Dinners are getting fancy at The Den

I always knew the Tiger had impressive culinary skills. Even way back when we were just flatmates, she would whip up cool and interesting meals when it was her turn to cook.

At first I thought I was just impressed because of the different culinary cultures, but over time I've come to appreciate that she's a dedicated and passionate lover of food who is willing to turn her hand at almost anything... and most times she has succeeded with flying colours. Baking has been a particular focus lately (and a danger to my diet regime!), and she thinks nothing of doing up a quick batch of mochi with red bean paste and strawberries - even though it's a multi-stage process over a couple of days with finicky ingredients.

After last week's posh nosh, though, she's got a renewed vigour for the evening meal. Of particular interest was the bloody beautiful rocket, poached pear and Parmesan salad at Aqua Linea. It was simple and unobtrusive, but the combination of flavours and the simplicity of it stole the night, and so she's now on a mission to both replicate it and build upon it. Her first attempt using the same concepts was present the night before last:


There's miso and a small bowl of rice, with the main plate filled with a grilled piece of yellowtail (Japanese buri) with a simple honey-soy-miso paste, and a salad of spinach, string bean and red grapefruit. It was bloody delicious and impressive to look at. I married well, no?

Celebrating 2 years above the Aqua Linea

It was our two year anniversary last Tuesday and continuing on the grand tradition (started, coincidentally, 1 year ago), we decided to pull out all the stops and go fancy for a bit of nosh.

Last year's bash at Bishamon would be hard to beat, but with a little extra money in the bank thanks to an early anniversary present from the in-laws, we decided to step it up a notch and go as far out as possible before we stepped into the black hole of stupidly-priced nonsensical twattery (aka anything on Eagle Street, particularly anything starring a TV chef). Teneriffe's Aqua Linea fitted the bill nicely.

From the gin and tonic aperitif right through to the chocolate "gravel" of the dessert, it was a polished, yet restrained affair. A bottle of 2008 Cloudy Bay Sav Blanc (cheekily marked up way beyond its means) was swiftly delivered, along with a couple of slices of dense, creamy pumpkin bread with olive oil to line the stomach. As usual, pork belly screamed at me from entree list, while the Tiger opted for the rather enticing prawn and leek ravioli. The belly was, however, a touch on the dry side with the soy-braise hardly present - but the peanut dressing pulled it through; and you can't really go too wrong with what is essentially a thick hunk of bacon. The texture of the rav seemed quite light and watery - reminiscent of steamed dumplings rather than traditional pastry. The filling was dense and the creamy sauce plentiful; we were both touching the happy side after that effort.

We both eyed the duck for mains, but the Tiger capitulated and opted for the Black Angus fillet instead. The tea-smoked duck was beautifully presented: a thinly sliced fillet, rare in the middle, on a bed of sugar snap peas and a scallion roesti. A fig compote rested against the end of the fillet, and assorted greens danced around the remainder of the white square. The steak, meanwhile, was a study of ordinariness - the round fillet on top of a runny potato mash (a-hem, sorry... pommes mousseline), surrounded by the vegies. Basically, a sexed-up version of meat n 3-veg... how pretentiously unpretentious.



But fuck it, it tasted orright, dinnit? The duck had the unmistakable earthiness of the tea embedded within the flavour, but the roesti (bascially a potato cake) was the clear winner - crunchy and crackly on the edges, but soaked with the duck juices in the centre. The only criticism, and this is almost too absurd to utter considering the amount it cost, was that there was just a touch too much on the plate. Meandering through each element meant the duck lost is sheen and became a little too congealed and fatty towards the end, while the roesti finished in a messy mulch. The wonderful side dish - rocket with cinnamon poached pear, Parmesan and lemon oil - is now in the process of being dissected and incorporated into the Tiger's growing culinary arsenal.

The Tiger decided to end the night with a decadent flourish - the bittersweet chocolate torte - while I finished the vino. Unfortunately, the torte didn't live up to expectations, but hey - you can tell desserts were purely an afterthought at this sort of establishment. And so with the bottle drained, and a couple of green notes passed to settle the bill, we strolled romantically along the riverfront, happy with our pleasant celebration of our nuptials and excited that our next one will be spent in our new city.

3 years ago

I forgot it. I fucking forgot it this morning. Well to be fair, we both forgot this morning that it was our "technical" 3-year anniversary. As per the usual mid-week morning routine, my gorgeous wife packed me my lunch and sent me on my way to another day down the salt mines...

