When fast-food becomes farce food

There are misnomers and there are misnomers.

This blog is a bit of a misnomer. Blogs, by nature, have regular contributions, so I’m led to believe. To those who read this regularly and dare I say it, expect something fresh to read occasionally, I apologise. I plead the time-poor argument. OK, that’s bullshit. I get easily distracted. I keep meaning to put pen to paper, alas, distractions prevail.

Anyway, as George Costanza would say, “Baby, I’m off my arse, I’m back for another crack”. OK, maybe not the arse bit, but you get the picture.

Now back to the misnomer bit.

I’ve been getting lots of things done to prepare my LandCruiser for the big trip, most recently getting an alarm system installed, which necessitated a trip again to the wilds of Moorabbin/East Bentleigh.

Given that I had to fill in three hours while the work was being done, and it was lunchtime, I made a beeline to the only food outlet (and, on my experience there, I use the term loosely) within walking distance, Hungry Jack’s, which is something that rarely happens.

Ah, Jack, what a contradiction you are, a misnomer, if you will.

There wasn’t a big crowd in … think about enough people to fill four, maybe five, phone boxes (do we still have them?)

I fitted in well, being one of a couple of blue singlet-wearing patrons, although we were outnumbered by tracksuit pants and Ugg boots. Oh, and there was a bloke with no shirt. I said g’day to a bloke who works at the place doing the work on my car and he dropped the first hint. “Get set for a wait,” he said.

I eyed the menu above the counter and settled for a premium (no, seriously, it says premium) tender crisp chicken burger/bacon/cheese meal and a large serve of onion rings … that is, I thought, a burger, fries, a drink and said rings. I ordered, clearly and concisely and paid. Then I waited. And waited. And waited. Then I waited some more. I said g’day to another bloke from the car shop. He, too, dropped a hint. “Get set for a wait.”

By the way, the company’s website describes said meal as: “The unbeatable combination of bacon, cheese and golden crispy chicken. Made with 100% chicken breast, premium eye bacon, ripe hand-cut tomato, fresh lettuce and creamy mayo on a tasty corn-dusted bun.” This is what it looks like on the web.

My wait had become 15 minutes during which time four disgruntled patrons returned things that weren’t what they had ordered. That’s right, about one every four minutes returned and replaced (eventually).

Finally, at the 20-minute mark, my order was mentioned by a rather harassed-looking young fella. I made my way to the counter and was greeted by a burger wrapped in paper with some handwritten ID (I assumed the CB indicated crispy bacon or perhaps it was code for crap burger. Yeah, that’d be it). It was a wrapper for another type of burger … obviously the stock of wrappers had gone the way of so many food orders. Alongside the burger was a bag of onion rings. That was it except for the empty drink cup. I should have burred up, and I really felt like I should, but I was at that stage where I just wanted the experience to end. I picked up the tray and then said, in a very polite voice, to a girl behind the counter: “Excuse me, but it’s called fast-food for a reason. A 20-minute wait is just unacceptable.” She said nothing and offered only what could best be described as a very hurt expression.

Another misnomer. I unwrapped the wrong-wrapper burger and looked for the bacon. No appearance, your worship. Wait, there it is. Any similarity between the premium chicken burger you’ll find on the company’s website and this one is purely accidental. This is what I was served.

As I was eating this thing (yeah, I was hungry), the bloke for the car shop came over, armed with his takeaway order. “I cracked the 30-minute wait,” he said.

I can only assume that the business was named Hungry Jack’s because, after you’ve place an order, you’re really, really hungry by the time you get it. And then it’s wrong, you return it and wait again, by which time you’re really, really, really hungry.  Fast-food … now that’s a real misnomer at this Hungry Jack’s.

I intended to forward this account to Hungry Jack’s head office and keep tabs on how long it took to get a reply. The company website rejected my attempt to send it because of, apparently, bad language …. I assume the word “crap” offended Jack’s spam filter. Sorry, Jack, but I refused to change it because it seemed an apt descriptor.   

RATINGS … WHATEVER THAT MEANS

I was watching telly the other night and as something was about to start, the ratings warning flashed onto the screen. “This program may contain bad language and sexual references.”

What does “may contain” mean?

Either it does or it doesn’t have offensive bits. It may also contain nuclear waste, crispy bacon, too much salt or corked wine, too, but they never tell you that. Get it right, will ya.

TO MARKET, TO MARKET

I was at the local market (there’s a surprise) the other day to stock up on some food bits and I made a beeline for the deli to grab, among other things, a slab of flat pancetta that was to be a mainstay of a pasta-dominated week.

The woman behind the counter, to whom I chat regularly, said after she’d got my goodies together: “Have you tried this new smoked speck? It’s Australian. I’ll cut you some.” I hadn’t tried it and she proceeded to whip off six good slices for which there was no charge.

I shared it over a glass of wine on my front verandah with my friend, Julia, the foodie. “It’s very good,” she said. God I love the South Melbourne Market.

Julia is a great friend, who said to me “I know you’re really going [the big trip] but you can always use my house as your Melbourne base whenever you come back. There’s plenty of room in my garage, too, if you need to store anything.” She’s a very good friend.

In a couple of weeks, we’re off to dinner for a spring carnival adventure under a big top on the St Kilda foreshore. The food is by Greg Malouf, which will be spectacular. Oh, and there’s also something called a Turkish Delight cocktail, doubtless some excellent wine and camel racing on the beach. Bring it on.

