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Two kinds of Tofu

Gary Hounsell, owner of Toolangi Vineyards in the Yarra Valley recently hosted a lunch at Urbane in Brisbane to celebrate Toolangi’s 10th anniversary; your itinerant reporter was there.

Gary showed guests a selection of his estate and reserve chardonnays and pinots dating back to the 2001 vintage. In an unusual approach to winemaking he explained that in its short existence, Toolangi wines were made by different winemakers at a number of wineries, among them Giaconda, Shadowfax and Yering Station.

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The latest edition of glossy mag Spain Gourmetour arrived recently and I tucked in a napkin to catch the saliva as I read it through.

If ever there was a food and wine magazine with high production values this is it. Even the ad photos look good enough to eat.

Among the classy articles about Spanish food, wine and travel, you will find recipes reflecting Spain as a world leader in avant garde cuisine. I’ve fiddled successfully with recipes in the latest issue: the dessert, ‘Mango, papaya, citrus fruits and orange blossom honey jelly’ was stunning.

Spain Gourmetour is published three times a year. Best of all, it’s free to professionals in the wine and food industry.

To request a subscription, simply email your details and postal address with the subject line ‘Spain Gourmetour’ to the Economic and Commercial Offices of the Spanish Embassy in your country. For email addresses see Spain Gourmetour site.

I tried some Pimientos de Padron – little green Spanish peppers – at the Noosa Farmers’ Market last week – sensational!

You fry them for a few minutes in hot olive oil – until the skin blisters and shows just a few speckles of brown – then serve hot with a sprinkling of sea salt flakes.

They are not at all chili hot but rather, succulent and sweet. I lied. About one in 15 is hot – adds a little spice to a plateful and the palate.

A brilliant starter dish on any table – you won’t be able to stop eating them.

Serve with cold beer or a chilled Fino sherry.

Bread has all but disappeared from restaurant tables and we should all lament its absence.

In mediaeval days, they served meals on trenchers instead of plates. The trencher was a thick slice of stale bread and the meat and gravy were ladled on to it. When the meat was finished, nobles and peasants alike gobbled up the gravy-enriched trencher as a second course. Read the rest of this entry

Macrobiotic hippies London, 1971

I shared a flat with a couple of low pH* hippies in London in 1971. Their diet, which was therefore my diet, was allegedly macrobiotic. No meat, no tomatoes, a bit of yin, brown rice, a pinch of hing, an occasional dollop of yang, (see yin) carrots, green tea, no onion or garlic. That was it.

 It was inexpensive, but not too appetizing. I didn’t dare ask about alcohol so I’d sneak off to meditate, adopt the full lotus position and slurp a glass or two of cheap claret (chateau-bottled, in Bulgaria) for a vitamin boost. Read the rest of this entry

‘My own experience with sommeliers is that they invariably offer the highest price wine.’ So wrote Peter Robotti, restaurateur, in 1972. (Key to Gracious Living. Prentice Hall.)

I believe Mr Robotti’s quote holds pretty much true 37 years on. Sommeliers are meant to advise diners about wine selections and food and wine matching but in Australia they often end up as wine marketers for restaurant owners.  And if it’s not always the highest priced wine they suggest, sommeliers and wine waiters do have a certain knack of upselling… Never has any sommelier ever suggested to me selections from the inexpensive wines on a wine list.

Friend and cheesemaker Christian Nobel, writes about his family’s recent trip from Australia to visit relatives in Switzerland.

The mountain path

 We start at the valley bottom very early in the morning. The weather forecast is great and although there is no indication yet of the rising sun, the mountains are starting to appear as the darkness disappears. After a strenuous passage through a dense pine forest, we continue up a rocky path that has never seen a car or truck before.

These alpine trails are only for hikers or one or two wild alpine farmers riding motor bikes, which have been specifically adjusted for crazy and steep paths. Up in these high alpine areas, one either walks, or if available, transports goods by aerial ropeway or even by helicopter.

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Kuta Beach Club Hotel, Bali, 1975

Kuta has an obvious village atmosphere. Bare-chested old men in sarongs sit on platforms and groom their fighting cocks. In and around the thatched buildings, scabrous dogs, chickens and swayback pigs root around, wistful-eyed cows graze in nearby coconut groves.

Traditionally dressed women place little woven trays of flowers, rice, and incense, as offerings to the gods at shrines and strategic sites. Soldiers with guns walk around the market stalls. Hippies and Bali Boys ride motor bikes along the beach waterline.

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War-games with oyster entrée

In March 1965, a bunch of us Regular Army electronics technicians were posted to provide backup for CMF* war games in the bush near Tea Gardens, New South Wales.

 On the penultimate day of pretending-to-shoot-each-other manoeuvres, a CMF officer (i.e. a sweating red-faced jumped up bank teller from Sydney) ordered us to work as kitchen staff in the officers’ mess tent for their farewell dinner the next night. ‘Nah,’ we said, ‘we didn’t come here to wait on weekend warriors.’ Or words to that effect.

He went away muttering about undisciplined rabble and later came back. ‘What if we pay you?’ ‘Okay… Sir.’ (Cue limp salute here.)

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by Martin Field
Maybe it was 20 years ago. ‘How about I take you to lunch at the Melbourne Club?’ My eye specialist, a generous, learned gentleman of the old school and also the father of a friend, wanted to repay me for fine-tuning his office PC.
Never having been there – they have an invisible brass plaque by the front door saying ‘No women, no lefties, certain religions are a bit suss, and definitely no riff-raff!’ – I accepted. ‘You’ll have to wear a suit you know,’ he smiled, gazing at my public service uniform: Miller shirt, Lee jeans and Blundstones.
When I arrived at the club, I certainly didn’t look like a member – longish hair, beard, baggy tan suit, a ridiculously narrow dusty pink leather tie and tan R.M. Williams Cuban-heeled boots (to match the suit, you understand). However, after the business with the rubber gloves, some pointed interrogation and upon showing my passport and letters of accreditation, they let me in.

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