Konnichi-Wow! (aka, Cafe Ish, Surry Hills)...

Japanese Story, for those of you who have not had the pleasure, told the potent tale, in the unrelenting ochre of the Australian outback, of the awkward (and then intense relationship) that formed between Sandy, played brilliantly by Toni Collette, and Hiromitsu, played with equal effect by Gotaro Tsunashima. As the plot arcs over you there is an immersion with the desolation of both the landscape and the characters, and the silence between them. In all of this charged emptiness, you hurtle unknowingly, but inevitably, towards an ending as sudden as it is rending of heart. The movie is replete with words not said, with ideas unformed, full of so many unspoken lessons, the most obvious of which is: mix Japanese with the Australian outback, and somebody's probably gonna get hurt, big time, mate...

That's Josh, who, along with lovely partner and co-culinary houdini, Ai, owns the Albion Alimentary Astounder: Cafe Ish, which is where Sydney's more knowing taste buds go to play some tantalising twister. We're all friends, so let's be honest, here: Josh looks like many wondrous things, but the bloke doesn't really have the kind of mug that would lead one to conjecture that he's an alacritous advocate of existentially haunting motion picture, so perhaps he missed out on Japanese Story and never got the warning that Jap + Bush = tragic results, and thank the bloody Flavour Gods for that! Cafe Ish is a love story all of its own. It is Josh and Ai's story, it is JapBogan, and, Bloody Oath, is it delicious. Make no mistake, this is a foodies cafe, it is where cafe owners and fuss pots, people who want good food they can't make, come back, time and tubby time again for a menu that is as unique as it is impeccable. This kitchen is not only rocking out amazing food, it is featuring dishes, ingredients and flavours you won't find any where else but Ish. So, my covetous little CakeKnifeAroos, are you ready for an Intrusion of Fusion That Will Leave No Confusion? Do you want me to show you, to tell you, to tease you with just how sublimely divine a thing it is, To Ish?

Shall we Advance Australia Flair and go, just a little bit... bush? Hai!

Mmm-mmm. Order the bunya pancakes, and you might think you're dreamtiming. Jesus Christ. Bunya pancakes with roast apple, muntahries, caramel sauce and vanilla bean ice cream, to be precise, are an Ayers Rock of Ravishing delight. This is a kaleidoscopic extravaganza of toffeed torture. Sticky, luscious, rich, gooey, glistening, dripping thick-sink-cut-lick-moan. Madness. These are the most perfect pancakes I have ever laid lips on. I started to levitate above my chair just eyeing them breathlessly off. The gluten free bunya flour comes from a tree that is more Australian than getting drunk at the cricket. It is a lovely, moist flour that makes the actual pancakes themselves dense, luscious and agonizingly textured. These are not dry, desultory pancakes hiding beneath or relying on an over sugared topping to distract you, these are the real, golden, rich, chewy, moist, spongy, buttery pan fried deal. The pancake is sublime, it absorbs stickiness, moisture and flavour and releases it so readily with the slightest bite.

The roast apples are toffeed treasures, not at all candy sweet, but beautifully old school, drunk and rich with a golden subtle-sweet-treat flavour and the perfect balance between gently poached yieldingness, and just enough restraint and form that you still need to bite into them. Nullifying. The muntahries are bush berries that Josh says taste just like soft, roast apple to bite into, and by george, they do! And all of this absolutely drowning in a delicate, thickened haze of incandescent caramel and finished off with a shimmering halo of organic CreamDream Lobotomy-via-Mouth Gundowring pure vanilla bean ice cream. Channel a Zen monk and try to exhibit some restraint for a few moments, and let the ice cream, Be. It's not against the interests of crazed gluttony that I beseech of you to do this, but rather in them. You see, if you leave that ambrosial little ball of bacchian bliss for just the littlest of earthly whiles, all crammed and cosy in there, snug in the fine company of some podgy appled friends, and atop the bunya-pancakey warmth, something will happen. It will be gradual at first, but then, it will be relentless...

Oh, C+K'ers, there will be melting! There will be maddening melting, vanilla bean infused angels-may-weep melting. The ice cream will loosen, it will liquify in the warmth, from the fibers of its luscious being and seep succulently out, all in mesmerizing motion, dreamily onto and through, deep, deep inside, all the way into the bunya pancakey heart. It will mix and swirl and sway in coils of curious, caramelled abandon... and when you pick up a trembling fork, and bring it to a mouth that knowns nothing but desire: oh, you will fall. There will be no stopping and you will fall. Like Carthage, you will fall! Jesus Christ. PancakesIsh. So, so, so Great. Mouth-To Heart-To-Butter-A-Flutter.

From pancake dyspepsia, to boab root fritters, as you do, mate. Boab is a tree that grows only in the Kimberley, and Josh imports the root when he can (it's up for grabs for 3 months of the year, which means Josh doesn't get to root as often as he'd like, but then again, who does). But all year round Josh has it pickled or in jams, it's delicious, it traverses the divide between sweet and savory, effortlessly. Boab is reminiscent of the sharp and delectable daikon root, and therefore translates very easily into Japanese methods of cooking. However, my favourite Japanesque menu special occurs when a Barramundi fillet finds itself, suddenly and deliciously, trapped inside a steaming, fluffy omelette...

Bloody Hell. Tats warned me this was a mouth bomb, and indeed, it goes down as the most original and delicious savory brekkie I have ever had. A tender fillet of barramundi, rich and light and not at all dried out from overcooking, is encapsulated within a perfect cocoon of gentle, eggy omelette. Avocado salsa, chilli, soy and ginger all bang it out, and, along with a hemisphere of livid lime to squirt and cut the richness, you have got yourself a fabulous fished egg salt-burn-sting song.

This is divine, so perfectly poised between richness and saltiness. The gentle flavour of the fresh barramundi leaks beautifully into the omelette wrapping. The thick and potent chilli gives it a zing that mixes without haste into the sharp soy and tangy ginger, a familiar Asian line up, happening all over an entirely original dish. Not always on the menu, this is a special, if you (tragically) miss out when you happen to Ish, the standard Kara age crab version is always available. Why would you sunny side up, when you can have yourself a flame flickered roll of egg wrapped Barra with soy and ginger and lime. This one just eats itself. If This Ish is more fish than you wish, why not omelette with spinach/WildThymeMushrooms and tomato relish? There's also fine omeletting to be had with soboro pork minced pumpkin, spinach + rice and deep, deep mayo. Holy Cow, hens would never believe they're doing this with eggs!

When it comes to salt, you have to choose between four, so there was no way the menu was going to be meagre. There's a Toast-Ish section, with little muffins and bits of egg and salsa and native jams, there's Sweet-Ish, with a lush breakfast trifle in a native fruit compote and house made muesli, or why not vanilla risotto with ume stewed apricots, prunes, riberries and brown sugared yoghurt? Croc sausages can be had (think of it as Aussie Outback Revenge), as well as house made, free range pork hock, braised steak, free range eggs and even the beautiful Bennedict Ish with crisp soft shell crab. SandwIsh? Chicken with green tea and aniseed myrtle? Gyu Don? Saus Ish Sizzle? Katsu Sando? Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.

Amazing bonsoyed coffee? Rich and smooth and deep, every cup as faultless as the last, all under Ai's methodic precision. And the signature Wattleseed coffee: so luscious and nutty and smooth, it keeps shapeshifting inside your mouth, serpentine coils of flavour and warmth, the balance is so pure that it's only in flickering sips that you can discern a bit of coffee with a bit of nuttiness with the wattleseed singing through. Ai is working on some new signatures, I am sure she will find new ways to make us fall. Muffins, caramel slices that look sharp and wicked and boutique teas and interesting jams and phoenix soft drinks as pure as NZ. And...

home made wagon wheels? Struth. Are you kidding me? Ish is unbelievable, a genuinely exciting menu that teaches you, in case you forgot (and sometimes I really, really do) that food, and breakfast especially, need not be the same old standard round up. Impeccable food, clean, beautifully sourced ingredients, thoughtfully and winningly put together. They wanted to do something different, and they have, and it's worked! Spunk and verve. I love this place. In case you were still in doubt, they also have the cutest pepper grinder in Sydney...

Food aside, you should come in and get to know Josh and Ai. Josh is exactly my kind of foodie, if you're polite and ask for permission to snap, he'll give you all the time and enthusiasm in the world. Blonde and cute and eager and chatty. He brought out jams and pickles to try, crushed up lemon myrtle leaf for us to smell, told us about his mum and his childhood, told us about when he met Ai. A cheeky, stout, smiling and generous spirit, who likes to make believe at being surly. Josh loves food, and you can tell, he and Ai are as delicious as their pancakes, and I am very much looking forward to our dinner plans Sunday week, where I am apparently going to get a lesson or two in the wicked ways of some wanton Sa-ke. Big thanks for all the chit chat, laughs and over the counter slagging. I have bought my boyfriend and my friends, and they all walked away with happy, heaving, glowing bellies. Friendly, fast and fabulous. A Breakfast Niche Market, all on Ish own.

Cafe Ish happens @ Shop 2, 102 Albion Street, Surry Hills. Ph: 9281 1688.

It's origami for the mouth, and it's a fucking beaut.

Ish On!

Pasta La Vista, Baby, (aka A Tavola, Darlinghurst)...

Some people enjoy the untold benefits of having the ability to think - before - they speak. Yes, some people, it seems, are gifted with that automatic delay of 2 or 3 sustaining seconds during which they can balance, in the interests of both propriety and good sense, what they do say, with what they ought to say. It's what holds civilization together, after all. I, however, belong to that class, far more hapless and forsaken of god, who were born, sans trapdoor to the mouth. Being a girl and being Lebanese (and being a Bechara), the odds were always stacked against me. It's Sad But True, I have spoken without thinking too many times and have caused more inadvertent offence than a flatulent puppy. Even my foot spends more time in my mouth than it does in my havianas. Many are the days I have wished I was born with no mouth, many are the days I have cursed this provocative pie hole of pitiable existence... but one night at A Tavola, Darlinghurst was all it took to teach me, irrevocably and for all time, The Reason That I Have A Mouth. Try and stay with me, i'm not going to lie, at times it might hurt, the pictures themselves tell a tale so delicious you might just have to faint from the decadent, Italian desire of it all. Casanova wasn't a man, he was a dish...

CakeKnifealians, we shan't rush into the food. No, not yet, not until I have set the very seductive scene. First, I am going to dim the lights, then I am going to trick a candle into a quick-flick-matched spark. In the shadows that ensue, I am going to ask you to close your eyes and to magically adorn yourself in silken, billowing black. Strap-sash-sway black. In towering heels and in the finest of stockings. Black trousers, handshakes and jackets, bespoke. Cuff links, rings, powdered noses and sleek hair. We are scrubbing it up, Nice. A Tavola is a tad bit Jekyll and Hyde. The crammed and lively downstairs has a crowded, communal table in sunken marble upon which the din and chatter of many jovial meals has taken place. It's loud and alive, and it's definitely kicking. But upstairs, in sunken lights which hauntingly arc across cream coloured walls, a much more thoughtful, private and dramatically heightened space invites you into the kind of timeless room, and into the kind of lingering mood, where even the clocks forget to keep ticking.

Angular silver upon layered linen. Polished glasses which trap, reflect and confuse the shadow laden whispers of a gentle, honeyed light. Heavy plates with suggestive curves. A chair in friction against a wooden floorboard, the unfolding of an elegent serviette, the flicker of a forgotten candle: these are tangible OnceUponATimes, they are the waving of the wand, the casting of a spell. They are decadent, sumptuous and expensive, Prelude. The breath, it seems, has no choice but to bait.

