Author Archives: tristan

one man’s coffee odyssey -or- what is this shit?

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Living in Melbourne, – the coffee and café capital of Australia –  we Melburnians get to feel superior to the rest of Australia. We have great coffee and a great culture to go along with it. Throw in tonnes (or tons for you Yanks) of great cafés and we’re in coffee Nirvana, right?

Oh, but what about the is-this-coffee-or-reconstituted-ash you get from that local cafe you avoid, or the is-there-coffee-in-my-milk ‘drinks’ you can pick up from Starjeans or Glory Bucks? Oh, shit, I neglected to mention those while I was heaping bile on the uncultured lot from Sydney. Well then, I guess if I’m going to participate in the culinary circle jerk that is food blogging, I better acknowledge Melbourne’s ‘dark side’. Or, to put it into movie parlance: ‘with a smug sense of superiority comes great responsibility’.

The other reason I thought I’d write about the good and the bad is because of personal experience – I have had a phenomenal amount of questionable coffee. Mostly on my journey to work in the morning. You know what it’s like: you roll out of bed and stumble out the door a walking zombie. You’re running late – again – and you don’t have time to go to the good coffee place, so you settle for that place.

My route to work takes me past a number of those places, dispensers of caffeinated calamities: Baguette and Coffee HQ.

While I’ve never had coffee from Coffee HQ – far too long a wait for average coffee, you see – others I know have. It also gets an emphatic thumbs down at Decaf Sucks. Case closed on that one.

Next up is Baguette, which I have been caffeinated at. The staff are always friendly, which always perks me up until I taste the coffee – which would swing wildly between too bitter and too milky. For the inconsistency the (roughly) $3.50 you pay for a small coffee is too much.

Between those two coffee failures in Flinders Street Station I was a dejected man; there are more cafés on Flinders Street proper and up Swanston Street, but both options seemed to be too long a detour from my route to work down St Kilda Road.

So with these failures I gave up trying to find a pre-work ‘hit’. This was until I found myself en face de (that’s French for ‘in front of’ and not French for  ‘petit miam‘ as you’re probably thinking) Centro coffee. I tasted the coffee. It was A-MAZIE-ING: the angels sang, the cherubs…err…chortled and I exhaled, knowing I’d found my coffee place.

Flash forward to the next day and I could again be found out the front of Centro, ready to repeat yesterday’s experience.
I was greeted (?) by a churlish staff member, parted with with my $4 (!) and received a foul tasting Bundle of Bleh (BoB). I had been mislead by one decent coffee, only to find it could not be repeated.

Apparently if I wanted bathe in coffee comfort I’d have to travel out at lunch to either St Ali, or Dead Man Espresso (both of which are excellent).

coffee maestros

I was destitute, until one day I decided to be SUPER spontaneous and leave Flinders St Station via the Degraves subway – you know, mix things up, keep things interesting. I zombie shuffled my way through the station barriers with the other sheeple, preparing to make my assent up the steps out of the subway until I saw some 5 Senses coffee out of the corner of my eye sitting in the window of the Cup of Truth. Warm. Copies of the painfully trendy Broadsheet Melbourne in a basket out the front. Warmer. Swarms of people waiting for coffee. Hot.

All the boxes were ticked; I was buying a coffee. Would my heart be torn asunder like so much crepe paper?

*cue inappropriately placed ad break*

No. It was a spectacular coffee! Over the next week or so I kept coming back; I didn’t want to be the guy that falls head-over-heels with a coffee place that I’ve just met. Let me tell you it wasn’t lust, it was love.

The other thing to love about Cup of Truth is the banter between the owners, Courtney and Verity – always friendly and often irreverent – it’s a great way to start the day. Despite the alluded-to trendiness of the blend and street press, this is no hipster-thronged venue; there are no too-tight jean-wearing hipsters delicately track standing their vintage ‘fixies’ while their personal baristas deliver the single origin pour-over in-situ. Thank Gawd. While I like going to the ‘cool’ coffee places with the great coffee on the weekends, I want something with a little less pretence on my way to work. Cup of Truth is it.

**Update** As mentioned by Ryan in the comments, I omitted the reason for the name ‘Cup of Truth’. To be honest, it hadn’t actually clicked until mentioned; on the counter at Cup of Truth sits a cup full of change, where customers are trusted to deposit their money, and fish out correct change – an honesty system, or indeed, a Cup of Truth 😉

Cup of Truth on Urbanspoon

ghetto sous-vide

Why walk when you can run? Or to put it in a more cooking-centric manner, if it’s good enough for Heston Blumenthal et al, then it’s good enough for me.

