Saturday, October 9, 2010

The Colour + The Shape (of The Wicked Mr Zumbo)...

Hello. I've waited here for you. Everlong. Tonight, I throw myself into. And out of the red, out of her head she sang. Come down, and waste away with me, down with me. Slow how, you wanted it to be. I'm over my head, out of her head she sang...Breathe Out, so I can breathe you in, hold you in...You've got to promise not to stop when I say when...

Stop? Who said anything about stopping? I think the man is just getting Tarted.  Signor Zumbo, what were you thinking? I mean, really. Don't you think we've had enough by now? Is this some sort of sick, messed up game you like playing with us. Does it give you your twisted little kicks? Your jubilant little jollies, perhaps? Do you even think about what you're doing to us? At all? Ever? Here we are, quiet, humble Sydneylings, going about our days and our lives, not trying to cause anyone any trouble. Just good, decent people. Good, simple people. Simple people with slow metabolisms. People who do yoga to stretch. And Pump to tone. And Zumba, to twist their ankles and their egos, all at an efficient once. 

Do you even know what Zumba involves? Do you? It humiliates us. We have to scream out 'Zumba!' at the end of the track, like demented retards, we're scared and we don't want to but the peppy teacher will kick our asses if we don't. We wiggle and stick out parts of our bodies we'd really rather not. But we do it. And do you know why? To look good, man. It's a tough world out there. It's a tough world, and it's a tight fit. Summer is upon us, we have to go the beach. We have to do the body thing whether we like it or not. Arms must be bared. Legs must come out. We have to be...exposed. And what do you do to help us? What do you do to torture and twist our wiliest of wills? You, you and your unbelievable, dirty genius. You get together, you think about this, you think about that. You design and you scheme, you shape and you form, and then you paint it all in rainbows. In raging rainbows of blushing pink and yelping yellow and bluebird-with-the-blues blue. You get passionfruit. And mango. And chocolate and cream and sugar. You bake and you ice. You cut and you slice. 

And we can't resist. We just line up, for hours - we don't care. We waddle to you. Salivating and with open purses to your cash register cha-chinging to within an inch of its mechanical life. We wait like little, lost schmucks in an impatient line, so glad to just be there. It's like lining up to see Tool live, or the Wizard of Oz, except much more delicious. We wait and we pay, and we giggle with glee. We point and we sigh. 

Adriano, I just don't know what we ever did to deserve the Crunchy-Sweet-Treat-Twisted-Ooh-La-La-Madamoiselle cruelty you've unleashed upon us. Especially after all we've done for you, you ungrateful wretch...
We gave you everything, Mr Zumbo. Everything a man could ever want. Adoration and Stardom. Money and Madness. Glory and Bitches. People kill for that shit. Heck, we would've given you the SS prime-ministership if you had only just asked. You've got it all - and the rest for the taking. You are as ubiquitous as Sydney Parking Inspectors, as written about as lecherous love and lamentable loss, as watched as the grand finale(s) on Australia's Next Top model - but so much more conniving and wicked. Evil, abominable man! Why must you insist on being so irresistible, so tempestuously tempting? Honestly, it's like an AFL after hours scandal, any idea of consent just seems to go right out the window when it comes to you.
I gave up trying to understand you long ago, now. Those days are forever behind me (and behind my forever increasing behind). I can't say no. 'No' doesn't exist, not for you. It's like a long forgotten word in some language I never even really knew. And there's no need to ask why any more. There's no need to look beyond the beauty of it all. The Cantankerous Colour + The Serpentine Shape. Little, perfect universes of imagined dessert. Why ask why?

Why pick your brain...when we can just lick it? 