A sharp and discerning waiter, in a style that almost belongs to another time, narrates to us a fairy tale of special dishes. Even being a foodie, this bit of formal dining always makes me impatient and leaves me feeling a tad wanky, not tonight, though. In an informed and knowing meter we all listen pleased and patiently, captivated by the descriptions of how the beetroot is cooked and how the pasta is torn. It's like a Shakespearean Act One, beautiful, special, elegant and with not even a trace of pretension. Between his service and the lighting I already begin to fall into some kind of ethereal foodie lull, I know a memorable meal is coming.

An ebullient, generous red, large and warm and spicy, dulls the head in a way that heightens the palate. Sipping slowly the sonorous smoothness, I feel myself starting to sink back into the chair and to feel my blood doing wheelies upon my flushing cheeks. Tats explains how the menu, like a Herclitan river (my hot aired analogy, not his), is never the same and always changing. Simple, stunning, commanding Italian. I generally don't go mad over Italian food, but then, what would be the fun and fancy of a world without surprises. Oh, love at first bite.

Breathe in, hold onto the side of your chair, let the pulse quicken and everything else become slower. I am going to struggle with remembering the exact ingredients, but the flavours are faithfully burned into my brain forever. In my intense enjoyment of all that is to follow, I almost forgot that I would have to be writing about it later. I was so overcome and absorbed by the experience that I am sure some of these descriptions will sound like fluttering journal entries from an intense encounter. It's amorous stuff, I make no apologies. A Tavola means 'to the table', but with food like this, did they ever think they were going to be able to hold us back?

A group decision to share three entrees was one of the best life choices I was ever a part of. This celestial constellation of earthly flavour had me tasting stars. A salted, tender fried salame, in thin, aching strips, sways ever so gently in the creamy embrace of some of the most profoundly stultifying parmesan I have ever melted into. With little, lively flickers of bitter rocket, it is a perfectly balanced mess of taste and feel and colour. So simple and so stunning, richness broken up with the lightness and sharpness of the rocket and the saltiness of the salame. Easily one of the most memorable entrees of my life. Being a group of 5, we each only got a few lingering mouthfuls, it was the perfect amount. Being able to take only 2 or 3 bites really makes you fall into the flavour that much more, it was so delicious I died and came back to life (not really).

You've had the standard prosciutto with green leaf and tender cheese before, but you haven't had it here. Not only were all of the ingredients in this dish of a quality I haven't experienced before in Italian food (and i've been to a 2 michelin star restaurant in Venice), the proportions were so perfect that they actually made me understand this classic combination in a new way. You can't have too much of anything, there needs to be just the barest breath of an amount of prosciutto to little globs of achingly sweet, creamy cheese to green, bitter leaf and cherry tomato burst. You actually taste the meat more when there isn't too much of it, the cheese, too. This was delightful, the cherry tomatoes were honestly the sweetest I have ever had, biting into them was like having the sun rise in your mouth. You'd take a bite and pause, think about it, really let it roll around your tongue, then you'd tuck into another. Such slow, thoughtful and delirious eating, tempered by Blush-Warm sips of dizzying red. Surrendering.

Tender beetroot, roasted for longer than I have been alive, reunites with an old lover in the form of some phenomenally sharp goats cheese, so dreamy and rich and deep. Little spatterings of intense parsley lend a bit of tantalizing tangent to a combination that is quite classic. Beautiful, soft, clean and rich. And this is just the beginning!

I am going to do something dangerous. I am going to show you a close up of a meal that changed my life, given that the menu is a shapeshifter, if you dine at A Tavola seeking it out, find it unavailable and have no choice other than to kill yourself, I am sorry, but I fully support you in your decision and will explain everything to your grief stricken loved ones. This photo isn't just a picture of one of the most perfect meals I have ever experienced, it is also a photographic document which records the moment, at about 7.40 pm on the 22nd of August, 2009, when it finally happened. I never thought it would, I mean, it's been 29 years. But ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Amanda Bechara, after years of ignorance, finally Got Pasta.

Pappardelle with slow cooked veal, light of my life, fire of my loins. Pappardelle, my sin, my soul. Papp-ar-del-le: the tip of my tongue taking a trip of (four) steps down the palate, to tap, at three, on the teeth. Papp-ar-del-le. This dish is epic, loving, lustful. It is big and sure, rich and abundant. It is like eating all of the sweetest words that Nabokov ever wrote. It's TonguePicasso. It's MouthMozart. It is the finest pasta I have ever had. My tastebuds have been conquered and they will never be the same.

DopeyThick, languid and shiny locks of wonderfully textured pappardelle lay tipsy and slow on a bountiful plate beneath some of the richest and most tender veal you will ever come to know. A couple of baptismal spatterings of luscious grated parmesan upon a sinking bed of meaty pasta, and you have got yourself and your mouth something of such vociferous, entwining deliciousness that you may as well put your feet up and die when it's done, how could life, living or love add anything to the experience that is this dish? My god. I won't break out into any poetic profanity, but you know I want to! This is classic, simple and magnificent food. The richness of the veal comes with no heaviness, just tender, gentle strands of drunken meat that almost melt with the cheese into the culinary canvas of some perfect home made pasta This dish should come with the Last Rites. 'Sacrelishious'.

A close second was my 'torn pasta' with beautifully cooked octopus and squid. Normally, I don't enjoy seafood with pasta, the fishiness never seems to marry with the doughiness in a way that I can understand. But this was perfect seafood, subtle and lusciously rubbery against a gentle bed of achingly slippery pasta perfection. It had a gentle sweetness to it which danced around the subtle saltiness of the squid and octopus. So luscious to eat, a buttery and soft texture that was broken up by the freshest seafood. I don't even think they had to catch this octopus or squid, it probably saw the pasta from afar, swam up to it and surrendered its life into a deadly, delicious embrace. If you think it's just the pasta they're doing well, have a lookie here...

A cut of lamb that is so regal it should come on a throne and not a plate. Cooked simply and rarely with lemon on a kingdom of softened potato. Bang-on lamb, sink and bite and melt, cut and cross with a bite of rich potato. It's a wonderful main, gorgeous to cut into with a silver blade. Simple, solid and true. Mary had a little lamb, why shouldn't you?

People pray by candlelight, that their dreams might come true. Perhaps it is something about the sacred space that spills out from waxed incandescence that leads us to believe that our wishes can happen the way we want them to. I said a silent prayer by candlelight. I said it alone and from the deepest part of who and what I am. I whispered it to myself from a hopeful heart: let the dessert be bloody good too:

Haleluljah! We have lift off. Look at that frothy, wispy, dreamy swirl of caramelled meringue. It's a perfect, luscious, sugared tutu that encases a dark, delicious secret: a lovely ice cream heart. This little baby pirouettes across your tongue, into and out of the burnt traces of a perfectly caramelised banana. Shiny, toffeed, frothied, winsome, wistful close-your-eyes-sighs-surprise. It's light and gently sweet and soft and hard and burnt and white. So honeyed and soft, so gloriously different. It's like cloud watching on your tongue.

Or perhaps some orange and almond flourless fancy? Calories Shmalories. This is candied orange mouth bomb. Drunken, sticky, soft/moist cake, drowning in orange stick-trick-lickity-liquor and dolloped with grappaed fig ice cream. Slivers of candied orange that taste like caremlised fossils of psychotic citrus will stick like maddeningly messy fly paper to your taken tongue. This is how we cake, and this is why we ache...

...A last supper of sorts, and a flawless Sydney set up. This is beautiful, Bellucian Italian. Simple and knowing, exquisite and elegant, decadent and resounding. A meal come true. The five of us were all stupefied sighs after it was over. We sat there, silent and glowing in gentle aftermath of what food is all about.

A Tavola is a Sydney must. I've not been this impressed with fine dining in quite a while. A perfect experience of food, wine, space and service, it doesn't miss a beat. There is a fair bit of pricer Italian in Sydney, but none I have tried is executing it so perfectly. A Tavola sets an impressive standard, genuine flavour from impeccable ingredients, these people know their food. Book a big or an intimate table, set aside a few good hours, order a nice drop and let the fates have their wonderful way with you.

A Tavola happens at 348 Victoria St Darlinghurst, ph 9331 7871. Their web page, where you can find a full menu, is here. Nothing to fault, and a night that for all I know, could have been a dream. Wow. You must try this place.

This night was a welcome reminder of how exciting food can be, how much I love restaurants, and how much more you enjoy life when you take some friends, stop, slow down and just let it all unfold.

A Tavola: It's from heaven to the table and it's pasta, la vista, which is why i'll (definitely) be back.

The Real Deal (aka Chai Hot Chocolate)...

It's been a while since Australia Post yielded anything exciting. Just the usual, bills, junk mail, uni results (which sometimes belong in the junk mail category). Alas! When a gorgeous girl sends you a sample of her new Chai Hot Chocolate, months in the most magical making, in a wonderfully 19th Centuryesque thick, precious envelope from Canberra, you're far less likely to return to sender than if the package was from The King himself. It's a little bit of a love letter, this one. Anthea, aka The Chai Girl and I, met last year at a farmers market in Canberra. She came into my life a year ago, and pouring in with her came some of the most wonderfully spiced, creamy cups of sunken, CinnamonWarm pleasure I have ever had. And with a sticky spoon of melted honey, too. Oh, Anthea...

I nicked this photo from her website, and it captures the essence of her charm (to a tea). Smiling, generous, kind and really inspired about her sacred endeavour to rock the Way You Chai. All these people devoting their lives to politics and the environment...[yawn], it's enough to make you sick, it is! But a girl who's devoting her life to amazing tea: Anthea, just speak the word and I will follow you to the ends of the earth. Her original blend of chai, in steaming vats of spicy bon soy laced with whispers of honey, is doled out in fragile paper cups to freezing Canberra market trawlers. They sip, and then they swoon. She pulled the same trick on me last year, wicked girl. I walked up to her stand and asked for a large cup, expecting yet Another Average Chai. I've gotten used to buying cups and trashing them/passing them onto Dan after a disappointed sip or two. However, what followed involved all the usual paraphernalia of ecstasy, time stopping/earth spinning/stars exploding/sinking/swelling/rising etc. You know real love when you taste it, and, my dearest CakeKnifelings, this is the very real, chai deal.

'Chai' is Indian for tea, the spices it is made with are considered very warming and energizing in Ayurvedic medicine. It's a brilliant cup of something warm for when you feel run down, solitary, tender in heart or in flesh, or even when you're feeling wonderful and want to drink your mood. Unfortunately, chai, like platinum blonde, is subject to far more than its fair share of bastardization. People who don't really like tea still drink chai, usually in syrupy or powdered form. Ugh. The spices are so beautiful and marry so well with sweetness and milk that it is quite an easy combination to be taken in by. Very few chais, however, impress actual tea drinkers. Overly sweet, overly spiced, synthetically spiced, dull, coconutted? There are so many ways to do it wrong. If you're happy with skanky chai, I know the Live And Let Live'ers wouldn't try and stop you, but if you only knew how good it could be...If you know good tea, it is very, very hard to find a chai that makes the cup. In fact, recent figures indicate that finding a good man is easier. Anthea's brew is to-die-for-decadent-decidedly-divine fine, spiced, light cinnamon with ClovedGinger in low tannin tea, all handmade, with more love and good vibes than the mid to late 1960's. When she told me she was experimenting with a chocolate version, it was like the moment just before Kurt met Courtney, something big was about to happen...

