Sokyo is excellicious!

We live in the age of mash-ups: Brangelina, bootylicious, chillaxing. Why say two words or more when you can pop them together and save your breath? That’s ridic.

Sokyo (Sydney + Tokyo) is a shiny new restaurant in Sydney’s shiny new The Star and an excellent case for mash-ups. Brainchild of former Nobu chef Chase Kojima (let’s call him Chojima) it combines artful Japanese cuisine with choice local produce, nestled cosily in the bosom of Sydney’s verging-on-wanky food scene.

We sat at the bar on an eerily quiet Wednesday night and, perhaps due to said quiet, were the focus of multiple super-attentive staff with asymmetrical collars and hair do’s to match. Though we were in a prime spot to watch the chef’s prepare each course, at times it felt more like we were the focus of attention, with all of those asymmetrical eyes on us…

Stage-fright aside, the food was excellent and delicious. Highlights included:

Kurobuta Black Pork Sashimi – rich and fatty, finely sliced pork belly on a slick of salty sweet caramel sauce; Moreton Bay Bug Tempura – delicate bug meat in the lightest, crispiest tempura ever, with a tangy buttermilk dipping sauce; Grainfed Rangers Valley Sirloin – stupidly wonderful Aussie beef; Spicy Tuna Crispy Rice – mind-blowing deep fried nigiri topped with blush pink tuna and spicy mayo.

The truly Sokyo moment was reserved for a new addition to the menu, Palmer Island Mulloway – the freshest, pan fried fish on a cauliflower puree – very Sydney so far – with a simple edamame salad dressed in a typically Japanese vinaigrette. Totes Sokyo.

Lowlights included: the robata. Both the chicken with it’s, um, interesting, pineapple and ginger sauce and Octopus that our befuddled waiter described as being glazed with, “Peruvian… like, whatever”, were underwhelming. And we never saw that waiter again.

Also, the tunes. Dudes, the tunes. I wouldn’t call myself anti-Cafe Del Mar, but I’m pretty happy for it to remain the soundtrack to my memories of yoga classes held in the early 2000′s. Who am I kidding? I do call myself anti-Cafe Del Mar. I think I have a tee shirt that says “I AM ANTI-CAFE DEL MAR”.

Amongst all the action that The Star has to offer, Sokyo is excellicious. However, where Momofuku is the slightly dangerous hot guy who listens to cool music, Sokyo is the nerdy, conscientious guy who listens to ‘whatever’s on the radio’ and tells you that you’re cute. For better or worse, I know which one I always choose.

Grain Fed Rangers Valley Sirloin

Spicy Tuna Crispy Rice

Quaking in eight tiny boots

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Score: The Collins Kids, “Hurricane”

Cakes for a hen

My dear friend is getting married on Saturday and I am, well, honoured, to be her Maid of Honour. If you’re ever lucky enough to be a MOH, you’ll hear a lot of chit-chat about the fabled “Bridezilla”. But dudes, let me tell you something for free, my bride is nothing less than Bridetastic. 

Last Saturday, one week before the big day, I threw her a Kitchen Tea and Hens Party. An excuse to both shower her with love, gifts, cocktails and cock-straws, as well as bake my brains out.

Thus, sans brains, I give you David Herbert’s delicious honey cake and ‘holy heck that’s peachy’ peach upside down cake. 

So here’s to you, you-know-who-you-are; a dazzling friend, beautiful bride-to-be, and most excellent almost-wife. Huzzah!

Recipes appear in “David Herbert’s Best-Ever Baking Recipes” – BEST EVER!

There are no words. There were NO WORDS.

I met David Sedaris and he signed my copy of his book with a drawing of a candy cane!

He wore a pink shirt and was eating dumplings and noodles with prawns, Chinese food. I didn’t see the sign I was standing next to that read, ‘no photography’, and was chastised for attempting to take a grainy phone-photo of his back.

Finally at the front of the line, my one chance to beguile him with witty banter and become instant best friends, I froze. Mute as a tomb.

Getting is fun but giving is better. Most of the time.

