That Jess Ho

I haven’t been blogging much lately.

To me, I blog because I want to tell a story or share a part of my life and what I experience.  I get excited and want to get other people excited.

I haven’t felt much lately.

There hasn’t been much excitement in my life and there hasn’t been much of me that I have felt necessary to share.

The past me would probably spit at the current me for writing this post; being both empty and sentimental.

I rationalise this with the inevitable growing up, self-awareness and realisation that my soul actually needs nurturing from people (mainly those who will never give it to me).

Being able to identify this specific discontentment came in the (poetic) HK Winter.

My sister doesn’t say much, but she can be quite poignant when not nonsensical.  I guess we are related.

She said to me, “Jess, I don’t know why you’re not angry at Dad.  Mum obviously did the wrong thing, but dad never did the right thing.”

And that was it.

It made sense.

As a Daddy’s girl, I had to admit that my father is a real person, not always the good guy, and at the end of the day, is a bit of a pussy.

Well, that and deal with the rest of my life (yep, still angsty).

Being stuck in a foreign country with the people I spent the last seven years running away from, swallowing emotions I have towards them and burying conflict with, was a little too much to handle.

My head exploded and hikes were very much welcome.

In fact, after a one day hike, where I strayed from the group and spent it listening to music from a recent funeral, I got out on the other end a little more than exhausted and a very much in need of a drink.  The hike was with a close family friend, one who has seen both my sister and I into awareness, growth, education and, in my sister’s case, marriage.

Having to explain to her why I couldn’t be happy with my upbringing, or listen to my sister tell her made me feel small again.  She spoke about her changes and relationships with me and we both realised that we were able to share.  She was no longer making sure I didn’t pull a pot of boiling water over myself, but started seeing me with a life and a personality.

Most of the day was silent, but when we reached the city again, we took a train to Yau Ma Tai and lined up for the best oyster omlettes in HK.  It was only 6:30, but all the seats had been taken inside and lines curled around the back streets.

When I saw my father again, I raved to him about the omlettes.

He is a big oyster fan, as well as omlettes, and really just wanted to go back to HK for all the hawker food.

My mother, on the other hand preferred to stay in, sit in front of a computer and assume her usual role.  After disappearing with the only other buffer in his life, my sister, he seemed a little defeated.

The next day, while my sister performed a signal which marked a change in her life (and cut off all her hair), I dragged my father a few train stations away and got him to Four Seasons Hot Pot (their other specialty is clay pot rice) and bought him some grease and quiet.

We were the first people to arrive, and they make you pay for the bill as they take your order.

We, as always, sat in silence together as I ordered morning glory with shrimp paste and a small serve of oyster omlettes.  The thing about my father is, since I can remember, he has always wanted to spend time with me to see (literally, physically see) if I was ok.  He would have nothing to say to me, but being able to be silent together and know that there is an overall sense of okay-ness would be enough to make him happy.

Being able to drag him across his city in a railway system he is no longer familiar with and take him to a hidden place he wishes he could have shown me, while sipping freshly brewed tea out of primary-coloured, translucent plastic cups and order in a language he thinks I have forgotten is enough to make him crack a smile.

Watching him smirk in cheeky silence and mix the plate of greens into the pale paste of ground shrimp, sesame paste and oil was enough to make me happy.

And in the end, when the shallow-fried batter of duck eggs, just-cooked briney oysters and spring onions hit the table with a generous spoonful of chili vinegar, he started to speak.

My father told me he never knew I enjoyed food this much and that he never thought I could like traditional Chinese cuisine.  My father told me that he thought I was all “Aussie” (whatever that means) and that he didn’t even know I ate oysters.

It all came out like brain-vomit and I remember him communicating to me with food when I was younger.

Being acknowledged at home meant a dish with seafood, a labour-intensive braise or a lot of knife-work.  They were stories about stinky tofu, pancakes and encouragement into killing my first chicken.

It hurts not being able to talk about the past, what we’re really thinking about or what we really want from our lives, but it is definitely the Asian way to just shut up and eat.

When you’re eating, you don’t have to talk.  And if you do, you can just talk about the food.  It’s the appropriate distraction and most relevant topic of the time.

In my family, it is very hard for a person to talk about their emotions, let alone show them.

But, appreciation is always in an empty plate.

That’s right, bitches.  The Tote had reopened and I managed to get free tickets to the re-opening.