...and happen it did! The chai hot chocolate is a winner. The night she made it, I bet they saw a star in The East. Anthea finally decided upon putting rich, real chunks of creamy chocolate into her tea mix. It's like ecstasy laced with crack, but more wholesome and tasty, and far less expensive. You brew it gently in hot water for a few minutes and then add some milk to warm and infuse. It is a simply beautiful interpretation of hot chocolate, as it tastes like a tea with a subtle hint of chocolateness, and not like a flavoured hot chocolate. It's Slow Chocolate, Swaying Chocolate, Swimming-Brimming-Grinning Chocolate. Ginger and cinnamon cut through the chocolate sometimes gently, and sometimes with bang, the length of flavour is so unusual and thoughtful. It's ambrosial. WarmingWarmingWarming and so quick and easy to make. I felt really light and dreamy after indulging in a beautiful big cup of this chai chocolate, your cheeks feel so rosy afterward. Dan, too. It has none of that too-sweet taste that goes with most chocolates, and if you prefer it sweeter you can add more honey to the pot.

Making it on a stove top has the added benefit of letting some absolutely lovely aroma waft through the kitchen and into the house. It makes you slow down and breathe it so beautifully in. I made it up with Bon Soy, and the creaminess of it was devout. Hot, sweet, spicy, SilkInMilk. Extravagate (it's a word now) with a few blocks of rich dark chocolate on the side, wash it down with the tea and let a rendition of Romeo + Juliet play out on the Verona of your Tongue. Will was wrong, the course of true love can indeed run smooth, velvety and resoundingly down your throat and into the primal belly of your innermost being. All together now: [sigh].

Good tea is just fucking Great, eh? If you can't get down to Canberra, then you can purchase the tea and the chocolate for yourself here. It's bye bye to bad chai, and with some chocolate chunks to boot. Chocolate should probably infiltrate all things it can, including me and you. mmmm.

...as if I wouldn't! Thanks Anthea, what will you come up with next?

email: thechaigirl@live.com

address: PO Box 3220 Manuka 2603, ACT

phone: 0424894627

Whatever it is, mail me some x

The Nanotechnologist in the Kitchen.

Look, I don't care if you believe me or not, but I loved him way before I ever knew he could cook - and cook he can! Dan loves good food, good real food, simple beauty. He can make otherwise basic things like steaming plates of pasta and fresh piled ham and cheese filled sandwiches seem like amazing moments of earthly existence that you never fully mouth-tenanced before. One of the best things about eating with him is the way he looks up and beams at you after the first mouthful of something truly yummy that he's whipped up. He nods vigorously, looks at you with wide, pleased eyes and manages to positively beam through a full, chewing mouth. I could bet my whole cash management account on the fact that, in those few quiet moments, he is nowhere else in the whole world, his mind is free of everything but tasting and enjoying. He's been Cooking-Good-Lookin his butt off lately, with some phenomenal results. Lying in bed while someone you love makes bowl after bowl of amazing weekend food is great for your tum and awful for your bum. Still, the experience last weekend of being cooked for for three days straight out-Tetsuya'ed Tetsuya for me, honest to goodness. With hands so free, all that was left to do was push the button on the SLR, bring the fork to mouth, and thank my lucky stars...

One of the greatest things about eating with a guy is remembering how to eat like a guy. Carbsternation goes quiveringly and quickly out the nearest window and it's all big serves and soupy mouthfuls and sopping it all up with bread afterwards. Sweet respite! If you pay attention to the things I write, and let's face it, who does? You'll know the man is batty about bolognaise, and he makes a damn mean one. This is a gluten free version he put together, gluten free pasta isn't quite as texture perfect at the real deal, but some concessions to digestion are a bit of a must for me. This dish, Spaghetti Boyonaise, is pure Italian-French-Kiss! Dan slowly browned a couple of onions in some heady olive oil with a little pepper, adding beef mince and a bay leaf to some canned tomatoes, it was all allowed to brown a little before being dutifully doused in some beef stock. On a low, low heat the stock is allowed to reduce over 2 hours, and the final meaty, tomato SpicedSauceBroth does a bit of a mama mia all over your taste buds. It rains CreamySharp parmesan and roughly chopped parsley all over your bowl, and then it simply becomes an offer you can't refuse. So good! Warm and peppery with the deepest, gentlest beef taste. I had an awful time deciding whether this, or the next contestant, was my perfect match...

I am going to christen thee Noah's Ark Soup. I can't convey the taste in pictures, but Jesus, Joseph and Mary!!! This is the best soup I have had in years, I can't think of another one I have enjoyed nearly as much. Why Noah's? Well it's simple, in some warmed olive oil and a tipsy knob or two of organic butter, they came to Dan two by two by two. 2 roughly chopped carrots and 2 parboiled potatoes added to 2 brown onions, lots of pepper and sea salt. The secret? Dan used the remnants of a roast chicken from the night before to make his own stultifying stock. He reduced it over and over again for hours, the chicken bones with half an onion and some vegetabley bits and pieces, and a bay leaf to boot (bay leaves are the Paris Hilton of the seasoning-spice world, you just add them into the mix for good measure even though you've never really quite sure what they do). The stock was unbelievable, it absolutely haunted to luscious DeepFlavourOblivion all of the onion, carrot and potato. The butter sang out in a gentle warm creaminess and the softness of the potato mixed with the slightly more solid carrot made it so gentle and dreamy to sip and bite into. A flash of serial-killer-slashed basil, loads of cracked pepper and some grated parmesan...Holy Shit. Satisfying, warming, light, dancing, SweetDeepRich chicken infused insanity. I'm talking, Push it into your mouth salt n pepa Soup Shoop. What a man, what a man, what a man, what a mighty good man (I try and get all my singing done on this blog, cause no one lets me do it in real life).

That was the little bowl of gluten free lazy mac and cheese with loads of pepper, salt, flaked parmesan and lashings of olive oil and a little organic butter. The texture of this oily, buttered pasta with only the salt and pepper and cheese to distract you is absolute heaven. You have slightly oily lips after eating a dish like this, it's one of my favourite foodie post mortems to sit there and reminisce about the slippery, wonderfully plain texture. So scrumptious. That's more pasta that I have eaten in 2 days than I have probably had this last year. But thank Dan for that.

A beautiful crunchy, flamed fresh sourdough baguette with smearings of butter was the perfect accomplice on most of these foodie joy rides. It was dipped into soup, eaten with cheese, used to mop up the remnants of the bolognaise. I hope no starving children have the internet, it'd be too cruel, eh.

Ruby Red Grapefruit Token Blog Shot. Very sweet and luscious cells of scarlet grapefruited SweetTartness. They're definitely good to go if you see them in store. They're a great brekkie for when you've been eating as per above and not moving further than the distance between any good kitchen and a couch.

And the man behind the magic: He always tells me I am lucky to have him as a boyfriend, and with kitchen Macguyver Moves like that and endless hugs, who am I to disagree? The Sufi poet Rumi said love is to 'fly toward a secret sky, to cause a hundred veils to fall each moment. First to let go of life, Finally, to take a step without feet'. I have no idea what that last bit means, but it sounds like it involves getting up from the couch?

Thankyou Mr Goldstein, for it all x

Practicing Pieno (aka, Pieno Cafe, Surry Hills)...

Any way you look at it, Surry Hills is a bit of a conniving bitch. On the one hand, it's the Skinny Jean Clad ModelCumDesignType Capital of The Eastern Suburbs, and on the other hand: so much good food and cake and coffee and bread. Billy Kwong, Emon, Suma, Mohr Fish, Shakeies, Mad Mex, Bentley, Table for 20, Pizza Mario, Souk in The City, Bourke St Bakery, The Book Kitchen, Fifi Fouveaux, Kawa, The Goods, Pizza E Birra, Bird Cow Fish. Jesus. More like, Cow Cow Cow. Even 7 for All Mankinds probably don't have a fit for tubby old me lately. Thank Zimmermann/God for the Maxi dress, especially now that Pieno has arrived. I'm sorry, that should've been Arrived with a capital A. After all, Pieno is playing some pretty damn fine food. Mother always said practice makes perfect, and, after 4 visits in 7 days, I feel perfectly ready to recite this magical mouth music before you.

Since i've pumped that pun for all it's worth (and maybe even a little more), i'd better tell you that pieno is italian for 'full', as in really full, as in really, really full of really, really good food. Fully Sick! Just when I was OhSoOver pretty much every food spot on Crown, along rolls out yet another dazzling mouth jewel. This Beautiful In Black little nook of a cafe sits opposite Kawa and behind a sandstone wall, just alongside the little entry that goes into Thomas Dux. It looks like a precious little black jewel box, charming, cosy and quirky in intense flickers of brilliant wall colour. Tiny on the inside but not at all cramped to sit in, it is a perfect, peaceful sun-catcher of a spot to coffee, breakfast or lunch. I spent a few hours reading here the other day and actually heard birds chirping, in Surry Hills. Realistically speaking, they were most likely the final, fretful dying screams from polluted budgie lungs, but the effect was quite quaint nonetheless. Silence is like a Golden Gaytime. Forgo the ear for a moment, though, and let us please the mouth...

A very discerning barista with silent, intent focus turns out gorgeous flat whites and the best tea I have had in a while. I am up to my old tricks of taking my tea around with me (this time a Punjabi Chai) and having it made up with Bon Soy. Even this level of psycho-analility doesn't ensure me a good tea, but at Pieno, Oh, Delightful Exception! I am twinkling my toes as I recall the barista checking my pure Bon Soyed (no water) Steamed-Creamed-Floating-Chai-As-Sigh-Froth-Broth was okay because he forgot to warm the pot first. Firstly, he knows to warm the pot! He actually gets that it makes a difference! Secondly, he forgot to warm a Zero Japan pot! A perfect pale pink ceramic embrace for my vanillaed chai! This caused joyous brain reverberations which are still (clearly) being felt! Most places that offer tea, even when they use a great leaf, are lamentably clueless on how to steam and infuse the milk, also on how to serve the tea. Thumbs up to Pieno for actually showing some culteavation, thumbs down to me for tragic puns.

The home made muffins, especially the Blueberry Baby, are a wholesome, moist, moorish Berry-Studded delight when gently toasted and smeared with rich butter. Don't even get me started on how good it is to wash down a gentle, buttery, berried mouthful of this with the smooth, warm chai. Most muffins are too dry and far too large, this is dense and so flavoursome, clearly made in house, you can actually taste the berry as it stains through the softness of the muffin. SO good and so gentle tasting, rich but not too sweet. They also have a dried fruit/oat version. Yummy, deep rich Sweet Heat Treat to in a Seat, Eat.

I apologize most sincerely for the absence of any breakfast shots, the heaving plates of golden breakfast bounty which we saw carried passed us after we'd order our sandwiches were torture to watch go to other tables. I nearly left Tats to go and join the BaconNEgg Crew. SunsetInOia OrangeYolkRich eggs with a gorgeous in deep golden, potato rosti, decadent lashings of fabulously fried bacon and dark, richly cooked steaming, buttery mountains of sauteed mushroom with foreboding slices of wholesome sourdough and house made tomato chutney. Breakfast Bruschetta, Breakfast Panini, Breakfast Rolls...forming all over your tummy! Not impressed, much? Perhaps some Blueberry griddle cakes with maple syruped madness will sort you out! All of those are fine, resounding options, unless you happen to subscribe to the Cult of The Sandwich. If you do appear to be one of my brethren, and indeed believe that a simple, well made Sandwich can, in being more than the sum of its scrumptious parts, out Fine any Fine Food any Fine Day, then go Miss Fine all over one of these...