Here are four facts about my colleague, Philsy:

1. He is excellent at his job and makes one feel excellent at one’s own – even when one is not… *ahem*

2. He knows all about knots

3. He enjoys the humour of David Sedaris*

4. Every Christmas he makes a magnificent Christmas pudding for each lucky-duck he works with. Philsy’s pud’ is Christmas; it tastes like snow, tinsel, Bing Crosby and love.

Last Christmas I wanted to give Philsy something as magically Christmassy in return, wanted to toil in my kitchen as he does in his. So toil I did. Expecting a dazzling production line of red gingham-topped beauties, hours of work saw me emerge messy, harried and triumphant with just two precious jars of pickle. One for Philsy and one for me.

Merry Christmas Philsy, this year I’m thinking… Pfeffernüsse!

*This fact in itself warrants my abiding respect

Moses Supposes

Moses picks me up from the airport; it is Friday, he is 65 years old and drives a taxi two days a week. He shows me photos of “my Christina” on his iPhone. The first black and white photo he took of her in 1964, “the most beautiful girl I had seen. I thought, man, you don’t have a chance”, and a photo of the two of them on his 50th birthday, when she was being treated for breast cancer. “She was still so beautiful, but she was sick then”. I tell him that she is beautiful, that she has beautiful eyes. He replies, “she was beautiful darling, she was. I lost her 12 years ago”.

“I used to come home from work to noise; the kids yelling, my Christina yelling at the kids, all of the lights on in the house. Now I come home to nothing. My boys are grown up and married, my Christina is gone. I turn the television on in one room, the hi-fi on in the other room and I get lost in front of the computer. I read The Independent in London, the New York Times and I read the Sydney Morning Herald. But that’s how it is. I promised her I wouldn’t ever marry anyone else and I haven’t. Twelve years later and I haven’t married. I won’t.”

Moses delights in showing me photos of his grandchildren, three boys and a girl. “I am the best grandfather!” He is still palpably heartbroken, but tells me, “that’s how life is. It can change in a single day. So one day you can be sad and the next day you can be happy again.”

Sometimes I make stuff

With the right motivation I’ve made stuff I didn’t think I could. This embroidery, and the shirt it adorned, were made with love, for my love. No better motivation than that.

Having said that, if you offered me the world’s best potato chip I’d give anything a shot.

Momofuku Motherf****r

In his typically eloquent way, Terry Durack (TD) has already described the intricacies of the food at Momofuku Seiobo:

http://www.smh.com.au/entertainment/restaurants-and-bars/momofuku-seiobo-20111105-1n0no.html

For those who didn’t click through (time-poor or Philistine?), allow me to paraphrase in my own typically ordinary way – it’s really, really, REALLY yummy. So yummy that TD wrote a follow-up, holla!

http://www.smh.com.au/entertainment/blogs/table-talk/why-momofuku-seiobo-will-change-sydney-dining-20111107-1n3uz.html

Though I’m a little hazy on the details, like TD I took a couple of notes during the fifteen courses. None as masterful as ‘it’s like eating a baby’, just a few honest reactions to an epic food experience.

‘That smoked eel slid into my tummy and smiled’

‘I’m gonna marry this handsome hand-torn pasta and have delicious babies called Liquid Goat’s Cheese and Pickled Cherry Tomatoes’

‘That olive oil is so springy, like I got punched in the face by an olive grove’

‘What’s this sauce? I don’t know but I want it on me’

‘Okay, I’m eating a neck’

‘Oh, hey, there are no fat chefs here’

‘It’s not that excessive – I eat a whole sachet of brown rice every night with shit all over it’

‘ACDC. Dessert. BOOM’

‘Miso ice-cream? Shut the front door. You’re about to poo your pants’

For those who love David Chang’s taste in music as much as his tasty food, I managed to jot down a few tunes between mouthfuls and moans of pleasure.

‘She’s So Fine’ – The Easybeats

‘Pretty Vacant‘ – Sex Pistols

‘Jackson’ – Johnny Cash and June Carter Cash

‘Fight the Power’ – Public Enemy

‘She Don’t Use Jelly’ – The Flaming Lips

‘TNT’ – ACDC

‘Maps‘ – yeah yeah yeahs

‘I’ve Been Loving You Too Long’ – Otis Redding

My pal TD struggled to squeeze his review into 750 words, I have managed in less than 300 so far. I think you understand what I’m getting at, no need to embarrass anyone. Our opinions may be split over the loud music but, as always, I’m with TD in the end. ‘Momofuku Seiobo will change Sydney. It has already changed Sydney. And eating there will change your expectations of Sydney dining.’ Not exactly how I would have put it, but well said.