And speaking of wine/s, there has been a shitload pass my lips since I last deigned to write something here.

To go with the first pasta of the week, I chose the Deakin Estate viognier, a full-bodied beast that sits well with me. I bought a mixed case of six viognier with six Heathcote shiraz from the Wine Box Warehouse to be my quaffers. A good decision, that.

The pasta was a cracker. After dry-frying some pine nuts, I cut the pancetta into lardons and pan-fried it until it was crisp. There was plenty of tasty fat as a result, which, with some extra virgin olive oil, finely chopped garlic and a splash of pasta water, would be the sauce. Then I shredded some silverbeet and tossed it in with the spaghetti for the last 60 seconds of the cooking process. I combined it all and the added a huge dollop of mascarpone and some cracked pepper. I ate and drank well.

It’s hard to keep tabs on just what has passed my lips of late.

My local Vintage Cellars has had a special for a while … two bottles of Paringa Estate pinot for 50 bucks, a great price given that its somewhere between $33-$38 a bottle. I’ve bought two lots. There may be more. OK, there will be more.

Also on the wine list of late at Chateau Mick:

·    ·   2010 Darling Park Chardonnay
·   2010 Chateau Tahbilk shiraz
·   2012 Sanguine Estate Progeny Shiraz
·   2011 Willow Creek Pinot (I prefer the 2010, which is an absolute cracker)
·   2009 M Chapoutier Domaine Touron Shiraz or Syrah
·   2011 Reserve Mont-Redon Cotes du Rhone
·   2011 Cosme Palacio Rioja
·   2011 Les Vignes De Bila-Haut
·   2012 Ingoldby Shiraz
·   A super beer called Hopi-Nator from Holgate
·   2011 Jean Reverdy La Reine Blanche Sancerre (amazing)
·   2010 Baileys of Glenrowan Petite Sirah
·   Caudillo Tempranillo (can’t remember the vintage
·   2009 Seppelt Chalambar Shiraz
·   2012 D’Angelo Lady Chardonnay
·   A Spanish white called Inedito Blanco
·   2012 Bourgogne Aligole
·   Vignoble Gibault Sauvignon
·   Dopmaine Charles Audoin  Bourgogne
·   Inedito Rioja
·   2011 Bourgogne Les Taupes Maison Dieu

·   I reckon there are some more that slipped through the cracks, but them’s the breaks … although the favourite pre-dinner pint of Campari and soda did have pride of place several times on the kitchen bench during cooking.

Like I said earlier, distractions are the main reason I don’t write here as often as I should. Pleasant distractions though.

And speaking of drinks, my son, Liam, said to me recently: “What about a couple of beers before dinner at the Albert Park Hotel. It’s a nice night and we can sit outside.”

We grabbed a table out the front of the pub (yeah, we both smoke) and he went inside and ordered two schooners of Carlton Draught. He came back $15 lighter in the pocket.

Yes. It was a nice night and we had two each, but 15 bucks?

I got home and told the pub on Twitter to shove it fair up its clacker. Two Carlton Draughts for $15. Jesus wept … and yes, he’s still crying over it.

NICE RACK

Roll on the weekend when I take the LandCruiser to have a canopy fitted, with supports for a roof rack, which I have ordered for a very good price, along with a high-lift jack and shovel kit. It’s a 4WD warehouse in Campbellfield and the prices there are fabulously cheap.

While I was in the area, I checked out Terry, the bloke who built my camper-trailer. I hadn’t seen him for three years. It was great to catch up and suss out where he’s going with his business, which, from what he said, it very well.

I mentioned that I have a small tear in the canvas and he kindly gave me a large piece to patch it. He’s a good man is Terry.

GETTING NAKED

I also took time out to go to a wine launch held in an art gallery near the office. It was a company called Naked Wines … and there were about a dozen and a half wines on taste.

After being stood up by my friend, Emily (she had work commitments), I wandered along and took in the tastes. I reckon I got a bit worried when I tasted what was supposed to be The Diamond Shiraz from Jen Pfeiffer in Rutherglen. “Sorry,” she said, “but we got the label wrong. It’s merlot.”

Out of all of them, I didn’t really find a wine that I would buy by choice. The finger-food was good though, especially the Peking Duck and the beef sliders.

Mornington ride ... pinot bound

If ever you were going to have a local, you'd want it to be like the Mornington Peninsula. What a perfect locale for a local ... and it lends itself to alliteration: peninsula, pinot, peace, perfect plentiful produce, pinot, pleasant people, pinot. You get the drift. Did I mention pinot?

As a getaway, it doesn't get a lot better ... not too far from the big smoke, but far enough to embrace all of the above and then some. And tasting the many wines on offer was a great portent of things to come for when the Mornington Peninsula Vignerons Association brought its best to Melbourne for the annual roadshow (more on that later). Oh, and a goodly dose of fresh air is a bonus. My trip for the weekend was as a guest of the association.

Your head spins (I imagine it's like being in The Exorcist) as you drive through the region ...  so many cellar doors, restaurants, produce outlets, great views ... you name it, it seems to be there ... OK, even the occasional glass blower. And, of course, beautiful greenery/scenery every which way you look.

My GPS is seemingly from another century (OK, it is), hence I got lost. I phoned Lindenderry at Red Hill, which was to be my home for the weekend, misdialled by a digit and connected with a local woman (it was the first time in a fair while that I'd connected in any way with a woman), who was only too happy to set me on the path to its door. It turns out that I was on the right track anyway, just a couple of hundred metres off course. What a pleasant woman.

