David Thompson

David Thompson inspects the produce in Springvale

‘Please, please have him back by 2pm.”

Martin Boetz, executive chef at Longrain, sounds exactly like a troubled father. He looks at me like I’m a bikie about to take his wayward 16-year-old out on a date.

Not a problem, I assure him. We’ll be back by two.

“He has a tendency to wander,” says Boetz, unconvinced and with genuine fear in his eyes. I wonder exactly how much wandering havoc a chef with a Michelin star can wreak.

A couple of years back, as part of the Melbourne Food and Wine Festival, David Thompson presented a series of dinners at Boetz’s Longrain restaurant. For devotees of Thai cuisine, it was an obligatory event.

Thompson is acclaimed as an authority on Thai culinary technique. His book on the subject, Thai Food, is regarded as a Bible by cooks eager to dish up something more genuine than a tepid green curry.

Since leaving Australia and opening Nahm at London’s Halkin Hotel in July 2001, he has become the world’s sole purveyor of Thai food to win a Michelin star.

I was slavering at the thought of Thompson’s salted chicken wafers with longans and Thai basil, Murray cod with apple eggplants and, most of all, his taste for authenticity.

First, though, I was taking David Thompson shopping.

After an elaborate exchange of emails and promises, I had a tentative “yes”. Chef would join me for an afternoon of shopping and eating in Melbourne’s little Thailand, Springvale.

Thompson darts around Springvale’s produce markets like a fastidious bee. Amid the glorious hodgepodge, he never settles on one ingredient for long and he covers every inch. He’s full of culinary counsel and I’m paying careful attention. “Lemongrass must be thin and young,” Thompson says, hovering near some thick, dried-out stalks. “Galangal must be pink and vibrant.” I’m taking it all down. I nod.

“Fish sauce isn’t simply fish sauce,” he says, before launching into a sermon on the lesser brands.

“Bad fish sauce tastes like a decomposed cat has fallen into a vat,” he says. While my palate has never detected anything cat-like, I have often felt disappointed by the quality of this salty elixir. Thompson recommends Squid brand as a dependable and widely available cat-less stand-by.

I nod. I buy some Squid.

Thompson, as his protege Boetz will affirm, is an eager teacher. Ask a question and he will respond with warm, encyclopedic force. Ask him about fusion cuisine, however, and he turns hotter than a habanero.

“I hate fusion food. Hate it with a passion,” he has been quoted as saying. For Thompson, the marriage of, for example, teriyaki with chilli shows a poverty of skill and imagination.

This chef is not a fusionista. Nor is he inclined to tag along with food trends. The popularity of molecular gastronomy among young chefs has him a little concerned. “It was interesting, and the understanding of chemistry was helpful, but I fear it’s gone too far,” he says of kitchens conjuring airs and foams.

Thompson prefers authenticity to fusion and fashion. This was evident in the presentation and flavours of his astonishing food at Longrain. I’d never devoured his creations before and had, perhaps, expected gravity-defying stacks of Thai by way of France, by way of a science lab.

Instead, each dish was an accomplished but earthy conversation of sweet, salty, hot and sour. Served in communal bowls, harmonising dishes are eaten together for the full score to emerge.

Although critics of Nahm have been aghast at this style, Thompson is resolute in maintaining the presentation. He is also a determined student of traditional Thai techniques.

Trained as a chef in Sydney, Thompson went to Thailand in 1986 and fell immediately in love. “I went for a holiday and was seduced by the place,” he says. Some years later, he emerged from his lemongrass haze, returning to Sydney to open his first restaurant, the acclaimed Darley Street Thai “in the back of a bloodbath of a hotel” in St Peters.

It was in Thailand that he encountered “an old woman who cooked the most delectable of foods. A depth of palate, seasoning, and textures that was just fantastic. Her cooking transformed my understanding of what Thai food was, from being quite pleasant, photographically delightful street food into something else”.