After watching many an hour of Heston’s Feasts (or Great British Menu or Hell’s Kitchen or…, yeah, you get the picture), I’d noticed that a particular cooking method was particularly en vogue at the moment – sous-vide. You know the method, that one where they take an incredibly good looking piece of meat and vacuum seal it and then pop it into a temperature controlled water-bath. An hour (or three) passes and they retrieve the bag of meaty goodness and plate it up. The piece of meat that looks so incredible you (briefly) consider crash tackling your television with an animal-like desire (or perhaps trade a sibling / partner / parent) so that you might possess and consume the delicious morsel. Yeah, that method.

After seeing sous-vide used by the best and brightest chefs on multiple occasions my interest was piqued, but unless I happened to find myself trapped in a commercial kitchen overnight (you remember! those childhood fantasies where you get trapped in the toy store at night and run amok) I’d have little chance of getting to ascend to cooking nirvana that the sous-vide method would grant me. That was until I stumbled upon Cook Your Meat in a Beer Cooler: The World’s Best (and Cheapest) Sous-Vide Hack.

To say I was excited about the hack would be a massive understatement; I may have ranted to my partner about the wondrousness of sous-vide le coól boxe (French for sous-vide in an Esky) on more than one occasion. Incessantly. Relentlessly.

Thus I was forbidden to talk about it, on pain of death.

Now, given my proclivity to talk (especially about things that interest me), for my own safety I felt it was best to dip my toes (terrible pun intended) into the sous-vide water as soon as possible.

So on a particularly lazy Sunday, with the blessing of the ‘missus’, I set out to pick up my apparatus.

For the ‘hack’ you require very few things:

  • Esky (or any suitable insulated vessel)
  • thermometer
  • zip-lock bags
  • measuring jug
  • meat!

 ghetto sous-vide apparatus

So after scuttling about trying to locate the required equipment (every store had sold out of cooking thermometers, apparently), I was down to the important decision – the cut of meat! I had already picked beef as the animal, wanting to cook an ‘epic’ steak, but I was less decided on the cut; a tough cut that could be made better through the long cooking, or a good cut that could be sous-vided to excellence.

I chose the latter, getting a nice looking t-bone.

So with all the required pieces I sourced, I returned home to prepare my experiment. Now the procedure is straightforward enough – place your cuts of meat into the zip-lock bags, remove all air from the bag, and seal. This is quite an important step for two reasons – firstly, the bag of meaty goodness won’t sink and settle with air in it. Secondly, and more importantly, air is a poor conductor of heat, meaning your meat will take longer to cook and will cook less evenly.

So with the meat sealed, I set about getting the ‘oven’ prepared.>

Now in the recipe I was following it called for the steak to be cooked at 54C for one hour. So after scratching my head to recall Year 12 physics I came out with a handy rule of thumb: equal parts boiling water and cold tap water will result in combined temperature just south of 60C. Being a punctilious soul that I am that was close enough for me!

So the meat was dropped in, timer set, and thumbs twiddled. Sixty minutes later I returned to this find this ‘beauty’.

 cooked t-bone

Now while she may not have been stunning with a less-than-perfect appearance it did have a beautiful even cook throughout, just as sous-vide promises. The meat was juicy and perfectly medium rare.

 nice and bloody

To ‘gussy’ her up and make her look as beautiful on the outside as in I decided to place it on a smoking griddle plate to brown off and give it grill lines. This is step is mostly cosmetic – the only comment against sous-vide being that the low temperature isn’t sufficiently high to melt the fat.

But, no matter – a minute on the griddle on each side made her beautiful!

 ghetto sous-vide t-bone (with hand model)

Now to the important part, the taste! Knowing I wouldn’t be an impartial judge (c’mon, she’s my baby…err…girl), I enlisted my partner to be the taster. To put it delicately she inhaled it, which in my books is a big endorsement.

I found the experience entirely satisfying and I will definitely be sous-videing again, whether it be ghetto or otherwise and to honest the whole experience makes me feel just a little bit fancy – watch out Heston, here I come!

a ninja’s guided tour of the local indian cuisine

 

I haven’t known Tristan for a very long time, but one thing I noticed about him when I first met him is his boundless enthusiasm to try anything new. This of course translated into food – we’ve both been to some fantastic places in Melbourne of all price ranges hunting about for a good feed. Tris is mainly the tech arm of Eat, Drink, Stagger but both myself and Ryan had been gently cajoling him to do a guest piece pretty much since the blog’s inception.