I parked out the front of the impressive complex, wandered in and front office manager Damien greeted me like a long-lost brother and then gave me a rundown on all things Lindenderry before opening my gift of a bottle of 2008 Lindenderry Reserve Pinot. "You look as if you'd enjoy one of these," he said. What a treat, what a welcome. What a magnificent first drop for what was to be a weekend of magnificent drops.

The room was huge, beautifully furnished and finished. The view from the king-sized bed through the wall of windows looked out to the wilds of the estate (OK wilds is maybe overstating it), with water from a dam and a lake, home to seemingly a million croaking frogs (if you can have birdsong, then why not frogsong?) and assorted birdlife - including a couple of huge, white resident geese - breaking up the greenery. What a view.

I did the sensible thing (not) on the way to the peninsula when I stopped to get petrol. Given that I hadn't has a smoke for a couple of weeks, buying a pack and a lighter wasn't what I wanted to do, but I did anyway ... after all I would be on it a bit (OK a lot) for most of the weekend and I was sure that cravings would do their thing. Shit, I enjoyed the first one out on the balcony before it was time to get ready for dinner. 

And what better preparation for dinner than a soak in a really deep spa, its jets pounding away to relieve all the pent-up bodily anger that had manifested thanks to the abysmal snarls traffic getting out of Melbourne.

Suitably tubbed and scrubbed (and yeah, I put on a clean T-shirt), the Linden Tree Restaurant, under chef Phillip Edwards (he trained under Herman Schneider at Two Faces) beckoned and delivered in spades.

A shot glass of (nicely hot) sweet corn and basil soup got the tastebuds doing their thing. Then, a starter of  seared scallops, lobster tortellini, sautéed shitake and enoki mushrooms, asparagus, tarragon and mushroom veloute, enjoyed while sitting with Damien (he was my dinner companion for the night given that I couldn't find anyone to accompany me for the weekend) alongside a gorgeous open fire was a cracker. Mains upped the ante: oven-roasted Flinders Island lamb rump, cooked to pink, moist perfection and served with stinging nettle and pea puree, confit potatoes and shallots and some sautéed green beans on the side. A glass or two of shiraz helped the cause, not that the meal needed any help.

After dinner, I did the sensible thing and retired to my room, put on the footy on the TV, and finished the most-excellent Lindenderry Reserve Pinot. It certainly helped the cause in terms of a good, no great, night's sleep.

I don't reckon there are too many better ways of starting a day than on the balcony with a good cup of tea, a smoke and the aforementioned birdlife, frogsong, beautiful views and fresh air.

Brekkie beckoned at about nine, so I headed for the restaurant and tucked in to the buffet ... a fruit platter,  bacon, eggs and some super-tasting mushrooms, toast and a pot of tea was a great before hitting the road to Montalto, where I was due to be tasting at 10am.

For a change, the GPS got it right and pretty soon I was parking the car at the magnificent Montalto vineyard.

The view down the hill, across hectares of vines, lawns dotted with all sorts of sculptures to the wetlands was worth the price of admission.

The vegetable garden, when it's in full flight must be a sight to behold ... it was in a winter sort of hiatus and still looked spectacular, not to mention supplying goodies of all sorts for the menu.

I made myself known to Justin behind the bar and launched into a tasting of eight or so of the winery's finest, including a couple of single-vineyard chardonnays ... who said chardy's best days were past it? Elevenses took on a meaning of its own with the Eleven series chardonnays ... winemaker Simon Black’s summation: “Pale straw with green hues. Lemon, lime, tangerine and grapefruit combine with floral and mineral notes by way of slate and flint. Creamy aromas fuse with hints of almond, anise and oyster shell. There is subtle oak influence by way of coffee and hazelnuts with hints of struck match. The palate has a tight citrus focus balanced with some white stone fruits including nectarine. There is remarkable tension here and a long and focused palate with good mid-palate structure and oak tannins. Creamy mouth feel from both oak handling and lees influence adds richness through to the long nutty finish.” Me, I would have said “bloody fantastic”.

And just for the record, given that I was driving and that it went against the grain, I spat.

Justin explained that during the warmer weather, the vineyard packed hampers for guests to picnic down in the wetlands. That's certainly on my agenda before I depart the state.

I had a packed agenda for the weekend, courtesy of PR woman Betsy Pie, so pretty soon I was back on the road, bound for Willow Creek where the chardonnay, courtesy of diminutive and talented winemaker Geraldine McFaul,  took centre stage (it was a starring role) for lunch at the splendid, view-endowed Salix Restaurant, with the equally splendid Karina, the Willow Creek marketing manager. 

Weight gain for the weekend was always on the agenda given my food intake. Pan-fried veal, mushrooms, artichoke and a side of potatoes with rainbow chard was sufficient to sustain me before Karina's tour of the inner workings of Willow Creek, including the special tasting room and the mega-impressive barrel room.

She's a great woman (also a friend of Julia, my friend from down that way).

During lunch we solved a few of the world's problems and got on like a house on fire. It was too soon time to hit the road again, but not before Karina gave me a bottle of chardy and a bottle of pinot gris to enjoy back at home.

Fortunately, my agenda had a few hours of R&R before my next dinner date, so an afternoon nap beckoned ... it worked.