Then sent me a text as I was bus-bound reminding me of the event. 3 years ago this very day (or - to be honest - around this day, as we weren't quite sure when this all began), our relationship changed from cool flatmate to head over heels in luuurve. (For those interested in that story, go here to read the blog we started to partly explain our relationship to Immigration).

I could use this opportunity to get all mushy and soppy and wax lyrical on the ways in which this amazing being has enriched my life, but I don't think I need to. For those who knew me before, you'll have hopefully seen the change. For those who've only known me since - I'm sure you wouldn't recognise the Ben of old. She is a force within my soul and the fire in my belly.



To The Tiger - Anata ga daisuki desu

I'm cool

No, seriously. Like, really cool. Like, cutting edge of everything. Like seriously, amazingly fashionable that people want to do what I do. Want proof?



Take guava, for example. A couple of years back, I lamented the lack of fresh guava in this country. Sure, you can buy guava nectar in the shops, but it's not really the same. And then, what do we find in the fruit shop a few weeks back? Guava! And pretty soon, it wasn't just in the pinko, lefto, commo organic fruitstores... but also in Coles! Lordy above.

Still not convinced of my coolness? Well, let's continue the fruity theme with dragonfruit. Previously, it was a delicacy spied only occasionally in above-mentioned lefto, pinko, commo organic fruiterees. After lashing out one day with ex-Love Denner the Angry German, I was hooked. Now, you can't move in the fruit section of Toombul's Coles without coming face-to-face with a bloody dragonfruit.

But I can see you're still not totally convinced by cutting-edgedness. Well, let's go on a holiday, I suggest late last year to my fellow Love Dennion SatomiTiger. We hire a car and bolt southwards to a little nook called Yamba and Angourie and instantly fall in love. Such a lovely little corner of the world, it is. Realising our gem, we decided to tell the world it was crapola so they continue to be amazed by the slowly decaying and plastique Byron and not trample all over our paradise. And then I see this: the death-knell. Now instead of fish n chips down by the sea, it'll be latte-frappa-wotsits, gourmet fucking pancakes and playing dodge the fricken Beemer.

Seriously, I'm either ultra-cutting edge, or someone's following my every move and taking notes. Either way, I'm cool. Yeah.

Harry and Jeff

You know your city is cool when...

... you can spend 2 weekends in a row sitting in the sun watching some of the world's best Blues and Roots artists. For absolutely nix.

With the Tiger and I still buzzing off the great weekend which was Valley Fiesta, as well as a cool show by Franti and Spearhead, we scoured the gig guides trying to search out our latest fix. It didn't take much searching, however, as staring at us clear in the face were 2 standout gigs - one by Harry Manx and one by perennial favourite Jeff Lang - on successive weekends. Better still, for one reason or another, both gigs were completely and utterly free!

First up was Canadian Harry Manx's gig at the Queensland Multicultural Festival. With a blustery and drizzly day on hand, The Tiger and I decided to stay in for most of the event, only venturing out towards the end of the afternoon in order to catch Harry at his finest. After being switched on to Harry's goodness a couple of years back by guitar purveyor Steve-O, he's been a staple of many live music experiences in the past couple of years. The Tiger was introduced to him this year, and instantly fell for his unique blues style, not to mention his cute Grandpa-style banter and humour.

Both were in abundance today, as the usual trio expanded to a quartet (incorporating keys into the stripped-back guitar, drums, bass standard) entertained a wide cross-section of punters one could expect in a free, government-sponsored orgy of "multi-cultural harmony". With the sun just breaking through the clouds in time for the gig, we settled into a comfy grass-covered seat in the amphitheater and became as equally enthralled with Harry's music as we were distracted by the dozens of kids - and some adults - using the music as a fitting soundtrack to their hulla-hooping in front of the stage.



Pulling on his back catalogue, Harry seemed intent on ignoring the status quo for free or festival events, and steered well clear of his better known tracks in favour of some more obscure numbers mixed in with some hard-core jamming. Sitting mostly on his custom Mohan Veenah guitar - a mix of an acoustic lap-slide guitar and a sitar, of which I'm still yet to totally understand the mechanics - he did manage a couple of covers (his now famous Voodoo Child included) before exiting the stage and leaving us wandering around the city unsuccessfully searching for a place to have a beer, a feed and watch the cricket on a quiet Sunday evening.