With partner Tanongsak Yordwai, whom he met on that first trip to Thailand, Thompson has collected and translated a substantial assortment of Thai “memorial books”. It is the custom in Thailand to publish a booklet when someone dies. It documents the deceased’s life; their habits, hobbies and often their favourite recipes. Some in Thompson’s collection are more than a century old. He calls this collection of about 600 books “a delicious treasure trove” and uses many of the recipes on his menu at Nahm.

With the spectre of 2pm looming, I whisk Thompson and Yordwai into Pa Wan for lunch. They pore over the menu, which offers arresting departures from the standard Australian neighbourhood Thai joint, and point out that many of the dishes are Cambodian or Laotian.

Thai restaurants in the West are commonly a mishmash, they tell me. Natives of neighbouring countries frequently man the stoves at your local takeaway.

It’s something of a modern miracle that Thailand remains almost singularly unconquered, its cuisine untempered by foreign influence and its citizens blase about defection to the West.

“There are no Thai refugees,” says Yordwai. Consequently, an undiluted version of Thai cuisine can be hard to find.

At Pa Wan, we select sai oung, a northern Thai pork sausage made with curry paste, coriander and lime leaves; nam kra khoa phod, pork ribs deep fried then cured in garlic and sticky rice; yum nhun plar grob, a crisp fish-skin salad; larb gai, the minced chicken salad popular on Australian Thai menus; and gang pa moo, a “jungle-style” curry of pork, baby eggplants, and bamboo.

Each dish inspired a lesson from the master of Thai cuisine. Each market stop was an education.

It was easy to lose my way in this afternoon of higher learning. I may have been a little lost in the extraordinary world of David Thompson but he didn’t go missing for a moment.

In fact, I had him back to Longrain and a grateful Martin Boetz by 10 minutes after two.

Potatoes

Potato Stall, Union Square Market, New York

Of the great passions to which I’ll publicly admit, two are gambling and food.  Every Monday night, I combine both.  At a shady poker league, I make the rules.  One of the unbreakable ones demands that last week’s pot winner provides next week’s snacks.

Usually, the blokes just lay down a lazy fifty for some average pizza.  One memorable night, however, a fella made baked potatoes. The pizzas arrived as usual, but the sizable Irish contingent in our league looked as though they’d just seen the Pope.  Through a misty vale of tears, six young men from County Wicklow landed on the spuds in preference to pizza with a passion.

Carb count aside; if you’ve a little Irish in you, there’s no point in denying your love for this humble root vegetable.

Although, my mother did do her best to ruin the potato for all time.  Thanks to the foul alchemy of over-boiling, she turned them into grey, chalky flavourless little pellets.

It doesn’t have to be this way.

Now is a decent time to go on the hunt for out-of-the-ordinary potatoes. There’s an excellent spud seller at South Melbourne Markets and some upright purveyors at Prahran and Queen Vic. Here, you’ll almost certainly be able to find the new staple of posh kitchens, the Dutch cream.  This waxy, rich cream-coloured veg is a genuine indulgence au gratin. It’s of such sterling quality, though, that you can just enjoy it gently boiled in its skin with a little sea salt.

You’ll need your ready reference guide to match a tuber with its purpose.  If it’s mash you’re after, add butter, double cream and waist-band inches to Nicolas, Desirees, Bintjes, or King Edwards. For fries, select low sugar varieties such as Sebago, Russet Burbanks, and Bintje. For potato salads, favour waxy varieties like Pink Fir, Patrone or Pink Eyes. If you’re preparing the classic Nicoise or any of its wonderful springtime variations, you may not use anything but Kipfler. I also like to use chats in a salad. And Malaysian curry powder, crushed peanuts, coriander and good mayonnaise to the little boiled bullets.

My favourite way with potatoes, perhaps a Sebago, is to slice thinly and layer the discs in a baking pan with olive oil and a goodly amount of minced garlic between the spud sheets. The taters turn out equally soft and crispy in all the right places after about 40 minutes at 190°. As winter does not seem to be done with us, this could be served in the next few weeks with quality kransky or wurst and some sauerkraut.  What cold afternoon is not improved, after all, by a good continental sausage?