It was worth it, though it wasn’t as sticky as it was in January and they’re missing a pool table.

Everything else is pretty much the same, but I think they’ve cleaned their lines and installed a cider tap.

Oh yes, and there is a taco van in the courtyard.

How did I miss that?  Well, it is the creation of the man in sandwiched between the two hot chicks (they may or may not be my friends, with the blonde one being dubbed, “The Taco Chick”) and serve tacos all night.

Beef, chicken and vegetarian.

Actually, their vegetarian is also vegan and doesn’t taste it at all, if you know what I mean.

The deal is pretty simple, $5 gets you 1, $9 gets you two.  They have an array of hot sauces, everything is from Casa Iberica and their tortillas are from the same guys who supply Mamasita.  They cook everything on the day and there you are, the perfect drunk-rocker’s food.

You get it on the soft tortilla with the protein you choose, freshly shredded lettuce, salsa, guacamole, a wedge of lime on the side and hot sauce if you want.  Oh, and though I am not a really big fan of beef, it was my preferred taco of the eve.

I’ve never had so much flavour in such a small package.  Well worth your money, and they’re known to hand out a few freebies just because you’re nice…in which case, they did with me.

Taco Brothers

(the back of the Tote)
71 Johnston St,
Collingwood VIC 3066

(03) 9419 5320

I rarely make a trip to the burbs to have a meal.

No.

I lie.

I just don’t.

However, Ocha is different.  It isn’t because they’re only a tram line away and remind me of my high-school years when I ran around Hawthorn like a teenage shit-bag with my Balwyn High School friends, it is because my sister is currently working there.

That’s right, I have a sister and she does stuff.

Anyways, Ocha just reopened and I had originally planned to go there with a few friends.  After a whole lot of fucking around, canceling, helping out and all that jazz, it seemed my services weren’t needed, my night was open and I ended up going there at a much later time than originally planned.  The fact that my name was written in the booking sheet as “Jess, CINDY’S SISTER,” probably helped somewhat, but hey, I went to the burbs and I am proud of it.

Seriouisly.

Not inner city.

My sister of course thinks it is an amusing that I think of Hawthorn as “the burbs.”  Her interpretation (I argue because she lives in the burbs) is Glen Waverly or some shit, Rowville, Diggers Rest.

You see, to me, they’re not burbs, it is just plain bumb-fuck nowhere.  I mean, if I have to get on a train line which only has 10 stops (I may be exaggerating), but the whole train ride is over an hour, it is bumb-fuck nowhere and possibly ends at a station called Rape.

Sorry, what was I saying?

Oh yes.

Hawthorn.

It isn’t a station called rape.  In fact, it is probably most like travelling on the blue-line in HK.  Full of rich, white people who are actually all of my friend’s parents. (I don’t mean to be offensive, but seriously, look at this photo.)

That table without the guy in the stripey top in the centre of the photo, they ordered three serves of gyoza.  Not a serve of gyoza three times because it was that good, but in one go- three serves.

I shit you not.

I may have dined with a white man, but he certainly does not eat like one.

If I shopped in a supermarket, you bet I’d judge you for the contents of your shopping trolley.

What I do have to say is that the decor is a far cry from the Beehive (yes, I remember it).  Of course, what memory I do have of the Beehive has to do with drunken friends, pot-smoking siblings (not mine) and the service station across the street being my friend’s place of employment and a thieving of a work-shirt that used to belong to a man named Phil.  My friend Alex stole the shirt, but we still call him Phil because of it…seven years later.

What is it then?  Well; open, white, modern…all those things that seem to go with the catch-phrase, “Modern Japanese Cuisine,” but I’ll get back to that later.

Now that I have stopped judging people on what they have eaten, I’ll show you mine.

Ahead of time, I’ll apologise for not knowing prices.  My sister put in the order for me and the dishes just came out.  I’ll tell you the grand total later and you can all be surprised and go oooooooooh!

Green tea soba noodles, which everyone gets before their meal.  Small, light, savoury without being too salty.

Bring it on!

