*= guttermouth piece, not for the kiddies.
Laws. Fucking Laws! They ruin everything, from donuts to double parking. Bloody Laws! Like entree and main to dessert, always in the goddamn way. Most good, full blooded human urges are illegal: cussing off at a copper, lying to a judge, running over the odd, pesky lycra-clad cyclist, maiming someone you hate in a blinding fit of hypoglycemic rage, scoffing at the 'honesty jar'...you know what i'm talking about. We descended from apes. Who are we kidding? And here they've gone and...structured us, made us civilized, broken us down. They outlaw anything worth doing. Like loitering. Loitering is wonderful. Sometimes you just don't know where you've been to and where you're going, and loitering is simply the only way you can sufficiently express - to the universe and everyone fucking in it - your sense of utter placelessness in the world. But no, Law won't be having any of that! Jesus, due to a defective Bechara gene, i've always had trouble with following the law, and that was long before I started studying it. Deadwood around the 1900's. No laws. Not a single one. Now, that would've been my kind of place.
I could get over the fact that Johnny Cash wasn't yet born, that Danny wasn't even a glint in his Great-Great-Great-Grand Father's eye and that they hadn't invented Earl Grey Chocolate. Heck, I could even deal with the fact that moroccan oil, The Sopranos and Watching People Run For The Bus And Miss It wouldn't exist for countless years. I'd live there and love it all the damn same! All that fucking swearing, all that fucking Swearengen! All those Crazy Cocksuckers! All the bloodshed, all the shit and all the sludge, all the Gem/Bella Union scheming and scamming, all of E.B's verbose, flowery and failed (and flailing) machinations. I would've taken fruity tea with Mrs Ellsworth (nee Garret) in the arvo, played with the Little One, helped Bullock partially dislodge his figurative proctological pole. I would've mouth offed a little to Slithering Cy, avoided Joanie Stubbs (lest I die of bloody boredom) and ask Dolly what happened to her technique. I'd eat some of the Jewel's cinammoned peaches and chew the fat with Merrick about the day's events. I'd ask him what was with that scary Mr Hearst. Then, i'd stop by the Alley and pinch Wu's cheeks.
Most of all, though, i'd just basically follow Al around. Night and fucking day - in abject, open worship. Swearengen. Swengen, according to Wu. Al. If he complained about being followed i'd tell him to stand it like a man, give some back. Al. Love. Lawless. Deadwood. My kind of place.
Laws, pfft. Why follow the way, when you can call it? You always have more fun when you break the rules. Lawlessness aint dead, Bastards - not by a Bloody Long Shot. A gorgeous, luxurious and entirely pleasure inducing little stint at Foveaux, Surry Hills for the Wonderful, leather-mini-clad Itty Bitty Li Lay's birthday showed me that Sticking It To convention is alive and well in some chef's kitchens, and deep in their fancifully delectable imaginations. This is the most exclamation pointish place i've been to in bloody yonks! So amply delicious and exciting all at a wonderful once. Different and Decadent, Polished and Perfect, and so comfortable.
Want to know what all the fuss is about, then? (say yes, damn it)...It's going to be intense, touchable, tongue twitchingly-tantalizingly traumatic, but I don't want any ruckus, now...my god, Cake + knifelings, act civilized, even if you ain't...
Celeste's evening begins downstairs in the PlushLushness of the clandestine and Capone-esque Red Door. Expensive and subterranean and padded. A Darkness thick w Shadows, heavy furnishings and big pillows, leather and satin and sandstone walls. And Sin. Atmospheric and sensuous. Think Red. Think Fishnets. Think White Tux. It's the kind of place you'd smoke a cigar...(if it weren't against the bloody law). Smoke ring floating from full, dark, red lips all the way to a wink across the room. A glint of Gold. You catch my drift.