Finally, we have it. It turns out that Tristan is web dev by day, and ninja (of sorts) by night. You can find his personal non-food writings at Obfuscure, and he is also on Twitter as @tristankenney.
Initially I thought it wouldn’t work to align ninjas with Indian food, but I am sorely mistaken. Especially when said ninjas are locals at said Indian restaurant that Tristan is reviewing for us. We hope you enjoy the review, and that we can coax another post from Tris.

As a ninja I need to be at my absolute peak, all the time. Ninjas must defend against shuriken attack, poison darts, surprise attack ad infinitum. To obtain and maintain these vital razor-sharp reflexes – preventing a violent an untimely death – a ninja must train, and train hard. To maintain focus whilst training, a ninja needs to be nourished. As all ninjas (and ninja groupies / fanciers) know, a ninja’s favourite genre is Indian. Thus, prior to most ninja training sessions I can be found at the Indian restaurant Moza Corner in Clayton.

It was a summer night when I rounded up my ninja posse: my partner Ms G; my father (Ole Man) and step-mother (S. Mother); and my Auntie, or ‘Aunty’ as we fondly call her. Bundled into the ninja mobile (a 2009 Mazda 3), we set out across the great feudal wastelands (the eastern suburbs) to Moza Corner.

Bursting through the door, thumbs in kimonos we were an impressive sight.

We were quickly ushered to our table, menus in hand. While looking at the menu you can’t help but notice the television blasting the latest-and-greatest in Bollywood. Thoroughly entertaining but not optimal for conversation. But who am I kidding, we were here for the food.

As Ole Man and myself were (curry) battle veterans (of the establishment), we took charge and made dish selections for the ‘crew’: saag paneer, dhal makhani, goat vindaloo:

Selection of curries: saag paneer, dhal mahkani and goat vindaloo

Goan fish curry and eggplant curry:

 

Selection of curries: fish curry and eggplant curryThe requisite vegetable biriyani:

 

Vegetable biriyaniLastly, the mandatory serving of naan (in this case, Kashmiri naan):

 

Kashmiri naanPrior to ninja training session when Ole Man and myself would eat at Moza, we kept coming back to the same combination of dishes: saag paneer, eggplant curry, vegetable biriyani and garlic naan. Between the subtle curd-like cheese and spinach of the saag paneer, and the bombastic smoky flavours of the eggplant curry – coupled with the complimentary biriyani and garlic naan – it was the perfect selection for two.
Of course now that we had fellow ninjas, (or was that ninja fanciers? I forget) we needed to expand the curry bonanza. Ms G added the dhal makhani, one of her favourites. I tend to find lentil dishes a bit bland but fortunately for me, the dhal makhani was a flavoursome round-house kick to the taste-buds.

For the ‘vegetarian’ ‘Aunty’ we added the Goan fish curry (apparently fish is flora as opposed to fauna, at least according to some). The fish was tender. Ole Man chimed in and added a goat vindaloo. Again, lovely tender meat – just not enough of it for my liking. All of the dishes had wonderful sauces – a highlight of the Moza Corner experience. This ‘saucetopia’ resulted in members of the posse jostling to mop up the remainders, and despite a tense stand-off between Ms G and myself over the remainders of a dish, no ninja blood was spilt. After a quick survey of the table, the ‘ninja crew’ unanimously concluded the dishes were a hit, and at the price (of between $8 to $12) why wouldn’t they be?

Aside from Moza’s famed reputation as a ‘sustainer of the martially artistic’, it is also known for its prowess as an Indian sweet-maker, receiving a mention in The Age. Because of this, members of the posse were held at shuriken point and force-fed sweets. All members, except Ole Man that is. He is currently in the midst of a bloody war with that foul beast ‘Fructose’ *cue music*. Apparently showing one’s (mildly obsessive) father a video about the ‘evils’ of fructose will lead to fructose-induced paranoia and hysteria. But, back to the desserts. For me the kala jamun, gulab jamun for Ms G, and pista burfi for S.Mother and ‘Aunty’. By all accounts the sweet maker reputation was well deserved.

 

Indian sweetsDespite the come-hither-you-naughty-boy appeal of the sphinx-like guardians of the coffee machine…

 

St Ali's 10 Wise Men…we all declined after-meal drinks. The coffee machine didn’t look like it had been used since Indian independence was granted, and to be honest we were all too full for tea. So, with ninja-like grace we rolled out of the restaurant – full to bursting.

[DISCLAIMER]: I’m not really a ninja. I do, however, practice Kalis Ilustrisimo, which is just like being a ninja (only without the cool weapons and outfits).

Moza Corner on Urbanspoon