Publishing the unpublishable while growing up and finding complacency

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Sydney, Australia
So far, much of the content here started life as a rather embarrassing personal journal, but it's now something I can begin to be proud of. In a warped way, both my sites are the growing inbred children of the now defunct parental site: www.butterboxmedia.com and characteristically (if not genetically) remain under construction. So for that I will apologize, but I won't ever say sorry for my inability to deal with the everyday, the trashy, the crappy, the dismissive, mass stupidity, the bland and the empty. Below are a few reviews from long ago that I exhumed from www.landofsurfandbeer.com.au, a site where I once occasionally posted under the screen name of hed. I have not changed the content of the reviews, however I have corrected my naff punctuation, incorrect spelling and frequent inability to use grammar correctly. Who knows? Perhaps one day this too will be corrected. In the meantime, the best hope you have at getting me to post anything about anything is by virtue of either being really terrible or really wonderful. Roll the dice.

The Library

Tuesday, January 1, 2008

Kam Fook

LEVEL 6 SHOP 600 WESTFIELD SHOPPING TOWN CHATSWOOD
Phone 94139388


Review originally posted the 7th of January 2003


Two visits to Newtown last week included some research for yet another pithy review:

"Frenetically paced urban ecosystem located next to a university with blow-in youth who fallaciously presume eternal uniqueness."

But generally, one can find this same streetscape anywhere. The laughs double already. Bloody students eh?

However, in silence comes God's meaning to the heart. So the smouldering tyre-rubber, burnt cooking oil and stale vomit remain the only facts checked with any thoroughness.

Kam Fook Shark Fin, on level 6 of Westfield Chatswood, soothes the shopping mall angst. This hayloft of a place serves yum cha daily and dinner at night. It's usually necessary to bivouac around the entrance after announcing your own arrival, but only briefly. Then the clever staff will allow you to hover over a table like a trainee waiter while the-soon-to-be-previous occupants settle-up. Inside there's tables of elderly Chinese, all sentient calmness. And suited senior waiters are all maximum correctness. Some thrillingly pleasurable offerings roll-by aboard the dim sum trolley. And the bloke who looks like a dish-pig (but is probably one of the owners) industriously re-fills the tea pots. All this is interspersed by tables of visiting western chefs trying to surpass each other in knowledge of the cuisine, or discussing the latest exchange of pornographic videos.

I embrace yum cha often. I once earned wages in Chinatown for a year. Plus I lived with a Chinese girl for six. I disclaim any conclusive comprehension of Chinese culture. And view skeptically any non-Chinese who do so.

Baby calamari was cautiously poached, and prawn and vegetable har gau were in gummy rice flour skins. Some braised tripe tasted gelatinously sticky and the pork-filled northern dumplings were harmoniously honorable.

All the egg tarts had vanished before we could have a crack at them. But an offer to prepare more showed remarkable willing.

Twenty-five bucks included the customary Go Bo tea. Bargain!

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