A couple of voluputously blood-red shirazes (shirazi?) and i'm starving and burning up with anticipation. A bowl full of oiled GreenBlack olives keeps the table side company of some salt and peppered handmade crisps, and tides us over til we are summoned above. Then, it's up the stairs (tipsy) and to the right and into a beautifully honey-lit room with pale, gentle colours, earthy brick walls and a glassed view into where all the magic will be happening. I don't know if the atmosphere is drunk on it's own loveliness, or if its just projection from my own liver, through my liver chi - up and out of my googley eyes: Heaven.
Are you ready, then, for a sublime tasting menu, as strange and wonderful as it is damn delectable? Get ready to have your heart, your eyes, your mind and your mouth taken away from you. What starts in your mind upon the page will run the full gamut of your astounded anatomy. Watch it, feel it ricochet to heart from stomach and then down into around and through, curled, happy toes. Spiraling. Murmuring. Your breath will be taken. Your fancy forfeited. Even your composure will be stolen from right beneath you. But don't hold that against the chef, we wouldn't trust a man who wouldn't try to steal a little, now, would we?
Tomato + Olive Oil Sorbet with Cucumber, Nasturtium Flowers, Olive Jelly, Sheep's Fetta + Capsicum Paint. Holy Fuck. Breaking the law that says sorbet needs to be sweet never tasted so bloody good. This crazy little concoction is something of a visual marriage between a strange butterfly suspended in a shock of bright, but gentle colour and the bloodied trail of something shot and trying to slink quietly away from you upon your plate. Like when Dan gave it good to Captain Turner in the thoroughfare - but with more finesse. So gorgeous and asymmetrical, it looks like a mess of jewels on a plate.
Gorgeous and vivid and beautiful. And so Pretty, like Trixie after Al quit slapping her and she stopped whoring. The tomato sorbet is silently chilled and gentle, like a frozen gazpacho with a full throated throttle of DeepRich tomato sweetness. Intense and Orange and Fucking Singing Tomato. It tastes saladish, but in such a surprising way. The olive oil smoothness hushes the tomato, just a little (and for just a moment) then it comes blazing through the cool, creamy ice in some sort of epic flavour bellow. Absolutely precious and like frozen jewels on a trembling spoon. The sheep's fetta and the capsicum give a warmth of sorts (like Gimp at the Gem), and even more creaminess to the iced tomato. I can't even describe this dish, you simply have to try it. It's playful and confident - due to it's sheer imagination I was willing to admire it even if it didn't come through, but it was resounding, each aspect of flavour held its perfect and proper place and plaited itself together into a melange that was simply confused and whimsical courageousness. It's like your tongue struck gold.
Some Cold Smoked Albacore Tuna, Whipping Me with its Whipped Ponzu, Tomato Salsa and Avacadoed Sesame is something of a sea sprung flutter. Absolutely fresh and sharp, completely hitting all the notes it should, and with a beautifully creaminess against the coolness of it all. The whipped ponzu is ridiculous, it tastes like liquid sashimi - and is completely electrifying. The flavour isn't original but the texture is, it's absolutely startling and gone far too soon.
To match her sexy little black leather dress, Li lay ordered the Herb Baked Leather Jacket, w Braised Rabbit, Lettuce, Peas + Green Olive Puree. The garnish was divine, levitatingly light and summerish, perfect contrast to the beautifully cooked fish (pay attention Guillaume). It was fun to look at and delicious as well. I couldn't decide which I liked more, this or..
My lovely Roast Palmers Island Mulloway w Bouillabaisse Foam, White Polenta, Black Olive and Tomato. Holy Hell. This was just insane. And an amazing portion for a tasting menu. The skin was crispy and deep and the gently cooked fish underneath it fell away in beautifully salty, moist flakes. The flavour of it was so full and serene. God.
Each forkful of fish was dipped into my little pot of Bouillabaisse and then swirled into the polenta plate cloud that was floating somewhere beneath it. Creamy and rich but still with a sharpness and freshness from the olive and tomato. Such a gentle main but so full of flavour. I love when good people do fish well.
Beautiful red kept flowing and I was pretty much gone by this point. The experience was just magical, the lighting and surroundings were perfect, I was completely taken away. I especially loved how sharp the service was without being at all fussy, no posing no postures no pretense, none at all, Cocksuckers. Loved it.