Part of this “Modern Japanese Cusine,” was born out of being a Japanese restaurant open in the burbs (yes, it is the burbs), 15 years ago.  Back then, people were still questioning raw fish, let alone everything else.  So, after looking at the menu and realising this is listed as “Anti-pasto,” itemising as, “Japanese style hors d’oeuvre,” they seem a bit confused.  I think back then, they had to accommodate a more Western palate, as people were only just starting to appreciate Japanese cuisine, but they haven’t shaken the descriptions or some of the dishes.  Traditional Japanese is what they do best here as you will see.

From the top and clockwise, we have grilled chicken, spicy cooked tuna, freshly shucked oysters in a ponzu dressing, quails eggs encased in a seafood paste and deep fried (think, Japanese Scotch egg), grilled scallop with Ocha’s version of a Hollandaise (which tastes more like kewpie mayo) and tobbiko, octopus, seared kingfish, and in the middle, grilled quail.

And, grissini sticks with what I believe had seaweed and cheese.

A pretty fucking impressive start to the meal.  Everything was obviously fresh, the flavours were strong, but didn’t clash with one another and all the textures of each element on the dish were carefully considered.

Now, this looks pretty unimpressive, doesn’t it?

Well, I have to say it is the best fucking chawanmushi I have ever had in my life.  Apparently they just got their combi oven put in, so Paula Lawdorn was playing with it all day, adjusting the temperatures until he got it right.  The texture of it was perfect.  Usually, chawanmushi is one of those things that I could take or leave, but I would travel back to Hawthorn just for this dish.

I am going to be racist again and tell you that this was a special on the board.  Apparently when it is served to a table of “white people”, they will more likely than not proclaim it as “weird” and all share one bowl, whereas you’re meant to have the whole bowl to yourself. They just can’t afford to have it permanently on the menu, which I think is sad.  Also, the staff are trained to serve it to you, calling it a “savoury, steamed Japanese custard,” in case people get confused with the traditional name.

Nevertheless, you can see lemon, sharks fin (I know, I know), and in the custard, prawns, dried scallop, fish, eel and chicken.

My friend and I took turns scooping in the perfectly set egg mixture and bringing out small sweet bites of seafood, flavoured by the dashi on top.

This has got to be the best (Shoya and Tempura Hajime come a close second and third) sushi and sashimi combo I have had.  Everything was so fresh, sweet, melt in the mouth and I’m pretty sure all the fish had sex in there while I was chewing.  Yasu is an amazing sushi chef, and whenever he has new chefs, orders a set of knives forged from the tears of volcanoes to be sent to Australia which are worth a couple of grand.

From the top left, going clockwise, down and across: arc shell nigiri (which is what I thought it was as the waitress couldn’t tell us), octopus nigiri, tuna nigiri, grilled salmon belly nigiri, salmon and apple mayonnaise nigiri, kingfish belly nigiri, eel nigiri, kingfish, tuna on shiso, a fish our waitress couldn’t tell us and I’m not that good to be able to tell, snapper and salmon.

And yes, that is real wasabi.

This was the bomb!  My favourites were the abalone nigiri and the sashimi.  I had never had snapper sashimi, but I was so surprised.  I have been dreaming about the sushi and sashimi since I went and I am trying to convince someone to go there with me, otherwise I’m sitting at the bar and having this for dinner all by myself.

Yes, I know…another dish I would travel to Hawthorn for.

This is when we were going to give up eating, but the waitress came back and said, “Cindy said you can’t stop now, you have to eat the next dishes…you HAVE TO!”

Yep, sounds like my sister.

And how can we deny her?

Unfortunately, the most disappointing dish of the night.  Tempura with nori salt, the things inside the tempura batter were perfectly cooked, but unfortunately their oil wasn’t hot enough and some of the items were soggy and greasy.  Those black things are wood-ear fungus with fish paste, which were my favourites on the plate, along with prawns, broccoli, zucchini, carrot and corn.

And another special, which was the spicy flathead with chili. One of those dishes which I think was there for the sake of being “Modern Japanese cuisine,” as the fish was well seasoned and cooked perfectly and those crispy things are actually shredded won ton wrappers sitting on lettuce with lemon, hiding a ponzu sauce.  I am guessing they just put the ponzu on the bottom because they didn’t want the fish to get soggy, but we didn’t get to it till we made a bit of a dint in the dish and the dressing is what made all the flavours come together and gave it a sense of cohesion.  Maybe they should have served the ponzu on the side or poured it on upon serving, who knows?  There was also a strong potatoey element to the dish and when I asked my sister if the cripsy things were won ton skins or finely shaved potato which they fried, she said, “No, they’re won ton skins, it’s just that we coat everything in potato flour when we fry it unless it is tempura.”