Fast forward a mindless working week, and we're back out in the outdoors and listening to some kick-ass tunes. This time the musicality was provided by blues blood brother Jeff Lang, who was once again drawn to our northern sunshine. After a rather uneventful Japanese society picnic or something, we ferried it from New Farm park down to North Quay for the annual "Groove and Grape Festival" in a rather small and nondescript park in front of the Condrad Treasury Hotel. The festival itself had been on all weekend, and was now into its 2nd or 3rd year, but it was a first time visit for TheTiger and I. Loftily named Groove and Grape and billing itself as a food and wine festival meant that there were some high expectations in my mind of some decent food and some rather nice wine to be had. After embarking on a fact-finding mission to determine if it did live up to expectations, we were slightly forlorn - the food was a marginal step up from music festival deep-fried goodery, with some token pastry offerings to make it look slightly more swanky. If their haughtily described "cheese and crackers" was anything to go by (it turned out to be nothing more than an individual serve of Arnott's dry Water Crackers and some no-name cheddar scraped from the bottom of a barrel), then their mouth-wateringly described "beer battered fries" would be nothing more than the floppy, sloppy, taste-less chips which could have been sourced from any shopping mall food court bain-marie any day during the week.

So it tanked on the food stakes? Who cares, this was about music and wine, yes? I mean, half of the festival name was derived from the wine's root ingredient, so you'd expect the offerings to be mildly ok, wouldn't you? Oh... no, not really. The wines were any old slop the large barrel-houses were trying to off-load in the truck full, obviously after being rejected by the wine-buying hordes for the past year or so. Having to part with 4 hard-earneds for a plastic cup of some South Oz brew was sickening. The snifter of plonk could hardly have even been considered enough for a "tasting" where I come from. So, after one $4 "tasting" we did the next obvious thing - forked over $20 for a bottle. It would go well with our lovingly crafted beer-battered fries served with a smattering of sea-salt. And smothered in red and sweet chilli sauce just to give it some hint of flavour.

Never mind, it was the Groove part of this festival we were really here for, and so this is where it really shone through. Setting up himself, I noticed a lovely return to the stage by drummer extraordinaire Danny McKenna. A regular in years past, Danny had been side-lined for recent Jeff live offerings, as he pursued the "disturbed folk" genre as a guitar and bass duet. And while he hasn't put a foot wrong with this move, I was still shivering with anticipation of seeing the raw syncopated power of the bearded Danny McKenna adding weight to Jeff's sound again. As the set began, it was clear they hadn't actually played or rehearsed with Danny for a long time, with the drummer seemingly struggling to find the beat, especially to the newer tunes which were recorded without a drum at all. As the set progressed, however, the beat found itself and he was let loose to run free on some of Jeff's older and more lumbering tunes like London and The Save. Both songs in particular truly outlined the band's faith in not only each other, but also with the crowd. Usually in such festival situations, artists such as Jeff tend to limit their forays away from the more well known songs, and even within those songs only restrict themselves to faithful renditions of the studio-versions of them - censoring themselves, if you will, in order to not alienate a possible new audience. It was not to be today, however, with the band rightly judging the audience to be on-side and tolerant and so let the songs wander around within a very loose structure - meaning that all 3 members had a chance to show their worth and take the sames in different directions and tangents. The skill shone through brightly as Jeff managed to wrangle each and every tangent back to the song's cores, leading to massive endings and amazing crowd appreciation. Being a festival, however, the timings were limited and just 7 or so songs into the mix the slot was over and so was our wine.



Bidding farewell to Jeff and to the now annoying sunshine (only annoying due to a developing burn raising itself on my arms), we headed for home and the local bottle-o to continue to wine-y goodness (sourcing the same bottle of wine for $12 no less!). The glow around us may have been wine-related, or it may have been sun-related, but I'd like to think a whole swag of it was related to seeing 2 amazing musicians in 2 weekends for absolutely nothing. This city really does kick ass sometimes.

Venues suck... Or Am I Getting Old?



Ending off our Fiesta regime, we trotted off to a midweek gig by Gothic guitar maestro Jeff Martin - the one and the same of The Tea Party fame.