I do apologize for being a lazy blogger en route to my oldest friends birthday dinner, I paid no attention to the names of these wonderful treats. Let it be like a dirty one night stand for your taste buds, then, all agonizing in anonymous...
Surrender is an act in so many parts, but Fair Chocolate is as good a place as any to lay our scene. And, I mean, what more of an obscene scene has there ever been that you've seen, in a dream, that bursted your seam, if you know what I mean? When I happen to chance upon something as composed and as serene as the surface of that unblemished chocolate, dewy with light and love, in a perfect circlet of fortress as tart, something in me just needs to grab the nearest knife and start cutting it apart. I become a tad Jim Morrison and I want to break on through. Shells like this are always hiding something so precious: gooey, slowly sliding, wet, wicked chocolate hearts. It's always a contrast, it has to be, it doesn't work otherwise. This is just so naughty. Totally Patsy in AbFab. It like's a spank on the tongue. Molten and chocolately and smooth and rolling. You don't consume this, it consumes you. Thick as a kid  learning chemistry, and sticky like a bad habit. Your mouth swims in so many luscious surfaces. It has a sweet sauciness to it that completely binds you in its spell. 
Passionate Passionfruit. A winner from the Tart, and danny's favourite, passionate fruit in HeartAche as Tart. Gloriously sharp and fresh and creamed. Soft and sweet and vanillaed. Stunning in Sweetness. It cuts noise into silence and makes your whole entire mind stop, slow down and breathe, just so you can take it in. It is delicate and strong with passionfruit, sure with passionfruit, bursting with passionfruit. The fruit cuts the cream whimsically and they just blend together into something apart, perfectly united on the roof of your moaning mouth.
Peanuts. Look. If you have an allergy to them and want to off yourself for whatever reason in the most decadent and delicious way possible, then this is probably how you should go about doing it. After finalising your will and earthly affairs, tuck into one these gooey-nutted toffeed jobs and watch your whole life flash before your bewildered tongue. This is RichBitch rich and not for the faint of blood sugar. It is soft on the inside and crack-with-a-fork-polished on the out. Sweet as sweet can be.
Chewy and crunchy. A gorgeous guck of frozen sugar goo with little glimmering fragments of shattered nut is exactly like a Roman Polankski film for your molars. Challenging and so bloody satisfying, something to really get stuck into an enjoy.
If they ever make pistachio topped and berry filled crack, it would probably taste, if not look, a little something like this. This was Sandra Dee as Dessert, and totally shaped up. Vanillaed and spongey and light, gorgeously stained with purple and green. A little tongue treasure in true tantalization. Innocent and subtle, a less is more type treat. One for the nuns and practicing Catholics. It has a smooth, cool and buttery taste, the berried filling lending a soft, moist sugared note and the crunchy little globs of bewildered pistachio giving something sharp to bash against all that wanton softness. Confession afterwards.
Smackerons. They're taking over the world at a rate that makes me slightly uneasy. If they ever learn how to fly spacecraft, well then we're pretty much all screwed. It's like that Futurama episode where they're eating those delicious things that they don't realise are the babies from a species on another planet. This might happen to all of us, and if it does, well I bloody told you so!
These were beautiful, again, i'm not a huge macaron fan - but AK and i manage to divvy each one into quarters and share and bite and sigh. They tasted rich with flavour, custardy and deep and creamy. I don't like macarons too fat, and AdZu makes them the perfect size. Lazy discs of shallow crunch encasing hallucinatory fillings of wild and abandoned flavoured cream.
We saw each other across the room, Wheelie and I. Years ago, now. She's looking even better since the last time she stole my heart. There she was. She was Pink. Swirly Twirly and Totally Girlie. Pretty in Pink. And Soft like Lace and Gingham. My heart Stopped. But she made it start beating again. She was rounds upon rounds and I followed the pink swirls of her outer being I found a place inside myself where everything was still and happy and whole. Saccharine Geometry. Dizzying of Surface.
Come closer, won't you. Don't be afraid. Look at the blush. At the Hues. At the rubied, flustered edges, almost teasing you with a scarlet wink. Watch her fade slowly and you move in towards her belly. Watch the pink become gentle and muted and mesmerizing. She fades and she lapses back into brightness again. She is so, so perfect to look at. Like the face of something you just gave birth to.
Don't look away. Watch her. Follow her. She's made for staring. This is colour as confection. Courageous colour, loud and alive and lipsticked. This is my Baby. This is my love. Perfect and true and stained to within an inch of her blushed life. She is an angel, a sphere of hovering hushness. Watch the roundness close enough, watch the colour and the shape and she begins to almost life up and take off. She's like a cloud, full and soft but ephemeral. 
You wouldn't think anything so composed, so perfectly coiffed and primped and preened could be pretty on the inside, would you? Let me tell you something. If every berry that had ever been grown since the beginning of time was gathered into one berry gathering contraption and simmered down to its perfect quintessence, and mixed with vanilla grown on a field in heaven, and churned with some cream from a cow in God's pasture, well it would maybe stand a chance at tasting this absolutely, blissmifyingly yummylicious. 
This is where Zumbo Genius really shines, you can't separate the way his creations look from the way that they taste, and why would you want to. There is some fusion between the body and the soul of it all that really sets him apart from everyone else. This treat tastes pink. It is pink. No, no, it's pinkness. If pink could come down from the realm of Pink little PiggiePigPig Pigment heaven, fall through a suddenly dazed sky and inhabit an earthly form, like Sam Wheat did with Oda Mae Brown, you'd have yourself the Wheelie. Berried and alive, singing and creamy, solid and crunchy and cleaving just a little in the middle - like all things good. Zumtastic. 