Meatball Sandwich. Well toasted meatball sandwich. Well toasted meatball sandwich on Crunchy-Moist-Delicate-Oiled-Bite bread. Well toasted meatball sandwich on Crunchy-Moist-Delicate-Oiled-Bite bread with an intense smothering of Fire-Fire-Fire-Red Tomato-Pine-Nut-Current Mouth Mess CherishAsRelish. Well toasted meatball sandwich on Crunchy-Moist-Delicate-Oiled-Bite bread with an intense spread of Fire-Fire-Fire-Red Tomato-Pine-Nut-Current Mouth Mess CherishAsRelish and gooey strings of CreamyMakeBelieveMe molten grilled cheese..%^%*! The little balls of rich meat cleave into the rich tomatoed cheese and bread, wafting somewhere between the sweetness and the salt: Divinity As Sandwich. This is so good, meaty, cheesey, sweet and salty with crunch and lick. Moorish, soft, steaming filling encapsulated within sure, thick slabs of perfect sourdough and grilled to within an ounce of its delicious life.

The roast chicken sandwich with delicate tracings of grilled, salty pancetta, vine ripened tomato and steady lashings of chive mayo is as almost as divine, but Tats still holds pride of place for the mammoth Chicken Schnitzel with Italian coleslaw and aioli. The flavours are so deep and heady and true, you really taste the tomato relish and the cheese, all perfectly balanced proportions between filling and bread. These servings are huge and so filling. V.E.S. Very Exciting Sandwiches.

But, if sandwiches are not quite cosmopolitan enough for your liking or your licking, then go a panini, bambini, with SappressaSpiceSalami/Chargrilled PlantOfEgg/Sweet Peppers and Mozzarella. You can even get your panini to cameo with some home made soup or salad. The Salad list is just as wow-iful, haloumi can be had, and have it you should, with toasted pine nuts and rocket on some char grilled sourdough. Fresh, frickin fabulous food. Flavour Fire Cracker. Styled and sturdy basics, with amazing ingredients and flavours that sing.

Frothy fresh JuiceFruit in OrangeAppleGrapefruit, brewed chai, Chocolates-Hot and Iced, Smoothies (Banana+Honey, Berry+Vanilla, Mango). And, to Erin's delight, instead of Phoenix Organic Cola Nut with Honey, which is all the poor kid can get in the East, they actually stock good old fashioned Coke, can you imagine, moite! Nothing like a happy fizzed-up Bogan for you. Jumping Jack Flash! Eat Eat Eat. Drink. Talk. Sit. Watch. Read. Sip. Bite. Smear. Slice. Dip. Cut. Share. Hoard.

Pieno, and more frequently, myself, happen at Shop 11/285a Crown St, ph 8354 1303.

The best Sandys I have had in a long time. When you finish one of the meatball or the roast chicken, it's a somewhat sad and desolate world that you find yourself in. All at once, in a tear in time, you find the solitariness of the human condition, the pale flicker of relentless yearning place it's cold, sure grip over the empty heaviness of your sunken heart: Saaaandy, cant you seeee, I'm in miseryyyyy, we made a staaaart, now we're apaaaaart, there's nothing left for me, love has flowwwwn, all alone, I sit and wonder Why-Y-Y oh Why, you left meee, my sandy...

Don't bother, i'm already disappointed in myself. Really.

Enjoy Pieno x

Girl Love, from San Francisco to Sydney, (aka Meet Katie)...

I'd met the boy of my dreams almost 3 years ago, and then I met The Girl. A writer. A tiny writer from SF, USA. A writer with the rosiest-peach-cream-dream olived complexion, sparkly twinkletwinkle how-I-wonder-what-you-are eyes and the most cheeky/innocent mischief ridden grin. She's one of the loveliest people you'll probably never meet, poor you. Bright, funny, witty and the sort of rich kindness that could never be contained. Erin and I declared her our # 1 (Girl) Crush within 5 seconds of meeting her. I know it shouldn't matter, but she's also the hottest person we've ever seen in the flesh, sitting next to her makes you feel a bit happy, a bit silly, a bit light headed, a bit borderline bi. I'm giggling nervously just writing this. Dan will either be hopping mad or curiously pleased when he reads this. Well, lo and behold, Katie and I (and E.Bee), through the infinite genius of Facebook, have kept a very firm (and platonic) hold on each other. After a whirlwind Australian trip in which I only got to see her twice. I worked up the courage to ask her if she'd do a piece for you, and of course she said yes. C + K'ers, I very proudly give you Katie, Cup Cake CakeKnife Correspondent Extraordinaire. Do try and act cool, eh, if we come on too strong she'll never come back. Thank you so much for taking the time and tummy space to share something sweet with us. Take it away, Katie...

Getting Fresh: Santa Barbara’s Fresco Café by Katie Miserany...

I’ve always thought that there were two sides to California—one is full of pin-ups, plastic surgery and pop music, but the other can only vaguely be described as fresh. Like the air around a redwood tree, the sound of waves crashing or the latest genius idea born in some geeky garage startup, this alternative buzz gives the whole state a fleeting high that is always in danger of fading away in a wash of wannabes.

The fact of the matter is that California, like Australia, is full of beachside towns where stylish people love to sit at chic cafes discussing fashionable things. Unlike Australia, however, far too many of these cafés are called Starbucks, and they tend to be more ho-hum than humming with life. Within this unique ambiance of energetic ennui, it’s refreshing to stumble upon a place with something surprising to offer. Fresco Café is just such a place to the lucky residents of Santa Barbara, a sweet little city nestled against the state’s only southern-facing stretch of coastline.

Fresco isn’t outrageous. It’s got a simple strip mall façade with an arty interior. Weird art lines the walls. It feels even feels vaguely familiar. What is unusual about Fresco is the food. The menu is stuffed with crisp, fresh veggies, sandwiches, burgers, pizza, wraps and mounds of buttery, oh-so-irresistible seared ahi tuna. The salads are divine, the wraps are delicious, and once you order they have rows of bread baskets stacked high with the fluffiest focaccia you’ve ever hoarded—all just for the taking whenever you please! But the real genius of Fresco is that in order to place your order, you have to lean over what appears to be a glass dessert tray, but is in actuality a sugary black hole that sucks you in with such ooey-gooey chocolate-coconutty force that most diners are powerless to resist. Massive cupcakes towering with delicately whipped frosting smile up at you from a sea of crisp apple pies, raspberry tarts, marble cheesecake brownies, trifles and something divine-looking called a coconut pecan chew.

All of these breathtaking sweets are crowded together right below you like a hoard of little cherubic, chubby faced school kids who all giggle in unison, “Aren’t we adorable?” Naturally, you have to take one home. Or possibly two. Or maybe eat two right there at lunch after stuffing your face full of ahi. I chose a red velvet cupcake and a coconut cupcake, but only out of duty to you, dear reader. A cake correspondent’s job is a tough one.

There I sat, with two massive mountains of cake before me, one creamy and pink and the other shimmering with coconut flakes. They were almost too pretty to destroy, but once my fork slid through the pile of luscious pile of frosting to the moist cake below, I couldn’t get enough. The coconut was my favorite—the thick frosting dotted with a shock of coconut flakes easily gave way to the bed of springy white cake, creating a perfect bite that’s bursting with subtle coconut flavor and a blend of textures that’s simply sublime.

To top it all off, since Fresco is a bit off the beaten path, you can savor every bite of these luxurious coconut mega-treats in peace, without once hearing someone say something wanky like, “Oh 2006…that was a good harvest…” or “I really think people have evolved beyond basic monogamy.” All in all, Fresco is the perfect place to spend an afternoon in Santa Barbara. Fresh, sweet, stylish and comfortable, everything about the café feels inviting, and it’s completely free of self-important Starbucks types to boot. It’s the exact kind of place you’d want to come to get away from it all and enjoy the true bliss that comes from a deliciously simple, well-made coconut cupcake...

...Jesus. We Love Fresco and We Love You Katie! If you insist on being so amazing it's just rude of you not to come back to Sydney. Cup cakes, tarts, buttery ahi, girl love: happiness.

Thanks Katie!! xx

Heaven is a Place on Earth (aka The Earth Cafe Hot Chocolate, Bondi)...

When I am not spooning extra mouthfuls of the finer points of law into an already stuffed mind, sometimes I have thoughts, and, being a reader of this blog, it is your awful misfortune to suffer them. Sometimes I think heartache has an agenda. Death, Divorce, Unrequited Love, Evidence Law, Malodorous Misfortune and Tear Stained Tragedy, Regret and Remorse, Loss and Chasm and Cruel Cleaving, Disease, War, Famine, Missing Out on Sarah Blasko Tickets, Not Having an iPhone, The End of Seinfeld, they're all just epic and operatic excuses, mere pretext. They leave you wounded, open, all a yearning void. Leave it to the vagaries of Cruel Life to expose the Swiss Cheese of Your Soul, all those vacant holes of earthen emptiness that call out, that clamour for sweet union, for comfort, for a forsaken and fragile filling...when you walk into the room, you pull me close and we start to mooooove, and we're spinning with the stars above and you lift me up in a wave of love... Earth Cafe Organic Hot Chocolate with Bon Soy, baby, it's You. For Chocolate On Heat, Brennar can get bent and Lindt can lick it. Those are Purveyors of Not Chocolates. Liquid Love is a much subtler affair, and this is How It's Done...

Hot Chocolate straddles an awkward divide between two worlds: equal part salacious indulgence, equal part Brady. When you need comfort or holding, when you need a cup of something to soothe the soul, to stroke it and caress it with warmed waves of rich subtlesweet decadence, nothing does it like a Cup of Coco. It's the tipple of choice for the eternal child, and nowhere does it better than a cafe I used to spend at least 2 hours a day in for the better part of 3 years: The Earth Store + Cafe, Bondi. It's a hidden, communal organic wonderland that happens here. Flourless, sugarless treats adorn glass cases and sit regally poised, atop beautifully polished silver cake stands. I can never say no to cake on a stand, it's like Stilletoed Dessert. My favourite flourless chocolate brownie, my favourite flourless carrot cake with walnut and insanely perfect, wholesome old schoold sweet-sharp-carrot-cake-cream-cheese spicing. Spelt Honey Banana Bread toasted with flickers of crunchy note, beautiful buckwheat muffins (ie, guava + pear, pear + strawberry) sweetened gently with fruit juice and toasted grandly, bisected and lusciously buttered. Sonoma crunch-crumble-rumble granola with softly poached fruit and yoghurt, amazing cheesetomatorelishinohsoorganic panini toasted to melting madness. Cheese to please and luscious fruits, divine coriander in hommous with red onion and mung beaned tomato avocado enraptured wraps, and all organic. Perfect toast with potted jam and butter, fond organic yoghurts in an Ode To Cream. You get the idea. I have spent a small, delicious fortune here and many, many happy things have happened upon my tongue. Regulars, ie, Sudoko King Frank, don't ever want me to blog it, it's a bit of a Bondi backstreet secret. Sorry, Mr B, the Hot Chocolate here is something the world needs to know about.

Delicate beads of real Belgian milk are the essence of this famed chocolate. Powder always leaves a bit of a synthetic overly sugared taste and texture, it's much more sugar than chocolate, but when you slowly, coaxingly melt real, solid, yeilding chocolate into the gladdeningly warm ivory of some organic full cream, skim, soy (bon, of course), or rice milk, what you get is movement as madness. Deep chocolate staining pure milk. Infusion. Creation. Explosion. A waving, steaming, swaying cup of dream-fluid formlessness that floats across the dancefloor of your tongue. This chocolate is so wonderful. A singular Sydney treasure. I find most hot chocolates sickening, over eager sweetness that kills any other flavour and makes you cringe. This chocolate is not at all too sweet, but so, so rich. It actually tastes like a real chocolate bar has been melted into the milk, and not like a syrupish chocolate concoction. The milk is warmed perfectly, never too hot and never too cool, and caked thickly lickily trickily with a damn dense layer of chocolate sprinkles that dissolve willfully into sweet, milky abandon as you stir and sip.