It was his first ever real 'solo' show in Australia, with all his other 'solo' shows since he disbanded The Tea Party being, well, less than solo in the true sense of the word. Being a fan of his previous incarnation, and being a fan (by necessity, thanks to my current extra-curricular activities with Fretfest) of solo singer song-writer acoustic shows, I was actually quite excited by this gig.

Things did not bode well, however, as the Tiger and I chowed down at the cafe directly underneath tonight's venue (I'm in 2 minds as to whether to actually name the venue, considering I'm about to slander them). The ticket clearly stated "doors open at 8pm", but that didn't stop a few keen fans turning up extra early and milling around the entrance. Trying hard to be nonchalant and cool, we tried to not listen in to their extroverted conversations. It was impossible. One guy was clearly besotted with Jeff and spent the good 40 minutes or so valiantly tying each conversation piece back to his amazing tales of being an audience member at one or other of the featured artist's shows. He was annoying in a very cute way, and his clobber of black stove-pipes, black singlet, sneakers and shoulder-length lank hair would have been just as welcomed at a newly-reformed The Angels gig as it was here.

Anyway, with the audience segmentation complete, the doors did eventually open and we filed up the narrow staircase and into the long, thin venue of choice for the eve. After scoping this place out for a few local bands before, I was keen to see how it would go with a fairly large international artist and a full room. It's a long, narrow room without much head room and absolutely no stage presence to speak of. A 3-inch scaffolding platform was all that separated the unwashed masses from the talent. Keeping in mind this was an acoustic singer-songwriter gig with an artist known to sit down during his gigs, meant that without getting nose-to-armpit with our fellow audience members left us with a fleeing glimpse of the guitar maestro's middle part for most of the evening.

The back part of the room is filled with very old and worn long couches, along with a feature wall of a pleasant autumn scene and a homely bar area. It gives it a nice lounge-room feel, I guess. Well, it's certainly the feel the owners were going for, I'm sure. Sadly, the very lumpy couches, the inconsistent sound levels from the mixing desk and the constant to and fro of the punters made it feel all too much like a crappy share-house lounge room circa 1992, rather than a serious music venue in Brisbane in 2008 which I had paid $40 to enter.

Never-the-less, I was here for the music and not the decor, so I guess I shouldn't be quick to condemn. Problem was that it took so bloody long from doors open to the main artist getting to the stage that we had a lot of time to contemplate the surrounds. An atrocious set by Jeff's support act (who supplemented his value tonight by being the merch-bitch as well) left a bitter taste and had us tearing down the staircase in search of some kind of respite. Brisbane's sleepy small town tag hasn't quite been disowned yet, though, with the midweek offerings in the heart of the entertainment district being very slim indeed. Unless watching a drunken local getting the full force of the constabulary's move along laws is entertainment... well, considering what was on offer at the top of the stairs, then yes, it was a damn sight better than even that.

Anyway, we trawled back up into the belly of the beast and endured yet more interminable waits before the artiste of the night deigned us with his presence... only to be gone before he even had a chance to start due to his guitar not actually working properly. I mean, these guys took a full 50 minutes setting up a stage for one guitar and a microphone... and couldn't even get that right! In an almost comical move, Jeff tells us he's leaving the stage for them to sort out before coming back on. A couple of minutes later he does just that, and proceeds to make light of it and pretend as if it happened all the time. I don't know, maybe it does. But really, this is not a $40 show and any artist doing what he just did to his audience is truly taking the piss.

I decide to forgive first sins, however, and allow him the good grace of being listened to before fully condemning him. The room's sound was pitiful and tiny... with absolutely no bottom end in the sound to speak of, the first 3 songs or so sounded like very slow versions of the chipmunks, crossed with that sound made by your matronly Year 4 teacher dragging her fingernails down the blackboard. You know the sound...

Not his fault, sure... I get that. And so I forgive yet more sins and persevere even longer. We settled into the back of the room and tried vainly to block out the inane chatter of the bar staff who are clearly non-plussed by the fact that there is someone on stage trying to peddle his wares. Their talking, laughing and general mischief was completely inexcusable, especially for a venue purporting itself to be one of Brisbane's homes of the musical elite.