Tiny, sparkly and spectacular!

This week I finally got the chance to worship at the altar of my hero, Dolly Parton. Twice.

With the sound of Smoky Mountains crickets pulsing through the arena, the blue and yellow striped curtains parted and I broke into my uncontrollable ugly cry.

It was a joyful experience.

I’m going to Graceland, Graceland, in Memphis Tennessee – but not because you are, Paul Simon

Try Googling “Elvis Presley Peace in the Valley” and by the time you get to “Elvis Presley pea” the suggested search is “Elvis Presley Peanut Butter”.

Such is the legacy of the world’s most iconic singer. Some people remember white jumpsuits, or sweaty performances and fatty snacks. Not me. This is the Elvis I remember:

He had the devil in his hips, a head full of hair (and pomade), a boss outfit and that voice: rich, straight from the gut and inappropriately sexy for its time.

Our trip found us staying at the Days Inn, Memphis, Tennessee. It had (probably still does) a guitar-shaped swimming pool, 24 hour Elvis TV and a marquee sign quoting John Lennon: “Before Elvis There Was Nothing”. A ridiculously short walk away a village of Elvis attractions is built in the shadow of 3764 Elvis Presley Boulevard, including his car collection, plane collection, epic gift shops (plural!) and a cheesy 50s diner. It’s extensive, exciting and exhausting.

Souvenir tickets in hand and jiggling with anticipation we wait to be bussed from HQ to the house, cameras at the ready and grinning with recognition at our fellow fans and bus buddies. Through the music-note gates, up the drive through lovingly kept grounds, we pull up in front of the famed white colonnades. It feels smaller than I had anticipated; a grand home, but I’ve seen houses in Western Sydney to rival it.

Our King-weary bus driver gives us the drill: no flash photography and Graceland is a one-way tour; take as long as you like to look, but keep moving forward. Luckily I discover that time seems to stand still, in 1977, once you’re inside.

With headphones on and audio tour droning we wander through, careful not to miss a thing. The formal lounge bears the hallmarks of wealth: it’s plush and white and home to a grand piano, peacock motif stained-glass windows and a setting that feels unexpectedly current. We wind on; past the main staircase and the velvet rope that keeps us from his bedroom and the secrets of the second floor, past his parents guest room, through the dining room, the 70s yellow-wood kitchen and into the famed “Jungle Room”. It’s green carpets, stonewall water feature and carved wooden furniture are a tiki-tastic display. One of Lisa-Marie Presley’s stuffed animals sits perched in a chair, where it has sat for thirty years and will most likely sit for thirty more.

We take our time in the canary yellow, mirrored basement media room – complete with a state of the art 70s television wall – pass through the billiard room lined floor to ceiling with endless bolts of patterned fabric. Elvis’ presence is heavy in the air and as I leave the main house I can’t shake the feeling that he left the building (zing!) just a few steps ahead of me. It’s eerie.

Through outbuildings and offices, past stables and down endless halls of gold and platinum records, jumpsuits and memorabilia, the intimacy of his home gives way to his omnipresent superstardom. From the gold Nudie suit and the outfits he and Priscilla were married in, to stuffed toys and statuettes, everything is laid bare behind glass. There is a room filled with floral tributes that still flood in, nearly 35 years after his death. It’s easy to forget he was just a heck of a talented guy who loved his family and his bacon.

With a bowed head and that voice in my ears, the tour ends at Elvis’ grave, in the Meditation Garden.  He’s lying with his mother, father and grandmother  – it’s melancholic and beautiful at once. He’s at home, with his family, just as I imagine he would want it to be. Though I’d long been desperate to visit, I expected Graceland to resemble the latter years of Elvis’ life: gaudy, tired and massive. What I didn’t expect was for this fabled house to feel quite so much like a family home.