It's just something else, you could travel far and wide, all around the world, and eat a lot of bloody cake before you again latched onto something this true. As playful as it is confident, and, as always with Zumbo, no nonsense: the taste is impeccable, he never sacrifices taste to form and gets too carried away, with Adriano the two always belong together, beautifully twinned, from eye to spoon, from spoon to hand, from hand to mouth. An electric line of flavour.
Come down from a sea of sighs and back into reality. Truth be told, I pinched this next one before I tried it. It has the most hilarious texture, squishy but still formed, soft and spongy inside, a membrane that moves but doesn't give. A gorgeous mush of God knows what. Sweet and creamed, with bright splashes of tropical mango to yang against the yin of it. Delightful and wonderfully strange. Peculiar like an exclamation mark where you least expect it, and so much fun! Divided like a self, but the two parts belonging perfectly together. 

Conjoined twins of tawdry tantalization. Sorry if that was a bit much, but I just handed in an essay on euthanasia and the concepts have sort of stuck! God, I honestly didn't intend that pun. Let's just move on, shall we.
AK's birthday dinner, like dinner's from my own private dreams, involved dessert pre tasting. Dessert. Dinner. And then Dessert, Again. It was excessively gorgeous. It was fun as all hell. Sticky and absorbing like candied finger painting.
Messy, sticky, tricky, shiny, smooth, wet, slicked, berried, nutted chocolate and chirping passionfruit. Colours to paint your tongue with. Colours to be happy at. Colours to feel young again in. Colour is a language all of its own, to see it so pleasurably played with is half the furious fun. Even grown ups can't be cool around this shit, layers of bitter cynicism just peel off and fall to the ground. 
Textures to play with, to feel and cut and let loose. Sticky fingers and globs of gorgeous cake for all. Wondrous anatomies of dessert, fleshy and alive and dilatory to diet. These cakes make me blush and smile, they are just so frickin... pretty.
Spread them out on white plates, you want a blank canvas for all that colour. Adorn and pile and take apart and laugh. Life is serious stuff, cake isn't, revel your little mouths off.
Zumbo Patisserie still happens at crammed and glorious 296 Darling St, Balmain. This boy is on a jam and jelly roll, he shows no signs of slowing down. And neither do we. Zumbo, we really do love you. You've got to promise not to stop when I say when.

3 comments:

Sara said...

Lady, I would literally eat anything that you wax lyrical about.. Your writing lifts the heavy Monday heart. Love!

amanda said...

lady, that was lovely of you! hope currently high monday heart stays in tact through the rest of the week xx

Amanda said...

Definately know how to put a smile on "your oldest friends" face.