Ah, thank god, I’m not going crazy, just crazy-full.

So, how much was all of this, you ask?

Well, along with the bottle of wine we ordered, $140.

And there was no discount.

And that is in total, not each.

You travel for twenty minutes on a tram and all of a sudden you’re paying half the price for fucking impressive Japanese.  Also, the staff here are so relaxed that when one of the staff were unable to pull a beer(or maybe it is first-beer syndrome), my sister invited me behind the bar to pour the staff drinks.

Yep, the one valuable lesson I learned from the Lincoln (more specifically, Jon) is how to pull a beer.  Well, many beers, as all beers are different.

There’s a beautiful art to it and I will never forget it.  There is something satisfying about filling a glass with cold beer, with the perfect amount of head and handing it to someone who will piss on the footpath a couple of hours later.

So, without the whole, “THAT IS CINDY’S SISTER,” business, new staff who are obviously getting used to the menu but can do their job properly, and watching orange people with face-lifts and chinos ordering three serves of gyoza, Ocha is incredibly good value and yes, I would travel to the burbs again for it.  Soon.

I may have to call ahead to see if they’re doing chawanmushi, but I may just have to suck it and see.  I have also heard about Yasu’s famous lobster sashimi, where he kills a live lobster and serves it to you…definitely an order for my next trip with a much better camera.

Any takers?

Ocha

3 Church St,
Hawthorn, 3122

(03) 9853 6002

When I was in Mong Kok, I also managed to eat this hawker favourite, the gai dan zai.  Not to be mispronounced as “tiny egg,” it’s a waffle in the shape of little balls stuck together, and I was lucky enough to go to the best stall selling them in HK.

The stall is on the main street and only sells waffles.  And, believe it or not, there are peak-hour times when there are lines going all the way down the street just for them.

Usually, if you see a hawker stall selling curry fish balls, dim sims, fried stinky tofu, calamari and what not, they’ll have one of these waffle machines going as well where the batter is poured in, the top of the machine is put on and it is rotated over a flame.

There were three ladies crammed into this hole in the wall, much like Switchboard in the Manchester building on Collins St, cranking out about fifteen waffles every three minutes.

We got there a little less than an hour before they were closing so we only needed to wait five minutes for our waffles.

They’re mouth-shatteringly crunchy on the outside, much like the sweet egg-rolls you buy in tins, but with a thinner pastry.  You eat the waffle by snapping off a ball at a time and biting into its hot, airy and coconut scented pillow.  They are so light, I felt a little sadness while sharing this with my sister.

We should have gotten two.

The reason why this stall is so good is not only do they make good egg puff waffles, they’re consistent and non-greasy.  And if you stand around long enough, you’ll see that the walls of this place are not littered with reviews, but instead, photos of all the famous movie stars and food reviewers that have visited, posing with the owners and eating gai dan zai.

No shit, it’s like a sticker photo booth with pastry.

We also bought a white-man waffle to compare:

They cook them with a different batter, so they’re quite American, denser, chewier and without coconut milk.

What they do though, is serve it with peanut butter and condensed milk in the middle.  So Cantonese.

When I was younger, my dad would make me peanut butter and condensed milk toast or peanut butter and sugar sandwiches on Wonderwhite.  Thinking back on it now, the condensed milk would be on the toast as the toast itself would provide the crunch, as does the waffle in this instance.  In my cold, floppy sandwiches, it was the white sugar.

I am surprised I don’t have diabetes.

My sister had the bigger stomach and finished off this one herself.

I only needed one bite to realise that I preferred the gai dan zai in the world of waffle.

Now, how would I go about setting up a stall like that in Melbourne?

We all had a laugh at Ross’ misfortune in the Epicure when they published his name incorrectly, not because we don’t love him, but because it just confirmed to us that the nicest guys always get short changed.

A few head shakes, 5 weeks of working eleven shifts a week, back-to-back and Ross finally gets himself a new sous chef, an apprentice and a day off.