Never too thick, never too thin, just creamy, warm, luscious chocolate MouthLove whispers of crazed cocoa. A cup of this will pull you in and it will pull you down. I love carrying away a steaming cup on a really cold day, it's so beautiful, like chocolate soup without being too overpowering. All richness and body and weight and strength, supple and giving, you slow down the moment you start sipping it. It's just too much of a treasure to drink quickly, you try and draw it out for as long as lingeringly possible. I always feel like I can handle the world again after one of these. There's something much more satisfying about taking one away in the perfect white cardboard cups, the warmness spills through paper much more generously than it does through ceramic. It warms up your hands and what it does to your tingling keratin is as much a part of the experience as what it does to your mouth. Touch and Taste and Smell and SinkDrink. Perfect, silent, chocolately pauses in between. Chocolate Rise and Chocolate Fall. Warmly, warmly, warmly. It's heaven in your hands. It's Hot Rockolate. It's Wonka Wet. It's Ad Choc. So soft and so beautiful to bemouth, it's like a chocolate bath having you. Sip, Slurp, Lick Trick, Stain-The-Corner-of-your-Pink-Lip-Chocolate.

The Earth Cafe + The Earth Store, happening at 81 Gould Street, Bondi (But don't tell anyone). Chocolate as Cheap Thrill awaits you. Use it to wash down a butter-rich flourless chocolate brownie with hazelnutted heaviness. It's a perfect treat, decadent without being dirty.

Go on, drown in it, the world will be there when you get back.

the frog prince...

Once upon a time, there was a spoilt princess who went for a lonesome walk in the deep dark woods with her golden ball. Being a spoilt princess is very hard work, and so, in her dainty Zimmermann Spring/Summer 08 frock, she stopped for some needed rest by a quiet spring pool. It was by this pool that she played with her most treasured possession of all, her lovely golden ball. She threw it, high, high, high into the air and caught it always as it fell back toward her. Alas, she threw it far too high and it rolled away, away, away, all the way into the dark, deep and quiet, quiet spring pool. So deep was this dark little pool, that our spoilt princess, she cried out, how would she ever retrieve her beloved ball. Aroused by her cries and by her tears, a frog appeared from the waters depths and to this spoilt princess of ours, in his deep, calm voice, he said... Yadayadayada, and fast forward to SlimeTime, Our Princess Spoilt, perhaps in a drunken stupour (come on, we've all been there), pashes FrogFace and it's 1-2-3 Presto Prince, if you know what I mean. Fairy tales can be terribly tedious things, sometimes you want them to be over even before they have begun. However, there are other pleasures in life, so savoured and so rollingly precious, that you will them to seep slowly and lingeringly through your tongue and into your senses like some delicious, long forgotten infinity...

A Medium Sized Haigh's Milk Chocolate Frog is one such experience. CakeKnifeIfiers, if you have never had the pleasure, this is mmm mmm mmm in milk chocolate. Chocolat au lait, all the way. It is frogtastical chocolaterificness, and from the very first moment it leapfrogs into your magical mouth, you will be croaking from the intense yumminess of it all. Milk chocolate is generally a more disappointing enterprise than The Dark Side. I find it hard to locate some good milks, probably because I like my chocolate deep, deep, deep, dirty rich and not too-milk tasting. You have already heard about my high brow Chocolate Eye Apple, the caffarel hazelnut chocolate bar from Simon Johnson, but I still have a home grown hero. The Strand Arcade in Sydney is home to some very delicious shops like Fleur Wood, Bettina Liano and The Corner Shop, but none is more delicious than the very busy, very bustling 19th Centuryesque wooden, glassed and high ceilinged Haigh's Chocolate Store on the George Street end of The Strand. In admitted arrogance, i'd always assumed that it was like other Australian chocolate shops selling overly sugared, unimpressive chunks of choc, the kind that looks All Show, and tastes No Go. Maybe the Fonz would have had an easier time saying he was wrong if he knew how decadently delicious it could be! I discovered my error when my Fairy Choc Mother, Clare B, having had a frog in medium size left over, generously bestowed upon me, in golden wrapper clad magic, her delightful excess.

Biting into one of these perfectly sized frogs is divine, rapturous Death By Chocolate. Haigh's chocolate is rich cubed (aka. richrichrich), it has a screamingly creamingly texture to it and binds so strongly. The texture, width and hardness of this bar could never be separated from the tantalizing taste. To bite into the froggy in order to secure between your excited teeth a little wonderous wedge, is much, much harder than it seems at first. People go to bite in, and then, saucily surprised by how hard it is, they sink their teeth in harder, crease their curious brows and give it another go or two, with much more force and focus. It is a hardness that commands respect. And when they finally succeed...a gentle and warm explosion of chocolate that is never too quick to surrender into melting, slowly reveals its sweet self through intense waves of pure, nutty milk chocolate flavour. It's gluggy, ThickSlickSuckMuck chocolating, it completely colonizes your mouth, a bite or two of this stuff can go a very long way. Usually, milk chocolate can be eaten in larger amounts than dark, because it's less intense. Haigh's milk, especially in frog form, is difficult to scoff in cadbury quantities, it's so resoundingly rich.

Peeling back the slinky, clinging WillyWonkaGoldenTicket gold wrapper is the perfect introduction to the descent that follows. You feel just like M. Antoinette deconstructing with trembling fingers the fumbling, frgaile foil, and the secret inside: It is a perfect indulgence for when subtle just won't do. CloseYourEyesCreamy SweetTreat StubbornToMeltSexy SinkingSinkingSinking MilkenedMagicMouthFeel LusciousLiftingDrifting chocolate. When you bring it your lips, this frog kisses you back with crescendos of aching, soaring creamy cocoa.

It comes in three sizes, a small frog, and a much larger frog, almost A4 sized. At just under $8, the medium size is perfect for one or two. It comes in dark as well. Perfectly moulded, you can really taste the Haigh's technique of putting it all together in the final, textured experience.

Haigh's Chocolate is Shop 1, The Strand Arcade, 412-414 George St, Sydney. Website here.

You'll live Fatily Ever After.

ADHD-elicious (aka, The New Clipper Line Up, Glebe)...

Change, it seems, from history to underwear, is an entirely inevitable affair. The seasons will turn and all that is will become all that was. Time... you curious creature, is there nothing you leave untouched? Even the menu at Glebe Cafe To The Cool Kids, Clipper Coffee, is not immune. It wasn't broke, but they still fixed it, and their creative whims have procured some very interesting and decidedly delicious results. What once made people grunt now makes them cross their legs in ecstatic agony and beat their satisfied fists down on chic wooden tables. Okay, that was a wee exaggeration. No crossing of legs or pounding of fists, but it does taste damn bloody good.

Ardri, again. How could anyone forget? Getting him to pose for this shot with his anachronistic pride-of-scottish-joy wheels was about as easy as taking candy from a diabetic baby who hates candy and has no hands. In the respite which was our uni break, his ever restless mind has been doing all of its usual turns and ticks to see how it could reinvent what was already wowing a very devoted and otherwise fickle, student crowd. And when Adriano asks, the taste gods answer. CK'tians, I give you: Eggy Crumpets with bacon and maple syrup. Perhaps not a revelation in combination, but, my fussy foodies, the genius is always, always, in the delectable details. Drool proof your laps, this is how it's done...

This dish involves several simple, select flavours making maddening love with themselves all on a pretty white plate. It begins with a 1/2 sourdough Brasserie Bread crumpet, all rich and rustic looking, not at all like the cartoonish ones you pick up at Coles. This is snobified crumpet, wide and imperial and with a gorgeously chewy texture, ready to soak up any willing gooeyness of gorgeous flavour. In order to get the creamy eggy mixture to bind to the crumpets the way it does so lusciously, Ardi came up with the ingenious idea of using stretched milk globs, the kind of skin you see on the top layer of a coffee which hasn't been made properly. A scrumptious crumptious that's been slightly dipped into some of this will bind wonderfully with Ardri's rich, fresh, frothy, WhisperLight free range egg mix. It tastes like the best french toast you've ever had, but with the silkier and chewier texture of crumpet base-edness. Holy Crumpet Christ!

Crispy As Barossa Valley Bacon adorns this eggy crumpeted creation like a meaty neglige. So divine. Deep, rich, clean and full flavoured bacon, with little flickers of burnt ChewyChewyChewy Crisp Sizzle SnapInYourMouth pockets of well done piggy flesh. It's a carnivores last hurrah. This stuff is like heaven with a side of God, basted in some St Peter. So good. And just to push you over the divine edge of solid sound and reason: lashings, and I am talking down. right. syrup. down pour of madness as maple. Hallelujah. Before he presents this bacchian beauty to you, he makes a pure Canadian maple mess of the things. It's a clean but heady as all high hellish sweetness that offsets the saltiness of the bacon so frickin fabulously, and then you bite through crumpety eggness and have to wrestle with moist and chewy crumpet fibers of enraptured being. It just may not be in good taste to eat this in public, not at all proper or Presbyterian of you. The combination will draw you into severe raptures of PDA with yourself and your fork. So, for those of you who prefer to be made sweet dainty mouth love to, Ardri has not left you at all wanting:

Oooh. That's not how you make porridge, but that's probably how you should. Ardri is almost as proud of this as he is of his courageous crumpet. One of my more pleasant memories of 2009 will be recounting him describing the ingredients, which I shall divulge, and finishing it all off (in thick Scottish accent) with 'those are Scottish oooooats'. No shit, sherlock. What else were they going to be? Yummy and creamy and light. This porridge is delicate and chai infused! Chai and oats are like Marge and Homer: made for eachother. It's a very subtle teaspice that perfumes a little floating dream of porridge ridden perfection. Pure Polly Anna breakfasting, this is.

A little gingered sugar and organic orange juice is used to delicately persuade some fruit into achingly pliable poachedness. Rhubarb, dried fruit, sometimes pear or apple. It's a subtle and gorgeous, moist fruited coolness you bite into, not overly sweetened, it tastes sweet and spicy and stains like a coy blush on the ivory cheek of an 17th Century English Rose, the creamy dream of softened oats beneath. Ardri soaks the oats overnight, which isn't just great for releasing the nuttiness of the flavour, it assists with breaking the fibers down and makes this porridge much more digestible for people with amateur alimentaries (like moi). It is finished with a generous spattering of fresh, singingly green pistachio and a dollop of pure organic cream. And, in something Tats and I agreed shows that Clipper Knows Porridge, it isn't a too large serve. Porridge isn't something to be eaten in massive amounts, a good bowl with almost as much porridge to fruit is much more enjoyable than an enormous dry bowl that just gets monotonous to munch through, the flavouring on top should mix well and in equal parts with the porridge to moisten it. Too large a bowl is like only buttering a section of your toast, leaving the rest dry and flavourless. This is the perfect size, a warming whisper of chai spiced persuasion. This isn't just good breakfast food, it'd be great afternoon teaing.

Just a yummier menu with the old sandwich stellars, nothing else has changed. Still at 16 Glebe Point Road, Glebe. Still open six days, from six til six. Still the best grub in or near Sydney Uni.

Adriano Matteoni, take your bow. ADHD is a truly beautiful thing in a crazy, food mad, Scottish mind.

Lost In Translation, (aka Emon, Surry Hills)...