Pretty soon, I was back in the spa, armed with a glass of pinot, and relaxing post-nap, before I put on my glad rags and greeted my chauffeur for the night.

If you’re in the area and tasting, it can be made so much easier if you have a designated driver. In my case when I had to travel for dinner, it was Chris Gregory, of Your Shuttle. She’s a local and loves the area. “Everyone should visit here at least four times a year,” she said in reference to the seasons.

She is a splendid woman, who arrived on time and spirited me to Paringa Estate, home of some of the area's best pinots (its restaurant got its first hat in The Age Good Food Guide a couple of weeks after I visited) for dinner with the owner and winemaker, Lindsay McCall.

Lindsay makes some of the world’s best pinots (ask cricket great Ian Botham if you’re in doubt. Beefy’s a regular customer). He (McCall, not Botham) was a great dinner companion. Great and dinner go hand in hand here: chef Julian Hills (ex-Courthouse Hotel, North Melbourne) is to food what McCall is to winemaking. It was a new menu and triumphant. Lindsay started with wallaby, me a soufflé.  So far, so (so) good. For mains, Lindsay ordered the rare-cooked wagyu; I went for the hare compilation (hare four different ways. Who would create hare baklava?). It was ably assisted by the Paringa Estate Single Vineyard pinot. At meal’s end, I said (without a hint of pissing in Lindsay’s pocket), “that’s the best meal I’ve eaten. Ever”. 

We enjoyed our way through a couple more glasses of the super pinot (dessert was never going to happen) while we indulged our passion for all things cricket. All too soon, it was time to be collected by Chris, who would get me home, safe and sound. She did. It was still a reasonable hour (from memory about 11) so a couple more glasses of pre-sleep pinot seemed like a good idea. It was a great way to ease out of the day before the need for sleep won.

The next morning ritual was the same as the one before ... cuppa, smoke and view time on the balcony before the brekkie buffet, a shower and packing, ready to hit the road bound for Darling Park Winery for some more early-morning tasting. I bade Damien a fond farewell (he was a wonderful advertisement for Lindenderry), banged my destination into the GPS, pointed the ute in the right direction and gunned it.

As I walked towards the tasting room at Darling Park, it was with some trepidation as I got to the door. I met winemaker Judy Gifford and I said to her: "I'm not too sure my body is up to a 10am tasting. I don't usually drink this early (OK, not often)." I'm sure she's heard it a million times before, but she smiled and after introducing me to all the staff, she eased me into it, explaining the finer points of each wine as we went (and, believe me, there are many fine points). Judy is a very special person, one with whom I really felt connected. She has five adopted daughters, runs a vineyard and is the chief winemaker to boot, so she has pretty full days, not that you'd notice. She's amazingly pleasant, friendly and has a great sense of humour. Her wines – 2011 Rose, 2010 pinot, 2011 reserve pinot, 2012 shiraz, Cane-Cut Late Harvest Pinot Gris, 2011 sauvignon blanc, 2012 pinot gris, Olivarni Single-Vineyard Pinot, reserve chardonnay and Hercules Chardonnay – they were very, very good, especially the 2010 pinot, a wine for which I'd leave home. Think spice and plum on the nose, Morello cherries, a touch of oak and fine tannins. Judy says it’s drinking well now but will evolve beautifully in the bottle until 2018. Although I was doing the right thing and spitting, there was no way the 2010 pinot was heading for the spittoon. Swallow, man, swallow. It was simply too good to spit. 

All too soon, it was again time to hit the road, sadly, given that I had an appointment to share a plate of cheese (thankfully no wine ... never thought I'd ever utter those words) with Red Hill Cheese cheese maker Trevor Brandon. Judy walked me to the car to farewell me, I promised to return, and I was off.

The cheese place was down a really pretty dirt track (bravo GPS) and soon I was chatting all things cheese with Trevor, figuring out which cheese went with which wine and the like. I sat with him and tasted 10 delicious cheeses. Try the buttery Granny’s Blue or the fetta, which I’d almost leave home for. Trevor has forgotten more about cheese than most people will ever know.

Trevor’s cheeses are crackers (ha ha) and, given the throng of tourists wandering around the place, very popular. I'd happily have sat there all day, but, alas, PR woman Betsy's itinerary had one final stop for the day on my agenda ... Port Phillip Estate for lunch (like I needed anything to eat). The cheese stop ticked all the boxes, so it was then back to the GPS and time to punch in Port Phillip Estate to meet Kate, the PR woman there, have a bite and sample some of its pinot.

It's just down the road from Darling Park (the roads were getting somehow familiar by this time). It's a huge place and this lunchtime it was packed. I finally caught up with Kate and she took me on a tour of the accommodation. Magnificent adequately describes it. The views from the two-bedroom suite were to die for.

We made our way upstairs and Kate said: "What do you feel like for lunch?" A quick squiz at the menu and I opted for an antipasto plate with beautiful olive oil, some Calabrese sausage and some very good bread. Even the thought of wading through the antipasto was daunting, given the amount I'd eaten and sipped during the weekend. "The fried whitebait with aioli is terrific," she said. "Do you like whitebait." What's not to like about whitebait? "Sure," I said, "but it's thanks, but no thanks. I really couldn't eat it." Didn't seem to matter because she brought it anyway, along with a glass of Port Phillip's single-vineyard pinots (it's $75 a bottle), which made it all better again. "I'll catch up with you in about 30 minutes and give you a tour of the winery," she said. The wine was super, so too the food, which, despite tasting terrific, was a struggle. I nursed the glass of pinot for an hour while I waited for Kate to reappear. Every time I saw her she was flying hither and tither ... there was a huge crowd in. Finally, it was time to put the cue in the rack. She was obviously too busy to get back to me (I understood) and I finally caught her attention and told her I had another appointment and couldn't wait any longer (OK, it was a white lie) and that I had to go. She understood. I thanked her for lunch and punched home into the GPS ... I was done.