Still, this didn't have my blood reaching its limits of heat resistance. What got it to that critical boiling point was the complete lack of self-awareness, knowledge and acceptance of where the artist was in the real world. Listening to his gig was like listening to a facsimile of Rachmaninoff, sent while on a severe hang-over. The guy was churlish, sloppy and bored. He veered between self-mockery and Spinal Tap-esque moments of brilliance, and all without any air whatsoever of irony or sarcasm. Comparing his setlist to that which peppered his released live albums, and you could tell he had struck on to a formula and was milking the fuck out of it at every opportunity he could. The boys hanging at the front of the stage, consisting of endless clones of the black-singletted lank-haired friend from the beginning of the night fed this viscious cycle of self-love and bullshit until it was clear to almost everyone except those in that tight front-of-stage circle that the artist had firmly planted his head up his own asshole. With little to no hope of it being removed any time soon.

Love Den's Fiesta Finale? Part 1

Valley Fiesta kicked off tonight for its weekend of frivolity. And for those who know, it also kicks off my re-invigoration with all things Albion Love Den. To me, there's nothing better than the Den at this time of the year... crystal clear skies, a crispness which allows for being comfortable, and just 2 stops away from some of the best music this country has to offer. Who could ask for more?

So, after a quick slap and dash at home after work, we trotted off to tonight's festivities. Apart from one "must see", the rest of the night was more of a grab-bag of odds n ends when it comes to music. An Ekka showbag, if you will, of what Fiesta had to offer.

A quick storm meant our must see, The John Steel Singers were a half hour late in getting to the stage. But it was perfect timing for SatomiTiger and my fine self, as we dawdled along collecting sushi and pizza sustenance on the way. The Singers were fantastic, and everything they'd been hyped up to be, and more. They had some rather large reputations to full, what after being big upped by none other than Mr Go Betweens Robert Forster. And they did not fail in their mission. Part Supergrassy-cute, part school marching-band beat, the Singers are a mix n match when it comes to styles. Ending most songs with a screeching, Mogwai-esque wall-of-sound replete with trombone and trumpets, you can see why these guys have got the scene excited. The late start, alas, also meant a very short set, with only 6 or so songs gracing us before they were ushered off.

We set off for a bit of wander next, taking in all three stages the Fiesta had on offer this year. The "main stage" of the event seemed to be the one we were at, in the middle of Brunswick Street, on a closed part of the road in front of the old Sun building. Walking back across the road, the rotunda of the Valley Mall, which was usually the Fiesta's focal point, had been turned into a DJ stage, which pretty much meant it was almost empty at all times. Wandering through the alley (Licorice Lane, to be precise) we stumbled up into the Chinatown Mall, whose stage was set as normal and welcomed all-comers with its eclectic mix of entertainment. Even with the sad closure of the pagodas during the week for safety reasons, it didn't dampen the spirits in this neck of the woods. The Tiger even got her first in-the-flesh glimpses of some real-life drag queens performing on stage before we ventured back up to the main part of the action.

With the revised timeslot, next item of the list Abbe May was also pushed back 20 minutes or so. Enough time for her to amass a fairly sizeable audience, which was encouraging. Having not heard much of this lass (and band, which also went by the same name; although they seemed very keen to be known as the band called Abbe May, not just the lead singer called Abbe May with her backing band... ego? Hmm?), I checked with one of my musical touch-stones and fellow West Aus resident Brendan, who assured me via SMS she was the shit and worth checking out. A couple of songs in, however, and it was clear this was not the cup of tea I was looking for. It may just have been a too wide juxtaposition between the JSS preceding her, but Abbe just appeared way too serious and earnest for her own good. The glassy clean high notes, mixed with the reverb-saturated sqauls and wails just seemed way out of place on this stage, on this street and on this windy night. The carnival atmosphere surrounding event and night so far - which was enhanced by the freak storm hitting moments before curtains - butted up a little too ubruptly with this screeching soul, and so we opted to wander just a little. After not being able to find much else to hold out attention span, we wandered back to catch the end of her set, which seemed to have gathered a little bit of pace, but still jarred a little bit too much. Perhaps a different setting will put my right as far as this lady and band were concerned.

The rest of the night was spent sampling the Fiesta's other offerings, including a woeful one song by Operator Please, which was made even worse by the absolutely atrocious mixing which had afflicted every artist so far tonight, and a couple of songs by The Winnie Coopers, a mildly inebriating mix of hip hoppie 2 MCs, one DJ (and a bass and drummer, too) which we will see more of when they support Michael Franti and Spearhead in a couple of weeks.

And so we retire our weary bones and ready them for tomorrow's Fiesta offerings. And bask in the Love Den's warm glowing warming glow.