Cleveland Street, Surry Hills, is the bane of my bloody existence. Cleveland, of red lights and Cleveland of gridlocked traffic at any time of the day. Cleveland of the sort of pollution that makes existence a generally demoralizing affair and Cleveland of the exceedingly untoward behaviour of terrible taxi drivers who manage to cut you off while simultaneously collecting the contents of their nostrils with an agile pinky and a fervour that is almost, but not quite, fretfully forensic. But every cloud of exhaust fumes has a silver lining, and Cleveland is no exception. Exceptional Japanese has the ability to redeem almost anything, and Emon, a little known Tats Temple of Taste, is serving up just that, clean food with authentic flavour. The place is delicious and decidedly local, although always crowded, it doesn't yet have the reputation beyond Surry Hills that it clearly deserves. The name means, 'fortune comes in by a merry gate':... ? I think it has something to do with the ethical cooking that inspires the divine menu and the gentle and kind service and thoughtful cooking. My new gorilla tripod joined our little intimate dinner for three, and my difficulty in setting it up explains why most of these shots are of almost completely devoured dishes. Nevermind, my curious CakeKnifeSkis, the time to jump off the sushi train is now, because this is as about authentic as it gets in Sydney.

The Miso rule holds true here, good miso = good Japanese. Lovely light and salty in HotHotHot beautifully brothed miso whets your appetite for the delicate and delicious flavours that are a wee-ish wait away. Brown rice is probably my favourite food of all time (even more than cake) and I love that they serve it here, steamed genmai brown, as well as white rice, and with some crunchy, lightly toasted sesame seeds atop. This little stunner is the Emon Special Bakudan, a breezy, beguiling mouth waltz of market fresh assorted diced melting sashimi with perfectly steamed rice (I requested brown) and a half cooked egg. It is so light and translucent to taste, so delicate and healthy and delicious. It comes with little shavings of toasted nori and willing globs of ripe avocado, mix it up with your chopsticks and sink into some seriously good food that is seriously good for you. All that fresh, raw fish and brown rice and you'll be glowing in no time. Besides, all that lightness just begs for something heavier to follow...

...and follow it does. Jesus Japanese Christ!! Chicken Namban is like a proverbial kick in the gut: just one innocent hit and everyone groans and stops, startled. This chicken is epic! Screw Helen, if Paris ever got a mythical, ancient Greek gob-full of this, he would have let her fall long before Troy. This is luscious chicken, crispy chicken, delicately deep fried with none of the over oiliness and all of the beautiful depth. Succulent chicken with a thin crust and a bountiful dose of just about the creamiest, most sharp tartar you'll ever try and a sweet and sour sauce, with some mixed salad to lighten the load! Argh! It is de--liciously-lect-able. I meant to try just a little of Tatsu's and couldn't help myself, he had to part with much more namban than he ever intended. Dan loves this as well, he is usually a Teriyaki boy, but now my manman is all about namban. Make no mistakes, this isn't skanky, cheap chicken. Just like a Bris ceremony, it is a choice cut, and one that warrants a very merry gathering - straight up meal mazal tov!

All of this Jazzed up Jap is a little slow coming out to you, but places where they take quality seriously very rarely come with speedy preparation. It's a very relaxed service, sometimes we have been kept waiting for a while, but it is so completely worth it in the end. Theirs are very caring methods of cooking, with very clean food and amazing ingredients. The Udon noodle soup here, with tempura prawn and chicken, is the best I have ever had. It comes in a traditional ceramic bowl with a ceramic lid, precious and earthen, and is a steamy, light and delicately flavoured soup. Dan was right to point out that most Udon soups are heavily seasoned in a very artificial way, the first few mouthfuls are heaven, but the more you have the less you appreciate it. Not this ooooh-don, no, no. It is so nuanced and subtle, a beautiful fresh egg, gently cooked, floats placidly in a silent broth amidst some plump shiitake and a fabulously fresh, fleshy, tantalizing tempura-ed prawn. The udon itself is perfect, chewy, strung and strong, and the broth is so simple and understated, and all the more wonderful because of it. I add a few spatterings of chili flakes and a little soy for sharpness, then it's slurp central for the next fifteen minutes. Great udon, and so clean and light, you feel gorgeously warmed and fed afterward.

That's not just a gratuitous/glutinous close up, it's also proof of how thoroughly made and specially prepared every meal here is, even down to the rice. Nothing feels quickly shlupped together or rushed. Everything is beautifully and carefully prepared, and tastes like it is. It is beautiful to look at, so evidently put together with so much skill and care. They respect food here, it's not just a business to them.

This dried and shredded fresh white daikon radish cooked with carrot and tofu is a sharp and rich side. The texture of the radish is beautiful, for those of you who don't try anything too different at Japanese, this is a safe and scrumptious side step. It's wonderfully chewy and perfectly seasoned and has a rich oiliness to it that tempers the freshness of the daikon.

That miserable looking shot is the only photographic testament I have to one of the most delicious meals I have ever had the privilege to scoff. This Is, or rather, That Was, pork belly kakuni. It is a tender, aching, softlysoftlysoftly melting pork with mustard, cooked for over 4 hours until it gives absolutely luscious way, served with a special sauce. Pork isn't something I am too batty about generally, but seriously, this dish was the culinary equivalent of a tubby, gorgeous, friendly three year walking up to you and throwing their arms around you for a random hug. So surprising and so fatty in a lovely, gentle way! I loathe fatty meat and food in general but this dish is puddinged proof of that art that Japanese cooking shows off more than any other: balance. Skilled Japanese chefs are able to take ingredients that are very rich and overpowering and to temper them with sharp and commanding flavours and cooking techniques. This pork is rich and wonderfully flavoured without being at all overwhelming or too much. Savour it. I think this was what Signor T. Reznor was on about when he said hey pig yeah you hey pig piggy pig pig pig...What.. no NIN fans? Anyway...

Emon is exactly what it promises to be, excellent food with natural ingredients, made freshly. It's completely authentic. You will pay a little more than most low key Japanese eateries, but my, my, you really do get what you pay for here. I have never had a meal here that didn't make me want to come back again. A lovely tea menu with robust greens and a gorgeous punjabi chai rounds off what is always a phenomenal meal. They also have a decent sake list.

Emon happens at 432 Cleveland St, Surry Hills. Call to book on 9698 0778. They open Mon-Sat from 6.30pm - 10pm and are closed on Sunday. They even have a cooking school. The website with full menu is here.

At Emon, it's always Suntory time*.

*for those of you who actually thought about it and concluded that that made no sense and I just wanted to end with a Lost in Translation reference: well done.

Tessa's Moussaka for Dan.

In a whirlwindish trip of 26 countries in 21 weeks, whether you want to or not, you learn a fair bit about a person. That's how, in 2007, I came to know so well the man who was to change everything. Just like me, he loves food, but as much as he has the capacity to appreciate the finest gingered sashimi in a Ginza backstreet or some perfectly roast Mexican lamb in the hills of Oaxaca, he likes the simple things in life. For instance, Dan can never say no to a hot dog. He just doesn't have The Hot Dog Restraint Gene. Not the gourmet kind of hot dog, the fluro-orange-on-squishy-white-with-a-squidge-of-tomato-and-mustard-kind. Oh, Dan. And the man loves pasta. He goes all glassy eyed when he he talks about spaghetti, cooks spaghetti, sees spaghetti on a menu, orders spaghetti from room service after a 2 course meal of Nepalese food. We estimate that he probably ordered spaghetti bolognaise in every single country we visited, and we went to some very non-spaghetti-ish places like Cuba and Morocco (his favourite was in Costa Rica). Dan is the kind of guy who can't watch his kid cousins tucking into some mac and cheese and turkey sandwiches without sidling up alongside with his very own bowl. Meat Pie and Vanilla Milkshake Classic, he is, my Dan. He is beautiful to cook for, all appetite and appreciation, he brings out the Old Wog Mum in me that wants to make big, classic, baked dishes, rich and hearty and warmly filling - and this is coming from a girl who aced feminist philosophy. My, my, how we turn...

...and what wonderful things we turn into. Falling Cloudberries by Tessa Kiros is exactly the kind of recipe book to turn to when you want something as resounding and commanding as this moussaka. I simply love Tessa: Mad Girl Crush. Her photos of food and great grandmothers, her winsomely textured writing style, the story-ness of her cooking, her deep, dark eyes: all of these things lend some kind of strange essence to her cookbooks, they are set apart. Precious. Different. I always look forward to trying something new from her well recorded recipe past. And it always turns out this good. You've had enough cake, don't you think? Enough eating out for a while, yes? It's time to get cooking, Good Looking...

For Tessa's Aunt's Moussaka (don't try saying that one at home, lispers) Recipe, as in Falling Cloudberries, you'll need:

2 large eggplants (aubergines, if you absolutely insist)

25oml/1 cup of light olive oil (I use HeavyHardCore Olive Oil, The Radioactive Green Kind, Lebanese people are not allowed to use light, very unpatriotic)

1 large onion, finely chopped

3 tablespoons roughly chopped flat parsley

2 garlic gloves, finely chopped (I used 4, again, I plead Lebaneseness)

850g mixed pork/beef for moo-saka (I used pork/lamb)

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1/2 teaspoon dried oregano

1 bay leaf (2)

125ml 1/2 cup white wine

500g 2 cups of tomato passata (used a great, heady Simon Johnson one, very rich red red red)

500g peeled potato

and for the bechamel sauce (yes, I was surprised it had bechamel in it too)...

120g butter (I always use organic, in good dishes, it makes such a creamy difference, honestly, normal butter is crud, it tastes like dull greasy crap, organic butter is Taste Tenor)

125g 1 cup of plain flour (I used to spelt to make it that much (not much) healthier)

1 litre/4 cups warm milk (use organic again, you can taste it, I swear)

A little freshly grated nutmeg (oooh, how nice does that sound!).

This'll serve 8 normal people, or Dan and his lovely flatmate, Eddie.

Tessa's right to warn that it seems like a big job, but it really isn't. I find it really relaxing to make and enjoy the slight architectonicness of its assemblage. The steps are a few, but they're all simple enough and really rewarding for the effort. Step 1: You begin by scalping the heads off the eggplant and slicing them lengthways into 5mm thick slices, pay attention to the width, it makes the texture true when the slices aren't too thick or thin, leave them, with a heavy sprinkling of salt, to soak in water for 30 minutes. This makes the eggplant less bitter, given it's such a reactive food for a lot of people, don't skip this step.

Step 2: Heat three tablespoons of oil and sautee onion until golden. Add the parsley and garlic and cook it until you can smell the garlic, then add the mince. Cook all of this lovely shlup over medium high til meat is browned/and it loses its water. Then add the cinnamon, oregano, bay leaf and salt and pepper to taste. I used about half a pepper shaker, I love the fire of it. Step 3: When the meat is golden, add the wine and scrape the bottom of the pan to make sure none has stuck. Once the wine has evaporated like good sense from the mind of a raving drunk, add the tomato puree and leave it to simmer on a low heat, with no cover, for about 30 minutes, stirring a little with a wooden spoon. This is where a wonderful aroma of Meaty-Cinnamoned-Garlic-Tomato should begin to conquer the intoxicated walls of your nasal passages like a Greek army advancing relentlessly into a Petrified Persia. The moussaka already starts to taunt and tease you before it has even taken shape, this is the real joy of cooking: you begin to imagine it before you begin to taste. Food should always be prefaced by anticipation.

Step 4: ...Meanwhile (back at Control's Headquarters), massacre those evil potatoes into 5mm lengthways slices and pat them dry. Then heat 4/5 tablespoons of oil and fry them in batches, on both sides, until golden brown, then place them on kitchen paper/red checkered tea towel to absorb the excess oil and sprinkle with salt. Step 5: rinse the eggplant and pat dry, while closely watching them (apparently they are more emotionally fragile than potatoes), fry them in batches as well. When one side is golden, turn over and prick with a fork in several places then let the other side cook. Tessa gives a great tip when she advises that we push them down with the smooth of fork, they should collapse and feel very mushy and pureed like. Then lay them out as well on paper/towel and (she said sea) salt. Tessa says that if they are darkened but still hard within, stack them on top of each other on the towel and the steam will soften the insides. To try to minimize the oil slick, Tessa only adds a tablespoon of oil for each new batch.