I headed for the sanctuary of Chateau Mick, well satisfied and then some that I'd had one very, very special weekend. I'd eaten extremely well, tasted some magnificent wines (I spat far too much for my liking, but that's what you've gotta do when you're driving and you're responsible) and met some very special people.

The Mornington Peninsula is indeed in very good hands.    

STAY AND EAT HERE

LINDENDERRY AT RED HILL

142 Arthurs Seat Road, Red Hill. 5989 2965

www.lancemore.com.au/lindenderry

Lunch

SALIX RESTAURANT at WILLOW CREEK VINEYARD

166 Balnarring Road, Merricks North.

5989 7448

Dinner   

EAT HERE

Paringa Estate Restaurant

44   Road, Red Hill South. 5989 2324

www.paringaestate.com

  

Taste here

MONTALTO

33 Red Hill-Shoreham Road, Red Hill South. 5989 8412. www.montalto.com.au

DARLING PARK WINERY

232 Red Hill Road, Red Hill. 5989 2324. www.darlingparkwinery.com.au

RED HILL CHEESE

Red Hill Cheese, 81 William Road, Red Hill. 5989 2035. www.redhillcheese.com.au

PORT PHILLIP ESTATE

263 Red Hill Road, Red Hill South. 5989 4444. http://www.portphillipestate.com.au

GET CIGS HERE

RED HILL GENERAL STORE

www.redhillgeneralstore.com

(They were in the process of closing up as I arrived hell bent on buying more cigarettes. Like, it seems, everyone on the peninsula, the woman was as cheery as all get out and only too happy to be helpful.)

SHOW BUSINESS

It didn’t take long for the wine roadshow to hit town … at Comme Restaurant in the city … and it was a bit like old home week.

I headed there with my friend, Emily (she drove and subsequently spat because she’s responsible), who was the tallest woman at the show  (the transvestite dressed in grey didn’t count). And I also caught up with PR woman Betsy for the first time. Great woman.

There were 20-odd wineries there and, for a pleasant change, there was no spitting involved on my part. So many great wines, so little time.

It was great to catch up again with Lindsay from Paringa Estate and Judy from Darling Park to shoot the breeze. All the winemakers were on song and only too happy to speak of the virtues of their drops. And there were so many virtues.

In a couple of weeks, Em and I are heading to another wine launch, this time Naked Wines, which is putting several winemakers front and centre. The great thing is it’s about a 10-minute walk from the office.

THE BEAUT UTE

Life on the road is looming fast (there’s so much to do) and my LandCruiser has had my full attention.

I had some new wheels and tyres fitted … it now looks like a beast.

I also got a multimedia station fitted in the dash … it’s a computer, sound system, phone system, GPS (at last a new one), DVD player, reversing camera  … it does everything except make coffee (although I haven’t yet read the manual. Maybe it makes coffee).

I’ve also booked it in in a couple of weeks to have a canopy fitted and a roof rack. Can’t wait.

THAT’S TATT

Regular readers will know that I don’t visit the supermarket very often, but last week was one of those times.

It was a gorgeous day in terms of weather, so after I’d put the shopping away, I thought “what the hell should I do now?”.

Bugger it, I thought, I’m gonna get another tattoo, so I went to see Simon at my nearest parlour. He wasn’t bust, so after a while looked through his books of designs, I settled on some Sanskrit characters that say: “One life, one chance”.

Plenty of pinot on the menu

Next weekend I’m off to the Mornington Peninsula to do some fine dining and wine tasting.

I’m not sure where I’m staying (although I think it’ll be two venues) or where I’m eating but I do know there will be plenty of  wine tasting to do. I’m just waiting on the PR woman to put together my itinerary and get back to me.

The trip is a precursor to the Mornington Peninsula wine show (I think it focuses on pinot) coming to Melbourne in September and I have to write a yarn for it.

It made me smile when the PR woman asked whether I’d be bringing a partner … me and a partner? Nah, that ship sailed long ago. Still it was nice to be asked.

NEW VENUE
Breakfast has taken a turn for the better at weekends. My good mate Ben has bought a share in a café not too far from my house (OK, it’s a five-minute drive).
It’s called Herbie Mills and it’s at 36 Mills Street, Middle Park.
The food is bloody good. The scrambled eggs on toast are as good as it gets matched to some thick, hand-cut bacon. For a change yesterday I had tea rather than coffee. They actually use real loose-leaf tea.
I had just poured a cup when my good friend Tiff lobbed and gave me a hug. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her. She hosts a sports radio show, among other things. “I’m taking acting lessons,” she said, “I may head to LA for a year to see how it goes.” If anyone can crack it, Tiff can. She worked on TV in the States for a bit over a year and has done shitloads of TV work here.
We’re planning a farewell dinner – either she’ll be heading off and I definitely will be.
Just as I finished breakfast I got a second hug – it was one of Liam’s exes – it was a bit of a struggle because she’s a bit of a head case. I was relieved she didn’t hang around.

