furthermore, how come the hospitality industry grows by 8.4% a year?

I look for answers at the Rocks, in The Australian Hotel. A corner pub built in 1913 from an established license dated 1889.

Inside, it has a resuscitated though chintzy post-war feel. And outside, a corrugated iron canopy shades trestle tables right around the walkway. Attractive staff serves the vast beer selection, and undergraduate barmen patrol the perimeter in search of errant empties.

Beef & Bock pie with a glossy crust, those ubiquitous wedges, the “Rocks” Caesar, pizza (including a breakfast pizza...) and soup make-up most of the menu. With the exception of the pie, they exemplify our culinary crisis.

What the dumbing down effect considers ironic ie Pizza Tandoori chicken served with mint yogurt, or Pizza con-carne served with sour cream, guacamole and corn chips, (really!) is properly considered sarcastic by a confidently strong cuisine.

I mean it’s like U2 wearing sunglasses. Contrariness yes, imaginative? Not notably.

But I ate and enjoyed. At night the incandescent backdrop of the city lights would enhance greatly the pub's gastronomic interest.

A big index of appeal here is Scharer’s lager. Brewed in Picton at the George the 4th Inn by the riotously funny Scharer. The Bock beer used to braise the pie’s beef is another Scharer product.

It’s no gastropub, though the tables of striped shirted salesmen suggest a good meeting place for girlies looking to flirt. Neither is it the most potent symbol of Australian cuisine. But to carry on any more would be to sound like a pub bore.

The Coffee Shop

97 Bay Road WAVERTON SYDNEY NSW 2060
PHONE 99554762

Review originally posted on the 31st of January 2003


Breakfast is a positive spirited meal during which the business of the day ahead falls into manageable perspective. The critical period in matrimony, so I’m told, is breakfast-time. Being single, I know this theory holds true. I want legroom from all the world's stage and its most trying auditions during the morning.

Something of a legend, thanks to its genteel clientelle and the panache of the cooking is The Coffee Shop (Pats) at Waverton on Bay Road. Pat is the mother of proprietor G. Harmsworth. The Coffee Shop was an earlier name, as was Witham’s. Witham however, still supplies the coffee… Keeping up?

In the sunlight it would be difficult to feel less than sanguine at Pats. There are harbour views for morning escapists while in the distance, one cup of the bridge formally known as Madonna’s bra points perkily skyward. Underneath market umbrellas whiskered men in Panama hats listen to body-piercing stories from the next table or to a husband protest that the mortgage money is being frittered away on Chanel. There are mothers with toddlers, business people, and Neutral Bay types negotiating the slicks of extra virgin olive oil in 4x4 vehicles. Balls Head Point is home to HMAS Waterhen, and on just a short stroll after breaking your fast, Froggart Lookout offers another ceremony of peace. This clearing within the thickness of Sydney Red Gums offers a maritime seascape rarely seen on postcards. The vivid bird life and strong handsome native flora is equally awesome.

Food? Yes, good too. Muesli, yogurt and Dallas Bakery bread, bowls of fruit, scrambled eggs or bagels. While wispy croissants are the work of a dedicated master with cool hands. Nothing entirely new, but fresh, disturbingly sexy, primitive and cool are the lot. Plus, every conceivable variation of tea and coffee makes the fair Pats a breakfast beacon and a testimony to G. Harmsworth and his vision of the best produce, handled simply. The welcoming attitude of the staff is the icing on the cake.

Truly a haven of tranquility, this place oozes charm.

Crowne Plaza, (The Florida) Terrigal

Pine Tree Lane TERRIGAL NSW AUSTRALIA
Phone 43849111

Review originally posted on the 9th of January, 2003


I'm no reclusive. I'd end up with cabin fever. Usually within a day or two the sap begins to rise and my thoughts turn to summer, sweat and tenderness.

So, to the Central Coast with a stop over en route.

Symbolically, the holidaymaker who'd cleverly sewn a pinstripe jacket into a hippyish shoulder bag captured the mood at Terrigal. Amorous couples carrying surfboards and wearing Frangipanis strolled along the beachfront while assorted fry-cooks on stand-by looked on pensively. And the historically famous Florida Hotel distinguished now as the Crowne Plaza, where i was to cook my own steak, ultimately beckoned.

Chefs are all right, but they won't do. They're on show here. One of 'em grinned when the saucy minx at the bistro handed over my 350-g 'Stockyard' rump.
"So... I just add heat, eh? Alright then."

Quite a bit of bravado can occur at these self-cook affairs. However I glibly shared the secret of fire with a couple of builders who'd just arrived, which resulted in further consultancy work throughout the process. Very civilized, in fact, I don't think they ever went back to work.

The surrounding terraced courtyard completes one's immersion into the local culture without a hefty cost, but with comfortable, shaded tables and chairs and a soloist covering Cat Stevens without strangulation.

Caesar salads, nacho's, the Florida's 'curry of the week' were all exhumed competently along with further carcass parts and a pasta dish. The pumpkin pancetta ravioli with sundried tomato and pesto described the kitchens less is more so just add a bit more philosophy.

The food enhances and compliments the fireflies dancing on the beams of summer light, to misquote Richard Clapton, which is the Australian summer coastal town thrill. And The Terrigal Cake Shop, later on, turned the clock back to childhood, to a notionally better time. I was chasing the dolce vita one's by then.

However, a dip in the crisp McMaster's surf before heading home soon arrested this overindulgence.