So, what better way to celebrate than decide on a local boozy lunch for the both of us to finally catch up when I am not drunk and distraught, stumbling into the kitchen during dinner service on a Ming-City-Friday? (For those of you who have not previously read about my Ming-City-Fridays, it is when The Lincoln gets over-run by cashed-up-bogans, union workers and uni students and order only chips and gravy in the front bar, rearrange tables in the bistro and “Oi,” me because they’re fat, lonely and hideous, thus preventing any of us from working the dining room properly.  Since the restoration of the hotel, that problem has now been solved, but you know, the name still stands.)

I had been nursing my head because of unexpected Saturday night debauchery, regret and slippage (not of being, but of mind) and Ross was doing the same due to his stumbling into the Royal Derby.

I pointed out that his hangover may have been more severe because they don’t clean their lines, ever.

Before we even had a chance to sit down, we ordered Bloody Marys.  They’re the amazing drink, the forgotten drink, the solid drink, the restorative drink.

Unfortunately, because they’re mostly the forgotten drink, they’re also the poorly made drink.  This one was definitely lacking horseradish and worcestershire sauce.
In case any of you are wondering, my two favourite places for Bloody Marys are the Lygon Yacht Club and the mark 1 version from Sweatshop when they first opened, where they made it with a tomato consomme and a nam jim.  Alas, they are no longer (because back then, I and three other people were the only ones ordering them), so my heart lies in a yacht.

We were also joined by my very fresh-faced kickboxing friend who basically lives at the dojo.  She trains as much as Ross cooks and is equally as brash as me when it comes to detail and description.  She’s also my size but due to the amount of energy she burns, she keeps herself in shape by being a professional eater.  And as I use my Asian-ness as an excuse for everything, she uses the Ethnic excuse.  We work well together.

For example, she eats bread.

With butter slathered on as thick as the bread.

Even Ross and I don’t have the courage to do that.  Respect.

Though…we do get drunk enough to admit wanting to dip bread into rendered pig’s fat.

You know, cos we’re classy.

If you’ve ever lived in Melbourne, I guess you will know this a chacuterie platter, which I assume changes according to what they decide to put on it.  Here is a chicken liver parfait (starting on the top left and going clockwise), chicken, pork and chestnut terrine, prosciutto, wagu bresaola, rillets (not told what type, but from the taste, we assumed rabbit), pickled beetroot, pickled cucumbers, pickled salad onions and a chutney.

It was damn tasty and a lot more meat than you expect.  The pastry around the terrine was amazingly short and full of lard, but of course, being me, I loved the pickles the most.  After all, I am a big believer in all food being a vehicle for condiments and the pickles were great accompaniments with lots of sweetness, tartness and crunch to cut through all that fat.

Hmm, fat.

My kickboxing friend who had never had rillets before asked me what they were.  My response was, “meat and butter.”

She nommed them with gusto and replied with, “Jesus, Jess, why didn’t you tell me earlier.  What genius.”

She was disappointed to find out from Ross and I that they have actually been around for a ridonkulously long time and her Ethnicity was now a hinerance.  Of course, she played the “Asian,” card on me and Ross, being oh-so white pointed out our outrageous racism.

We call it love.  And, the ability to make people uncomfortable with inappropriate humour.

Love.

You know what I also love?

Fine dining food challenges.

This is the poussin.  500g of meat.

Protein.

A potential brick-shit for our kickboxing-karate-enthusiast.

These are the sides that come with the dish.

It is designed to be shared between two people.

My friend ate it all to herself.

After the chacuterie.

And was still comfortable.

And said she was going to have dinner.

Possible a whole pizza.

With lamb.

Cos you know, she’s Ethnic. (Persian, if you’re wondering.)

And of course, Ross and I both order the same thing.

The pork jowl, which I preferred calling “the pig’s face.”

It may have been the hangover (which we both recovered from after getting half way into this), but we loved this.

The menu failed to mention the addition of the poached egg, but that was a bonus for us.  To have a ridiculous cube of a pig’s face melt on your tongue with the richness of the house-made black pudding and soft-cooked vegetables, yolk spilling into the jus and the tart/crisp/freshness of the salad, Ross and I had to be silent for a bit.  It ticked all the texture, temperature, pig, offal and ovum boxes for us.

It was hangover food without being boganic.

The kickboxer tied up her meal with three pieces of fudge and Ross and I continued drinking for another hour, as dessert.

There may or may not have been a pub, followed by Eurovision and more drinking afterwards.

St Jude’s Cellars

389-391 Brunswick St,
Fitzroy, 3065

9419 7411