ON THE MENU
It’s been a good time for food and wine recently … Liam spends more time in the kitchen than I do … and that’s a good thing.He tends to cook things that I never think of, like a couple of nights ago when we had pork and stir-fried vegies with noodles. Bloody good thing it was.
I had a crack the other night and that crack turned into a cracker. I’d bought some smoked ocean trout at the market the day before and I thought I’d have a go at some pasta.
I headed to the new deli/fresh produce shop around the corner from home – it was my first time there – to grab some ingredients. Mascarpone, fresh dill, asparagus and an avocado were the order of the day. The place isn’t cheap (I know how much rent they pay. I had a glass or two with the developer who built the place) but the produce is good. A case of you get what you pay for.
I blanched the asparagus for about 90 seconds and then mixed it and the dill through the mascarpone, to which I’d added a splash of the pasta water. The (perfect) avocado went into the penne at the last minute with the chunks of smoked ocean trout. It should be on the menu at my place at least once a week. The picture is a sample of the vino that's made its way onto the home menu. The E. Guigal Cotes du Rhone, for me, was the standout in terms of taste and value. And the fact that Liam is not drinking wine is a bonus. I get it all.

NO MATCHES, JUST PATCHES

Son Liam and I decided five days ago that we should give up the smokes. He’s a bit like me in that regard … goes through so, so many.

It really shocked me when he said: “I’m 33 years old, but I’ve been smoking for 20 years.”

We wandered up to road to see Martin, the chemist, and each grabbed a two-week pack of patches. So far, so good. We’re both enjoying not smoking.

ONE CAR ALMOST GONE

There have been about 700 views of my Subaru Forester on the carsales website. Several have been in touch and taken it for a spin. Reckon it’ll be sold before the week is out. Then it will be time to sell the LandCruiser ute.

Liam is thrilled to the back teeth with his new HiLux ute. He has taken it for a (about 2500 kilometres) spin this weekend. I’ve had a drive of his … gotta get one soon.

Surprise right on thong

The bearings in my clothes dryer have seen better days (a bit like me really … yeah I’ve occasionally lost my bearings, too) and I’m kind of between the devil and the deep-blue sea. I can’t be bothered getting it repaired because I’m outta here sooner rather than later and it would probably mean one less case of wine I could have on the road, given what the repair would likely cost.

But I nonetheless use it now and then when the weather isn’t conducive to drying stuff in the sunshine. OK, it grinds sometimes, sometimes not (a bit like me really).

So it was last weekend. Liam and I had done all of our washing (and there was plenty of it) and he offered to take it to the laundrette up the street to use the dryers.

No big deal.

He buggered off with the load of clothes and I did the only sensible thing; I opened a bottle of wine.

Pretty soon he was back with everything dry. Unusually, I had a fit of “put the washing away immediately” despite the lure of the wine and the chance to do it later.

As I was sorting through it (I took my glass of wine with me anyway), I thought “This isn’t mine”. It was a very feminine-looking, multi-coloured thong (Playboy label).

“Is there something you want to tell me?” I asked Liam. “Or did one of your friends leave this behind [not that it would cover a behind]?”

“Nah,” he said, “nothing to do with me.”

Just imagine a bloke in a relationship doing the washing and getting home with a mystery thong. I’m not sure that he wouldn’t be deep in the shit.

“Nothing to do with me” reminded me of a time that I loaned my company car (yeah, those were the days) to a bloke in our office. He had it for a while (OK, I got a replacement car) and when he returned it, my wife (about a week later) found a very flash pair of women’s shoes under the front passenger seat.

I got the third degree, not to mention the fourth and fifth degrees, and pleaded my innocence … well, I was innocent, but she wasn’t happy.

I challenged the bloke who borrowed the car and he said: “Nothin’ to do with me. I’ve never seen them.” Yeah, I thought, thanks for that, you bastard. He went on to become coach of a national league soccer team and win a title (I’d given him a few titles, none of them complimentary). I went on to divorce. I’m pretty sure the shoes didn’t play a part in that but you never know.

The moral of the story is: be tidy. Don’t leave shit around. You just never know who you may get into trouble.

DUCK AND PINOT EXTRAVAGANZA

We had a quiet dinner last week: an intimate gathering of 35 friends at Old Kingdom restaurant in Fitzroy.

OK, I reckon it is the noisiest restaurant I’ve been in … it rivalled but then went way beyond Nobu on the noise level register (there’s a yarn about Nobu somewhere on the blog).

And it looked like a pisspot’s convention. I’m reliably assured that there were 72 bottles of wine at our three tables.

There were spring rolls and prawn crackers aplenty before the main event. The deal with the main meal was that it started with Peking duck, then stir-fried duck, then duck soup with tofu and veg bits. Oh, and there were plates of greens, bowls of ribs and something else I can’t remember.

Our table of 10 got through five ducks, carved at the table, a pile of pancakes and spring onions and cucumber and seemingly a litre of sauce. Liam has the appetite of three men and it did him in. It was one of the few occasions I’ve ever seen him knock back food.

It was the first time in a while that I’ve caught up with my friend Andrew McUtchen (do a Google search for his website and have a listen to some of his music), who has featured a few times on this blog … he’s a great singer, songwriter, athlete, feature writer and soon-to-be first-time dad … and, among other things, he’s also a great bloke.

He let it slip that he’s soon off to New York.