Step 6: Preheat oven to 180 degrees. Use, ideally, a transparent dish thats about 35cm long, 24 cm wide and 6 cm deep. The depth is particularly important because of the layering, it's easy to go over the top. Arrange half the eggplant on the bottom, a little overlapping is okay, then try to add the potatoes in a single layer. Layer all of this with half the mince, pressing down with the back of a spoon. Add the rest of the eggplant on top of this, then the rest of the mince. Once all of this is pressed down, there should be a 2 1/2 cm gap for the final, glorious stage.

Step 7: The bechamel is a little bit of a tricky fucker. And it needs to be made just before the moussaka is put into the oven, so don't get any crazy ideas about short cuts or head starts. With the milk gently warmed on a low heat, take your butter and melt it in a saucepan, whisk in the flour and cook for a few minutes stirring constantly, then begin adding the warm milk in very little dribs and draps. I have never had a deep or big enough pan to do this in, it always spills a little, the bigger the pan the more comfortably you can whisk and actually get the bechamel fluffy. As you add milk it will quickly absorb, keep whisking and add a little more. When it's all done it should be smooth and not too stiff, add salt and pepper to taste and the nutmeg and keep cooking even after it comes to the boil for 5 minutes or so, mixing it all the anxious, exciting while. It should be very thick and smooth (like a Rugby League player with a groupie), taste it for seasoning, then pour it delightfully over the mince (very satisfying step, this one, you'll feel a little bit prouder than you probably should). The bechamel should come square flat, eye to eye, with the top of the dish.

Take a look at that dish, at how deliciously cosy it is in there, crammed full of all that meaty, potatoed, melting eggplantish yumminess. The cross section should get you a little excited, and the smell should be divine. It's squished, slabbed scrumptiousness in waiting.

Bake for 45 minutes - 1 hour, I always take it out a little too soon (impatience). If you leave it a little longer after the flecks of gorgeous crispy brown start to splinter into the creamy bechamel skin, this is where it taskes its firmer, final shape. It still tastes as apocalpytically agonizing when it's a little moist and undone, but I am sure Traditional Greeks are fussy about the shape, don't think mine measures up there, but taste wise, they've got nothing on me!

Check that one out. Tessa tells us we should leave it for a while to cool before we serve - don't, this is well worth 3rd degree burns to the tongue. So delicious, so deep and rich. You will go mad smelling hints of the nutmeg, pepper and cinnamon mixing with the sweetness of the beautiful pork and lamb. God. It is such a satisfying meal to make, to smell, to bring out to a table of a hungry people, to look at, to slowly savour mouthful after melting, meaty, perfectly seasoned mouthful of.

Pause between bites and try to follow all of the flavours all the way through. They weave all across themselves. At first it's the creaminess of the beautifully buttered and golden bechamel, a sticky, cheese-esque (great word) burnt top layer, a delicious crust that belies the soft, frothy, rich, thick, slow, steaming texture beneath. MouthDreamInMeat. The lamb and pork will bass note through the pepper and sweetened tomato, and this, flamed with the sharpness of the garlic and wine, descends into a fatal finale of the faintest flickerings, the gentlest murmurings, of curiously CinnamonedNutmeg. Who else is ready to die now, complete?

It'll make you cross eyed with satisfaction. This is wonderfully rewarding food to cook. You feel great having made it, it's the essence of the home cooked ideal. You want to make it for people you care about, people you love, people it makes you happy to see all rosy cheeked with warm, well fededness - or people whom you absolutely abhor, who you want to subtly undermine the confidence of with your amazing moussaka prowess, and send off into the night sobbing about just how amazing you are.

Tessa, you are delicious! Get Falling Cloudberries if you are looking for some foodspiration.

Take a bow when you're done, just don't do it in front of anybody.

The Joy Of Baking (aka Kawa, Surry Hills)...

One of the great things about being in your late twenties, is that you begin to stop caring about what people think about you. With this liberating irreverence in the very primped face of public opinion, I am going to do something decidedly uncool and begin with a Sound Of Music ism: 'When the lord closes a door, somewhere he opens a window'. Maria knew it then, and I know it now: just as one avenue exhausts itself, a new opportunity always comes to take its pretty place. You see, my sweet little Surry Hills terrace is an ovenless set up, not a good situation for a food blogger, especially one who likes wholesome home made old school cake. One who loves cake. One who Lives Cake. Nevertheless, just as this (oven) door closed on me, so many sweet windows of freshly baked opportunity came a-knocking. There are several little treat spots 2 or 3 minutes from my front door, but none as sweet as the Crowning glory of Crown Street, Kawa Cafe, Surry Hills. It's a place I have come to for years now, even before I lived locally. They do wonderful organic sandwiches, spicy soups, moorish breakfasts and rich dinners, but that isn't what this tale is about. Cake+Knifeonians, I am talking cake. I am talking frickin seriously good cake. I am talking old school, quaint-cookie-cutter-baked-by-the-farmers-blonde-wife-sticky-sweet-mushy-wholesome-dainty-DirtyRich-tap-squish-bite-soft-iced-in-so-so-white-creamy-luscious-lick-stick-trick-nut laden treatsicles on towering cake stands with big shiny lids that collect little droplets of moisture from your very baited breath. To hell with class. There's no need to pretend. It's time you all knew. Knew all about the wonderful, the wanton, the wicked, the delightfully, darkly decadent things they are getting up to with SugarChocolateCream down here. I know how much you like your virtual treats, so, I give you, with sticky fingers, another little sugared indulgence, together, now: three...two...yum...

Heidi Klum? Pfft. She ain't got nothing on that Brownie. That is pure cake working the camera, baby. This brownie is intensity masquerading as chocolate. It is die hard, straight up, Chocolate-Rush-Stick-To-The-Top-Of-Your-Mouth-Molten-Mushy-Soft-Aching-Waking-Taking texture. Jeeee-sus. Most brownies are like parking inspectors, too dry and too hard to bite into, not this little slab o' choc. It is beguilingly baked, the top layer is a composed, hardened shell of chocolate that is the backbone of some very wickedly mushy insides. It is harder to get a brownie to feel right than to taste right, I think, this ticks both brownie boxes brilliantly. The texture is amazing, a little stay on the edges with a lot of give beneath, it sinks into your mouth, it melts into it, it just softens and illuminates into some kind of delicate, light, buoyant chocolatey luminescence.

The softness of the inside is broken up beautifully by crunchy clusters of hacked up nuts. I am very sensitive to sugar, so I can only ever eat about a quarter of this, but I adore it. Most brownies taste too floury or too sweet, they don't have enough chocolate in them, not enough richness or enough body. This brownie is rich, they must use a good butter in the baking, because it has a strong buttered taste without ever being too sickeningly rich. Tatsu loved this. We relished it for a long while with some BonSoyed Chai to wash it down. So good. Brownies are epic cakeing, there is something wonderfully no nonsense and not at all delicate about them. They are for when you feel like a SweetRich mouth punch, when you want a sugar rush in a big, bad way. They are all the way desserting. Brownies: The Johnny Cash of cake. As much as I love cash, the brownie isn't my favourite Kawa, treat. No, it's the next little Ring of Fire that flamboyantly, deliciously and without fail, walks my lovely line.

No, not Tats. The next photo down. That little mouth mesmerizer down there is Joy's Famous Oat Cookie w White Chocolate Ganache. Holy Shit. Did anyone else just feel something inside their brain burst? I don't even like white chocolate and I have been eating these things for years. They are the Holy Spirit as Biscuit. They are Courage as Cookie. They are Titan as Treat. There isn't much I wouldn't do for one of these beautifully buttered up bounty of bliss babies. The anatomy of this cookie is a simple but mysterious affair. You have two little, oatish, wholesome, dried fruit flickered, delicately based biscuity discs, they are moist, chewy, soft, achingly textured. You would go ga ga about the cookie itself, even without the divine filling that is Confection as Crack, and I am addicted.

The White Chocolate Ganache peeps out at you between the cookie encasing, it is a rich, smooth, creamy white, and in one of the true joys of caking, it smooshes out a little from the sides, just as all Good Fillings Should. It doesn't taste too sweet, it's more of a buttery, creamy melting thing that happens in your awed mouth. The ganache reminds me of a great carrot cake icing, it has a slight sharpness to the sweetness, and a hell of a lot of depth, it sinks into your taste buds and sets up happy home there forever. These are So good. I buy them as little treats for friends, and if you pop by too late in the day, there's a chance they'll be sadly sold out. They take a good long while to eat, even though they're so small, they are dense as all hell, and so rich, you have to linger for a while to take it all in. It's a good thing Cookie Monster lives on Sesame St and not Crown, the rest of us would never stand a chance.

Macadamia shortbreads are also up for grabs. As is a truly heroic range of herbal and black teas. The chai is really well made, sweetened with honey and Beautiful Bon Soy. It's not my favourite brand of chai, but the way they froth it up makes it a much more decent cup than most. Fresh juices are always intense and frothy, and they have a really unusual frappe I have been wanting to try: Poached pear with vanilla?! But, hey, there's still more cake...

The buttery, luscious little Ginger Nut Slices just want you to bite into them. They have a shortbreadish like base that is smothered in a smooth and caramelicious looking gingery stickysomethingorother. If you still have room after the brownie and cookie, why not order one of these? But the true Kawa-Crowd favourite, isn't any of these...

They sell out, almost every day, of these little creamed coconut cakes. At The Goods, which also stocks the same cakes as Kawa, a man comes in every single day for one of these little sponged, coconutted dainty-as-a-doily-delights. They are gentle and creamy, and taste moist, lusciously buttered. I tried one the other day, I am not a coconut fan and I loved it. It's a delicate little sponge dream, so 1950's and innocent. The girl in the line in front of me bought 5, I asked her about that (she was skinny and I wanted in on her secret!), and she said once a week she comes in to get them for her friends at the office. This is the iPhone of cake, it seems, everyone has one or wants one.

And who is responsible for all of this Surry Hills Sugaring? The wonderful Joy bakes all of these treats you have been salivating over. She bakes for Kawa and for The Goods which is a one minute stride down, on the same road but on the other side, towards Oxford st (2 doors down from Mad Mex). Joy's folks were pretty bang on when it came to picking names. This Aussie WonderBaker keeps many local people in a transsugarfixaton. I talked to her about her cakes, and loved her patent and well earned pride in her baking talent, she knows how good and how in demand her treats are. These are the products of recipes she has been honing for years, and she's keeping total mum on the recipes. Which is a good thing, I can control all of this cake craziness by purchasing only one little thing at a time and sharing it. I would never account for my control being alone in a kitchen with a freshly baked tray of the cookies, or a whole, lonely slab of brownie that really wanted someone's mouth to play with it.

Bloody Hell. Marie Antoinette lived in the wrong age, poor sucker, she never even got to sample a bite of Joy's joys.

Kawa happens at 346-350 Crown St, Surry Hills. They cater as well (ph: 1300 322 837).

I will do a piece on their food some time in the future. Even if cake isn't your thing, this is a great spot for healthy, organic, inspired food. It's also the best sidewalk sitting on Crown St. It catches the sun, is a good people watching spot, lots of cool cats go here (ie. people who will never ever admit in public how much they love the Sound of Music).

Ps...I was going to call this piece 'Kawa-Bunga, Dudes!', but it seems not caring about what people think has some limits. Thank god for that, eh.

The Middle East Crisis (aka Al Aseel, Greenacre)...

