A box of technicolour macaroons from Choux Cafe in Swanbourne made the weekend a little bit brighter.

Posted in Gastros on Monday May 24, 2010.

I take off my shoes to better enjoy the spring grass, and hang the washing slowly. The sun beats down, I think it’s going to hit thirty today, and Sam Beam warbles from my nearby bedroom window as I stoop between the basket and the line. After I’ve finished working my way around the hills-hoist, I notice that I’ve created a wavy pattern in the long grass. Kaleidoscopic trails of domestic duty. I have a caffeine headache. I am happy.

Having had to duck into the office, it’s later than usual when I load the iPod, wind down the windows, and head to the markets. I’m going to buy all the necessities for that recipe I’ve been meaning to try for ages, to see if I can find some Alpha Pale Ale, and to find something for the headache. I’m yet to make a decision as to who makes the best coffee down here, and have settled on a vaguely scientific method of research which involves working my way, coffee by coffee, clockwise around the entire market, until I hit on a winner.

Today, this lands me in front of the delicatessen, where a cute girl yells numbers from a window dispensing a bewildering variety of Saturday morning beverages, “ristretto, short mac, and a skinny flat-white. Number 45 please.” The girls sitting behind me are discussing the relative merits of tramp stamps and gluten-free chocolate brownies, two topics I had not previously made the connection between. I guess it’s obvious, when you think about it. I sip my coffee and wade through the testament of Gideon Mack until the sun begins to erode my patch of shade.

On my way back to the car, I notice a cart selling churros. In truth, the smell turns my head before I spot it: the sweet, punchy aroma of pastry in the deep fryer, the softer notes of cinnamon, the burnt tang of fresh caramel. As I wander up, the owner, a large French man wearing a threadbare Wallabies cap, is arguing with a Brazilian student as to the relative merits of churros in South, Central and North America. When the Brazilian suggests that perhaps South American ones are the best, because they contain fillings, and are larger, he becomes visible upset, pacing up and down behind his cart as he gesticulates in refute, stopping only to adjust the sticks of pastry as they float to the surface of the bubbling oil.

A three word summary of his argument would be as follows. One, tradition. Two, texture. Three, simplicity. He delivers his parting shot to the Brazilian as he hands me my bounty, a crisp, golden-brown pastry coated in cinnamon and smeared with thick dollops of dulce de leche. I stop and bliss out for a while, until a car beeps at me and I realise I’m standing in the middle of the road with caramel syrup dripping off my face. I decide I need to get home before I finish the remainder, or I’ll find myself walking back with the intent of buying out his whole stock. I manage to make it to the car without a relapse, and head home.

My housemate comes into the kitchen as I’m stacking cans and announces she’s bought new clothes pegs. That they’re in the cupboard near the laundry. That I can use as many as I want.

I’m telling you, if you can get excited by the little things, the big things are easy.

Posted in Gastros on Saturday October 31, 2009.

Two pots of tea surround a solitary chicken’s foot and an abandoned yam cake. There are flakes of pastry scattered across the table, and the remains of a squid tentacle have slipped under the lazy-susan. The morning sun beats through the windows as I blow on my tea.

“And that’s when I administer the reach test” he says, between sips of watermelon juice. “Reach test? You what?” she’s incredulous, and I’m curious where this is going. “Well, the waiter will always put the bill on the table, right, he’s not going to give it straight to you. So, I wait a couple of seconds before going for my wallet. I dunno, three, five. That’s her chance, when I go for the wallet, I’m looking for a token reach. A hand heading for the purse, shuffling for the handbag, that’s all.” A pause, and she’s at him again, “And what does that tell you? What does that tell you about a girl?”

Enough, apparently.

Posted in Mwah on Wednesday May 20, 2009.

Scanwiches is the best thing to happen to a scanner since Cat Scan (which appears to have gone the way of the dodo, so here’s a replacement)

Posted in Gastros on Thursday March 19, 2009.

The McGangBang, a McChicken burger inside a Double Cheeseburger. This, like this is why you’re fat, is junk-food voyeurism: even though it makes me feel queasy, I can’t look away.

Posted in Gastros on Saturday March 7, 2009.

This is why you’re fat

Posted in Gastros on Sunday February 22, 2009.

An advertising slogan for DPNYC in Shibuya. A good motto, I think. Good doughnuts too.

Posted in Gastros on Wednesday January 21, 2009.

The Beaufort Street Blog is about four North Perthians eating their way from top to bottom of Beaufort St and writing about it along the way. What an awesome challenge.

I spotted a couple of gems I need to check out next time I’m in Perth, namely Jessie’s Curry Kitchen and Jolly Good Indian. I’m kicking myself I didn’t find this a year ago, when I had a very good reason to be wanting to trawl Beaufort St for decent places to eat, but better late than never. Who’s up for a curry?

Posted in Gastros on Monday August 4, 2008.

Fourteen Passive-Aggressive Appetizers from the New Yorker:

Vegetarian friends? Try veggie rumaki: wrap a strip of imitation bacon around a water chestnut, spear with a toothpick, and broil—but instead of imitation bacon use real bacon, and instead of a water chestnut use veal.

Posted in Linkage on Saturday July 19, 2008.

1. Rogan Josh in a can is the devil’s work.
2. A cheeseburger, consumed in a drunken state, stands a high chance of being the tastiest thing you will even eat.
3. Rogan Josh in a can continues to be the devil’s work for several days after initial consumption.

Posted in Gastros on Saturday May 17, 2008.