“I’m there for 48 hours,” he said, “to interview Roger Federer.”

“You’re what?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said, “I get to spend a day with him.”

Tough gig, that. I hope he gets to have a hit with him. Knowing Andrew’s sporting prowess, it wouldn’t surprise me if he takes the odd game off the champ. I’m looking forward to the story.

THE GLOVED ONE … NOT

I was recently at the market buying goodies to make a huge feed of my favourite winter warmer, laksa.

Now, I’m a regular at this particular market stall and the service (and certainly the produce) is good.

After a couple of laps of the shelves, I was done and, with a basket full of goodies, headed off to pay.

There was the girl who usually serves me (she’s always up for a chat) … she was on her haunches, busily smearing lip balm all over her mouth. She stood up and said: “Sorry about that. I’m ready.”

You may be ready, I thought to myself, but I’m not ready to have you handling my food until you’ve at least washed your hands or at least put on some latex gloves.

She smiled. I said: “Nah, I’ll do another lap of the shop … there’s always something else to buy.” And then I headed to the other till, operated by her mother, who, as far as I could tell, hadn’t been applying lip balm or scratching her arse or whatever.

PORK HUNT A FRUITFUL EXERCISE

Liam and I did a shopping trip on Friday night to stock up the pantry with a bulk buy of cans of diced tomatoes, bottles of passata, a few hundred teabags, six kilograms of dried pasta, a case of bourbon and Coke cans and, among other things, a four-kilogram slab of pork belly, which we planned to have for dinner last night.

Saturday dawned too early (yeah, I was up before seven) and I got through the domestics before heading off for an appointment with the hairdresser (he gets the shits when I call him a barber).

“So, what’s the deal?” he asked, “Are we actually cutting any off this time?”

Given that my last trip there was to get the colour ramped up (no cutting), I said to him: “Right, it’s time for a haircut.” His eyes lit up.

He happily hacked away for a while and then said: “That’s it. That’s just enough off. I’m done.”

Not so fast, Muchamba (Seinfeld fans will get that), “get those scissors back and cut some more”.

“I don’t want you pissed off with me. How much more should I cut.”

“Thin the sides out, cut it so you can see my ears, take some more off the back, but leave the rat’s tail,” I said.

It’s the first time in about 18 months that I’ve had short hair, but I kinda like it. Don’t know how I’ll cope with the frostbite on my ears, but it’ll grow. Liam has been enlisted to put some beads into the rat’s tail over the weekend. Once a hippie, always a hippie … that’s me.  

The young fella took on kitchen duties last night for the pork extravaganza. He prepared lots of vegies to roast, including two full heads of garlic and just half of the pork … still, that’s two kilograms of beast.

We’d eased our way through a bottle of Mr Mick Tempranillo (reckon it’s not named after me but what the hell) as a warm-up before I opened a bottle of 2000 Penfolds Bin 389 to let it breathe for an hour or so.

Soon, it was pork o’clock. Sweet mother of Jesus. How good was this beast?

We each tucked into a huge plate of goodies and surprise, surprise, I cleaned my plate, unlike Liam.

We were both sitting there, belts undone, and moaning.

“It’s the nearest you can get to OD-ing on food,” said Liam. “It’s kind of like the dog that’s broken into the feed bag and emptied it.”

The Bin 389 (it sells for about 80 or so bucks … it had been in my wine cupboard for a while) was a cracker.

Wine Spectator said: “ Starts out dark and dense, but quickly finds a sense of elegance that lets the pepper-and-liquorice-scented blackberry and cherry flavours come sailing through, echoing beautifully on the firm, fine-grained finish.”

I certainly got the pepper and liquorice, but also a nice hint of leather (not an unpleasant thing) … OK, I’m not a wine wanker. This was a bloody good drop and a great way to end the night.

STRANGE KIWI WAYS

A mate recently sent this to me. It needs to be shared.

New Zealand officials have released a list of baby names put forward by parents that were rejected because they were too bizarre or offensive, including "Lucifer" and "Mafia No Fear".

The list of 77 names reveals one child was set to be called "Anal" before the Department of Internal Affairs vetoed the proposal, while another narrowly avoided being dubbed "." or full stop.

Other names on the list included "4Real", "V8", and "Queen Victoria".

In some cases, parents appeared to have lost any inspiration for coming up with a moniker for their offspring, wanting to call the latest addition to the family simply "2nd", "3rd" or "5th".

The department's rules forbid any name that might imply a child holds an official title or rank, so "King", "Duke" and "Princess" were among those that had been turned down most since 2001.

"Justice" was the most popular, having been rejected 62 times, although "Justus" and "Juztice" also failed to gain official approval.

In 2008, New Zealand's family court ordered that a nine-year-old girl whose parents had called her "Talula Does The Hula From Hawaii" should have her name changed because it was embarrassing and "makes a fool of the child".

At the time, judge Rob Murfitt criticised parents who gave their children bizarre names, citing examples such as "Number 16 Bus Shelter", "Midnight Chardonnay" and twins called "Benson" and "Hedges".

The photographer who sapped my joie de vivre

Liam and I recently had breakfast with the mother of my children and her husband at a café around the corner from home. It was a beautiful clear sunny day (singlet weather for me although most around me were rugged up) and the coffee was doing its thing before the bacon and eggs made their appearance.