Meet the Meat the Pescetarian didn't Eat. This could be the Wakame Roasted Veal Sirloin w Jerusalem Artichoke Puree, Asparagus, Green Purslane + Burn Butter Jus, or perhaps it's the Cured Smoked Lamb Rump, w Liver Puree, Greens, Garlic + Puffed Spelt. I don't know which. I ascertained it's loveliness from whoever ate it, took a photo and then forgot about it all together. It is rather baa-d of me to not know. Whether I am a naughty little blogger for not remembering is something you'll have to decide for yourselves, being as the point is entirely moo-t.
Pescetarian, but not bloody vegan! Divine cheese. A goats and a blue and two others. With toasted walnut bread, lavosh and fruit. And a syrupish thick short black on the side. We're hanging it out, playing it cool, cause I have the menu and I know what's a headed our way from Yankton.
In life you have to do a lot of things you don't fucking want to do. Many times, that's what the fuck life is, one vile fucking task after another...Beg to differ, Al...Dessert at Foveaux aint anything of the sort...
Cocksucccccker!!! A Salad of Pineapple, Milk Sorbet + Macadamia Nut Praline is one of the most perfect things that's ever happened in my mouth. If I had a couple of pistols I would've pulled them out and started firing off into the air when what was going on in this dish finally hit taste bud home. Delicious and simple and pure. Smooth creamy, milky ice and perky pineapple and fluffy praline. Sweet and A Little Tart. Wonder of wonders. Happiness. It's so sublime and understated and startling, even your spoon starts to swoon and becomes as weak and droopy as your knees. Sorbet for entree, and again for dessert. Huzzah! I think that's another stupid law we're breaking! Why stop at one sweet thing, though?
...Banana Ice Cream, Caramalised Banana, Deconstructed Digestive Biscuit, Coffee + Tonka. Willy Wonka had nothing on this Tonka. Bravo, Foveaux! Taking simple everyday ingredients and making them strange and delightful and delicious. This was like an Adult Sundae. A Sophisticated mess of the familiar and the entirely eccentric. The little scoop there in the middle looked kinda sad, never fear, I put it out of its misery as quickly as digestion would allow. And followed it with...
No, not her, silly...But a bite of something as unusual and delicious and imaginative as her...
Her Ginger Sponge w Carrot Marmalade, Cream Cheese Ice Cream + Walnut Powder. Praise the Lord. We have divine. The ginger sponge was something else. Not a sweet ginger, not a dull one either. A sharp, sure, triumphant ginger, biting and snapping in the midst of a killer, moist sponge. Dreamy and beautiful and with a zing here and a slap there. Like an intelligent Deconstruction of a carrot cake, if Jung were alive - he'd totally be subbing it in his kooky conscious over this one.
Foveaux, you sly dog! If our tongues had hats, we'd be doffing them to you. And all for a reasonable price! What could you possibly be thinking? Great food. Great wine. Great service. Great atmosphere. Great imagination. You bloody cocksuckers!
Poor Li Lay. Our three bad, drunk, satiated voices did the best we could for you with this candle. Happy Birthday, Baby! I am very glad to have celebrated the first one with you. You suggesting this place was a present to the rest of us, just like the sight of your smile, your cheeks and that phenomenal thing in your tights I won't mention!
Jesus Christ. Foveaux happens at 1/65-67 Foveaux St, Surry Hills. Red Door at the same place. The website is here. What magical stuff this tiny little haven of delectableness is! Please try it if the opportunity ever arises, I can't recommend it strongly enough. Intimate and perfect and I can not wait to be there again.
I was so content when it was all over. The best dinner I have had in a long, long time. If you'd fed me to Wu's pigs after I would've died a happy death. Isn't it great when chefs get playful. Can't wait to see more Sydney set ups as worthy of praise as this one. Love you, Foveaux!
But there is just one more thing...
I want to know who cut the fucking cheese.