If you think Brett Easton Ellis' American Psycho is intense, then you've probably never dropped in to the hallowed Greenacre 'Dining' Institute: Al Aseel. I say 'dining', because this is not one for tame Sydney Siders, this is hardcore, Roman Mess-esque eating. It doesn't matter how good your intentions are, nor how lofty your ambitions, this place will defeat your stomach in an epic battle of meat and garlic that even the most hardy of gluttons will be completely subsumed in. This is culinary warfare, it's intense, it's excessive, it's bloodthirsty, it's Paced In Your Faced, and it comes with a side of hot chips. For years now, people have been traveling from as afar as Bondi and Penrith to mix it with the locals in a true test of Tummy Tumble Mettle. This is loud, this is livid, this is Lebanese, this is BangBangBangBanquet Quick Meaty-Lemony-Garlicked-Creamy-Rich-Thicker-Than-Thick-Doused-In-Oil-Of-Olive-Baba-Beautiful-Smokey-Eggplant-Crisp-Hot-Burn-Lick-Sesame-Dip-Quick-Quick-Falafel-Breath-Coke-Cold-Cold-Down-Quick-Quick-Quick dining. This is the heartland of the Lebanese culinary experience, and just like the people, nothing is done by halves, and everything is done by triples. A place where, if there's not enough to feed you and everyone on your street for 3 days following, then there's just not enough. The heat of battle is a place where many young soldiers have gone down. The going is steep, the dangers are many, stay close to your captain, she knows the way.

Before I begin, I want you to remember that our hungry, exhausted group of 12 decided on the basic (ie, most cheapest) banquet setting of $25 a head, which we supplemented with only a few extra dishes. What ensued was the most elaborate, deep, rich, colourful crazy cadence of sizzling and spinning dishes. Lebanese Restaurant Mistake # 1 is the sorry saps who go ahead and O.D on Mezze, they ooh and they ahh at the sheer magnitude and frivolous and fancy flavours of all the pretty little dishes that spring up in front of them like daisies in a green meadow in December. They wrap warm pockets of willing and pliable bread around smothering layers and lascivious lashings of hummous with thick globs of lemony salad and devour bite after bite, always, always, always forgetting, that this, is just the beginning. But, my hungry little habibis, what a beginning it is...

It all starts innocently enough with little baskets of freshly baked Lebanese bread, still droopy with the softness of their teasing texture, and little bowls of baked, slightly oily, chip like squares of crispy fried bread. So crisp and crunchy, this bread is perfect for the creamy moistness of the hommous, baba ganoush and labnah. Forget the constellation in North America, this is the real big dipper. It's easy, peasey, Lebanesey from here, you take you bread, and you sully it sordidly any. way. you. like. with lashings of the dips for which we are famous. Personalities come out in full force, the architects and the scientist at the table constructed little pockets of gooey, salady delight, while the lawyers just got right in there and dashed torn bread like a suicide bomber into the creamy, oily embrace of hommous heaven.

Check it out. That is a molten mouth dream, light as a whisper, rich with good golden olive oiled delight, hommous. Most commercial hommous is disgusting, preservatives and a general tendency to be too creamy prevail, especially as they're too heavy on the tahini (sesame paste). Hommous should be rich and deeply satisfying, somewhere between light and heavy, the texture should never be completely smooth, but it shouldn't be too grainy either. They have it bang on here. You can eat a fair bit of it without it feeling like it's too rich, usually I only tolerate a couple of spoons, here I can do a decent sized bowl (not a good thing).

The Baba Ganoush (literally, 'spoilt father'), is just as mouthwatering. Baba Ganoush is generally too heavy on eggplant smokeiness for me, I find it too overpowering. Here, the dip has a solid, earthy eggplant taste but is tamed by the oil and creaminess, you can actually tell by its lighter colour that it has a more delicate flavour. Baba Ganoush generally has a deep greenish/purplish tinge to it, when it does, I never like it as much. This is beautiful, I mix it up with hommous and salad and put it on some bread and get in touch with the part of me that feels the most like a true Leb (my stomach).

All of these dips are beautiful to mix with the Tabouleh and the Fattoush. The Fattoush here is maddening, I never understood this Lebanese salad of fried bread, parsley, tomato and pomegranate juice until I tasted it at Al Aseel. The crunchiness of the bread gives an amazing crunch and texture to the parsley, it grounds the freshness of all that green with a baked-roasted bread taste, and the lemonishness of it cuts like a blade through the heaviness of all the meat and dips. Dan finds it a bit too heavy on the tartness, it is, but I think it really works in this dish and especially as respite from the richness of everything else. The Labneh, which we ordered as an extra to the banquet, at E.Bee's very cute request, is delicious: a thickened, subtle yoghurt laquered in lashings of deep olive oil, with a faint sprinkling of paprika aloft in a perfect whiteness. If you never tried it, it's so solid, dense and beautiful. I like it more than Greek Yoghurt, especially because it has a sharpness to it that I think is quite unique. Funny, that, first time I have evered described something Lebanese as subtle.

Are you ready to rumble? This is probably less vegan than Meat Stuffed Deep Fried Roadkill. The meat platters are as full on as you will ever find food. The Shish Tawook here, incendiary. I can never eat much of it, because it's so damn rich, but this grilled, marinated chicken (which comes with a relatively tame version of Lebanese Garlic sauce) is pure mad mouth bomb. Just like Japanese get fish, Lebanese get chicken. It's always juicy and tender and pale inside with little flickerings of chargrilled crispness on the edges, don't hesitate to squeeze some fresh lemon over it to cut the richness. It's such a robust way to eat chicken, it has none of the gentleness of roasting, this is a fired up f-you to dull meat, so, so good. Even if you don't order the meat platter, get this as a dish on its own, they don't claim it as such, but i'd say it's the signature dish.

Kafta (minced meat with parsley and onion) and lamb skewers also star in this MeatGoneMad platter. This is not light, lean, meat. This is old school, rich, deep, cut with fat flame grilled to carnivorous perfection, skewered scumptiousness. I can eat a bite or two just for the flavour before I give up. If you Mezzed more than you should have, this is where you start feeling it. Stuffed bastards among us were taking a little bite and pushing their plates away and sitting back. It's just so intense, you have to eat this stuff to know what I am talking about. But if you're on a moo-free, baa-free food thing, don't despair. My favourite thing on the menu doesn't involve the slaying of anything, except your expectations of How Good A Chickpea Can Be.

Oh, Baby. Forget that dull, microwaved, podgey, pokey, miserable-ball-o-mush crappified blobs of banal bite they call hummous every where else. This is snappy, sizzling, green bright crunchy delicious falafel that you must eat as soon as it hits the table and before the sizzling chickpea shell cools down. Quick fried, the browned edges are very thin, as they should be when made by someone who knows falafel very, very well. The insides are soft and heaving, gently touched by the oil and they are much more green than brown, this is beautiful, crispy, alive, singing, spiced falafel, dip it quickly with a little tahini, bite in, and release the steam inside. So, So, So good. So Good. So. Good. Of Such So Goodness it's just so good. They come with a side of vine leaves (which are nice) and some spring rolls, which are great, Chinese As, and pretty funny. Traditional Lebanese places always have spring rolls and hot chips. They're two standard aberrations from an otherwise uncompromised authenticity that always crack me up.

My other favourite, Kris' too, is the Shawarma Meat. This meat will make you groan. It involves deep, throaty, rich chunks of well cooked meat, grilled with onion, sumac and lashed with splatterings of tahini that lends a beautiful sesamed moistness to the dryness of the meat. I can not explain the sheer brilliance of this dish other than to deem it as more than the sum of its parts. It's fully sick, cuzzz. Beyond belief, it must be in the way it's cooked, it has flavour sinking into flavour bouncing of flavour, head butting other flavours, fighting other flavours, twisting around inside upside down other flavours. I die every time. Order it, brace yourself. Like Vince, you probably won't be able to eat breakfast the next day, but it will be very well worth your whetted while.

The Samka Harah here is an okay version of one of my favourite Lebanese meals, baked fish with tahini, pine nuts and coriander. The sauce here is thick and spiced exactly as it should be, but I find the fish just a bit too fishy, I think they use a Perch, which I don't like to begin with. If you're a fishophile (like Tats or Troy McClure), the fish itself may not be quite up to scratch.But others should enjoy the richness of this, it's a very different way to eat fish, beautiful and rich, great for sharing.

Al Aseel has a no drinking policy, but a comically abundant selection of soft drinks more than makes up for it. Baffled diners stand for aeons of gobsmacked time before 4 fridges as they try to decide whether to coke, ginger beer, juice or lemon lime bitter. Some of us had three sodas during the meal to wash all the heaviness of the food down with. The Burping, although very UnEnglish, is highly inevitable.

12 people eating to the point of abandon still could not demolish 1/3 of what was put down in front of us, and therein lies the crisis. Do you wait a few minutes and slay into a bit more, pacing yourself and getting there in the very eventual end? Do you ask a kind, darting waiter for 3 or 4 of the huge tinfoil take away boxes they have, to fill up as high as you can yourself with the stomach defying remnants of an excessively laid table? I personally like my boyfriend's approach of taking the food beyond the alimentary realm and discovering cute and comic alternatives for its use, such as fake meat eyes, but I am biased when it comes to Dan and his wonderful ways.

Still a cheap meal for how much you get, Old Schoolers reminisce about the days when it was even cheaper. They cook, They cater, They take away. Try it, at least one, and fast for several days, or as may be the case, weeks.

Al Aseel happens at Shop 4/173 Waterloo Road, Greenacre, Ph 9758 6744 to book, and book you should on any crazy busy night.

So good it hurts. Thanks to everyone for a debilitating dinner, especially Emma R, cause she's from Cronulla, and she's a total riot.

Byron Bay + Bellingen, Baby...

Just some happy snaps of the trip up the coast... This is an organic lemon cheesecake from Fundamental Food in Byron Bay. It's a midwinter's day lemon cream dream. Pale and sweet and simply beautiful. It is a tale of luscious and citrus spiked creamed cheese, set upon a forceful but meltingly crumblish oaten tasting biscuit base. Wholesome and delicately sweet, exactly why I love organic desserts especially. A beautiful parabola between moistness and chewy dryness, and so damn delicious! It tastes as delicate a lace. We managed to oooh and ahhh over this little lemon lovely even despite the confusing and hilarious presence of a tubby stoned man, a few tables over, posing some of his deepest thoughts in (rhyming) song: 'Would you like to taste, the sweetness beneath my waist'? Heh. Don't let stoned hippies prevent you from Cake Heaven.

Fundamental Food is on Jonson Road and has a whole range of gorgeous looking gooey organic baked goods in its cafe. We spied a divine banana bread and carrot cake, but our efforts to exercise some restraint resulted in the choice to make an unholy trinity of this one piece of lemon cheesecake beauty. The desserts all have beautifully textured finishes, look moist and never dry, and come in large olden day aunty may like wedges, dolloped with creamy icings that don't look garish and sickly, but so welcoming and wholesome. The salads looked great, but I didn't have any room after dessert!

...and the four mushroom risotto from The Federal Hotel in Bellingen. An awesome foursome of mushroom. A meaty scrum of maddening mushrooms, all open slather in some sharp and creamy parmesan. This dish was deep, rich and so warming on a freezing Bellingen evening. They used a cream in this dish I think it could have done without, the delicate flavours of the mushrooms get a teeny lost in the heaviness, but it was still bloody marvellous stuff. This hotel has previously won best pub food in Australia, it's no Local Taphouse, but it's still a damn fine dinner.

Joelle, Erin and Dan, so much fun and so much food. Next time we have to work a little more on our tans, and a little less on our guts. Thanks also to Sarah Blasko for the beautiful sounds.

Home safe, sound and slightly less sane, and to the most intense Lebanese dinner you can have in Sydney, tune in for that piece very soon...

the cake + the knife + the open road

....for new blog pieces, up and down the coast. Back in a weekish x