We were just shooting the breeze, having a quiet cigarette (yeah, all four of us smoke) when I watched a bloke set up a camera on a tripod, point it at us and start to snap away. No, no, I thought, at least come and ask permission.

Up I got and marched over to him, standing as tall and puffed up as I could muster, and said: “What’s the story, mate? I don’t like the fact that you’re taking pictures of us.” He said: “It’s OK, I work for the council. I’ve been told to blur all the faces anyway.”

“No, it’s not OK. I don’t give a fat rat’s arse that you work for the council or are gonna blur the faces. Just stop pointing that thing at us.” “I’m almost finished,” he said. “No,” I said, feeling my joie de vivre draining rapidly, “you are finished.”

Our waitress, Pru, suggested that I should let him do his thing. “Settle down, Michael,” she said. But I fired back: “No. Don’t people understand that it’s manners to ask? Don’t people understand that they may appear in some council initiative, linking them to something that they’re opposed to? Don’t people understand that there may be people who don’t want their whereabouts out there, blurred face notwithstanding? It’s not that hard.”

The bacon and eggs were good.    

A GREAT COMEBACK

It was a comeback of sorts this week when I headed to my favourite bar, Lina’s, for a bite to drink with some friends I haven’t seen for a couple of years. It’s also probably three weeks since I’ve been to Lina’s, which has gotta be a record.

My friends Jules and Diane and their teenage kids Flynn, Ollie and Gina (I haven’t seen them since they were little tackers … there’s still a picture of the family on my fridge) were in Melbourne for a family wedding. Another friend, Libby, and my son, Liam, rounded out the numbers.

We set out to diminish Lina’s supply with a couple of bottles of Bowen Estate shiraz, along with some Stefano Lubiana Tasmanian pinot and M. Chapoutier  Côtes-du-Rhône grenache syrah.  Yeah, it was good to be back.

The food did its thing as well. Piadinas and bowls of fries with garlicky aioli kept the kids quiet for a short time (young Flynn, 16, has a huge appetite … reckon he’d join the Taliban if it made its own smallgoods) before we put Raf, the chef, to the test. Eye fillet steaks (I had mine served rare, when it almost still had a pulse), beef daube, penne with broccoli and chilli were the mains, with sautéed silverbeet with fetta and pine nuts, more fries and cauliflower segments crumbed and flash fried, were on the side. Chef Raf, he’s a good mate, was on song.

And what better way to finish a meal than with a cheese platter that included, among others, Le Delice triple French brie.

It was a great catch-up with Jules (he owns a nickel mine in South America), who let drop a couple of revelations. “Early days, when I was a geology student I used to hang with a few musos, Stevie Wright [of the Easybeats] in particular. I even went water skiing with the boys from AC/DC.” My flabber was gasted. “I even spent an afternoon with Tiny Tim, who very proudly showed me a picture of Miss Vicky, who later became his wife.”  

Just when you think you know someone, he drops something like that into the conversation.

As the visitors headed for the burbs to prepare for the wedding, Liam, a friend Danielle, and I had one more M. Chapoutier  Côtes-du-Rhône grenache syrah for the road, before I grabbed a bottle of same to take home as company for a few hours of watching the cricket from England.

Like Australia, I collapsed not too long after.

CRUNCHY GRANOLA … SWEET

My friend, Jane, made good her word last week, and delivered to me a container of her homemade granola, complete with a lovely ribbon around the container.

It was just brilliant. I’ll see during the week and get her recipe and post it here somewhere. It’s to die for with some natural yoghurt.

And on the subject of gifts, my friend Dave from Swords Wines, gave me a bottle of really tasty onion jam. A woman with a shop near his home makes it. Every time cheese gets front and centre at my place (and that’s regularly), so does the onion jam.

FREEZER A JOLLY GOOD …

Given that my son, Liam, has such a voracious appetite, keeping the freezer stocked is becoming increasingly difficult.

I spent a whole afternoon, making litres of vegetable soup (with a bit of slow-cooked beef as company in it) and a huge pot of spag bol sauce. I gave the container supply a good workout and finally ended with 20 meals in the freezer, not that I expect it to last any length of time. It’s off to the market again (when I finish this post) to restock.

NAMING CONVENTION

I saw my tattooed homeless mate again the other day near my office. He was sitting on a bench in the sunshine having a takeaway coffee.

I had a rummage through my pocket and got a few bucks in change to give him. His face lit up and he said: “Thanks Paul.” OK, so now I’m either Roy, Ray or Paul. Then he said: “When I get my social service money next week, I’ll by a couple of scratch lottery tickets. If I win something, I’ll give you some.” Then my face lit up.

He’s got a warm side … perhaps if the locals, who ignore him because of his facial tattoos, got to know him, they’d take better care of him.

Me? I’m just waiting for my next name installment.

IN THE DRIVER’S SEAT

After a shitty day at the office (and there aren’t too many. It’s a great place to work), I usually head home – it’s about seven minutes from the office – and ease a cork out of a bottle of red. A sort of stress buster, if you will.

Last Wednesday (it had been a rare shitty day), instead of the vino, I grabbed a mate, Kris, and headed to the local driving range, bought a bucket of 100 balls and, armed with a one wood, a five iron and a pitching wedge, I distressed in the best possible way. Along the way I hit quite a few shockers (it’s been a few months since I picked up a club), but especially with the wood, I creamed a few right up the guts.

Exercise, a bottle of water and some fresh air (OK, it was bloody well freezing), and I could get used to it on a weekly basis.