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.

Fast food ads amuse me

No, seriously. We've been having a blissful Love Den-based 4-day weekend which has, invariably, included a few hours plonked in from of the idiot box. I don't tend to consume much teev during the week, so it's been interesting to reconnect.

One thing which has caught my fancy has been the tone and text of fast food ads. About a year ago, I personally made a conscious effort to remove fast food from my diet (as part of the overall Get Fit Ya Fat Bastard Before You Become a Typical Old Fat Bastard plan... also involved swapping the pack-a-day fags for gym membership and a new bike). Watching fast food ads has provided me with much mirth, as they no longer hold the mouth-drool factor which clouded their efficacy previously.

Working for a major supplier of fresh food ingredients to most of these companies, it's been interesting to watch from the inside the transformation of their predominantly lard-arse fair, through the pseudo-healthy options, to out-and-out Heart Foundation tick territory. And now they seem to be back full circle: and for KFC at least, they seem pretty effin proud of the double-time march back into meal options dripping in saturated fats, caked in salt and dipped in sugar. (I can't find the actual advert, but here's a little bit on the whole campaign to rid the world of Tower Burger-less angst. No, seriously. There was even a petition... I'm. Not. Makin. This. Up.)

Going in another direction entirely, both Maccas and HJs are trying to re-invent themselves as "sophisticated". First it was the bullshit me-first campaigns (and the entire promise in general) of the bullshit Angus burgers. But this little gem has me all giggly... the key line - "ahh, garlic mayo. Mmmm" - pretty much brands its target market as gruff buffoons with little to no cuisine education.

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The Connolly Team on da move

I love it when a plan comes together - John "Hannibal" Smith

Like Mr Smith, I too get a bit of a woody when plans come together. Especially the potentially life-changing plans that are currently on the Connolly family's doorstep, its knock getting louder and louder by the day, demanding attention. Screw this obtuseness - the Albion Love Den is about to get a wrecking ball thrust through her, and we're taking this opportunity to get the fuck out of this flea-bitten cesspit of humidity and confused boredom and are moving to my spiritual home - Melbourne.

To recap, briefly, on the Love Den situation - about 2 and a bit years ago, my legendary landlord Ray decided enough was enough and upped-stumps, selling this gorgeous girl on to an investment company. He gave me hollow assurances that the company was interested purely in the place as it was, possibly giving it a lick of paint and some other sprucing, but keeping it otherwise as is. It was as clear as testicles on a canine, however, that was not to be the case - with development after development being announced, planned or rumoured for Albion, it was clear that any investor worth their salt would realise they could make a motza just out of the value of this well-placed block. It was on-sold a couple of times (with us being subjected to invasion after invasion for 'insurance appraisals', 'fire inspections', 'valuations' that it almost felt like we were on permanent display), before a development application was finally lodged. Eight months later, and the plan was approved last Friday. It's a matter of days before the real estate agent nails the big pink fuck orf notice on the front door and we do a midnight flit.

Initially, the impending eviction was quite stressful. I've been here for nigh on 11 years; it's the longest I've ever lived in any one place in my entire life. I grew up here. I defined myself here. (Yes, I've cried here. Laughed here. Gotten stoned here. Fucked here. Spewed here...). Looking for places to move to in Brisbane just seemed defeating and sad. And bloody expensive. And so a plan was hatched, after an innocent comment from my Dad over Christmas, to look into moving states.

Coincidentally, at the same time as the housing situation was becoming uncertain, so too was the career. The company I'd been working with for a few years was sold to our competitor and uncertainty was in the air regarding the future of a lot of people's roles. As this new company was based in Melbourne, I decided to take the bull by the horns and stake my claim not only to taking on a now much more expanded national role, but also my claim to having the company move me to head office. And they accepted that plan and we're now approximately 8 weeks away from uprooting to a whole new city.

It's all very exciting and daunting and confusing. While I've moved around heaps in my life, it was always under the watchful parental eye or easy share-house hops with just my bed and a couple of boxes. Now I have a whole house full of stuff, a wife to think about, and absolutely no idea on how to start a new life in a new, almost foreign city. Wish us luck. More importantly, however, tolerate our tale of woe as we negotiate the wonders of moving house as this little plan not only comes together, but becomes a great big annoying reality.

still Spinning In Daffodils

I was totally going to review this gig on the blog. I had some choice phrases picked out with some highlights and pithy observations. But then I found this clip, and any pointless words I could have spouted seemed stupid.

Rock dinosaurs unite - this is what it's all about. The Josh Homme swagger, the animalistic, sexual Dave Grohl pounding and John Paul fuckin Jones strapped up with a 9-string, lit up throbbing bass guitar. About half way through they lock into that magical rhythm and then spin back and riff off it... anyone who's spent any amount of time playing music with mates will know that feeling. That euphoric and almost orgasmic moment when you tune your ears into what your band mates are playing and are comfortable and confident enough to bounce off it and make something work. It's a bonding, almost sexual time (and, unfortunately in my experience, all too fleeting... much like my sex life).

What's not shown here is the 2-3 minute spooling intro before Grohl smashed that crash symbal to cue his bandmates in. Also missing is the ending, where JP fuckin J (he evidently has 4 names now, thanks to Hommes' intros) swapped that monstrosity of a bass for the electric piano and chased that melody all around the keys in a whimsical fashion, befuddling the crowd.

This was pretty fucking spesh. Moment in time type spesh.