Potato in an even simpler form is the buzzing gastronomic dish right now in Melbourne.

Ripponlea’s Attica is serving “A simple dish of potato cooked in the earth it was grown” to scores of die-hard foodies. I adore all this swooning over Ben Shewry’s $20 spud. I haven’t tried it yet, but I’m on the root-vegetable waiting list.

You have to respect the sort of simplicity that requires eight hours to achieve.  Just as much as you have to respect carbed-up Irishmen at the poker table.

 

 

Phở

Pho Hoang, Springvale

I have never really enjoyed breakfast. For starters, I just can’t really face the thought of eating anything first thing. Add to that what is a dearth of breakfast foods I find appealing and there’s a long history of skipping the most important meal of the day. Cereal is boring and cold, bacon and eggs leave a greasy unsettled feeling, fruit is generally too acidic, and toast just sits in my stomach.

Then I discovered phở, and realised my occidental birth may have been accidental. A mistake. THIS is breakfast food. Potent and satisfying, this Vietnamese rice noodle soup is traditionally eaten for breakfast. Footscray and Richmond serve up oceans of the stuff. Some places specialise in either beef, phở bò, or chicken, phở gà. Others, like the popular Hung Vuong, do a roaring trade in both.  This chain offers four sizes, Pizza-style. I cannot fathom who might work through a “Large”.  The “Baby” at $5.50 is just right.

Phở bò tái at Hung Vuong

The best in Melbourne, hands down, is at Phở Hoang in Springvale. I particularly like their Phở bò tái. It sings freshness, and the stock is particularly rich. After what must have been my twentieth visit, I finally asked why their stock was so good. It turns out the owner also runs a butcher shop around the corner. This means plenty of  bones for the stock pot, and the freshest slices of beef to found floating in a bowl of soup anywhere.

Pho Hoang: 36 Buckingham Ave  Springvale  (03) 9558 4064

Hung Vuong: 128 Hopkins Street, Footscray  (03) 9689 6002

Hung Vuong 2: 150 Victoria St Richmond  (03) 9428 8680

Chicken Pie

Roast chicken, sweet potato & cauliflower cheese

Sharing a roast chicken between two people almost always makes for leftovers. And leftover roast chicken makes for an excellent pie. I always make excess gravy for the roast as well, as it makes for a competent pie filling binder.

I never muck around with making pastry. The frozen puff pastry sheets, even the home brand ones, work well enough for me not to bother. With chicken for filling, which I roughly chop, I either go for mixing it with sauteed leeks or mixed vegetables. Carrots, celery, onion, peas, corn, green beans and asparagus are all chickenlicious.

Chicken, vegetable and gravy pie filling

Puff pastry needs a hot oven to crisp up nicely. 25 minutes at 220 degrees Celsius is the go. I brush my pie with a mixture of egg and a little bit of milk to get a nice golden colour.

Chicken pie

As the pie will usually last two meals, say dinner and lunch the next day, I manage to stretch the one chook across three meals. If I make a stock from the bones to create a soup, which I often do, then it can stretch to four or even five.

Pie with rocket and avocado

Airline Food

Coffee and dates before takeoff in Etihad's Diamond Zone

Call me perverse, but generally speaking I enjoy the experience of airline food. I love the little compartmentalised tray; peeling back foil to reveal portions that bear little resemblance to their menu descriptions; the challenge of dividing the one door-stop slice of cheese between three crackers with the plastic knife supplied. It helps pass the time, if nothing else.

I'll have the chicken. Qantas economy class lunch.

Things do improve as you move up through the classes, of course. Most often I fly cattle. Every now and then my gig as a travel writer affords me a freebie in business class. And, on few remarkable occasions, first.

Business and first passengers can expect their meals to be served course-by-course from a damask draped trolley. Instead of choosing from the printed menu provided, one selects from the trolley as it wheels past. Here, food is served on real plates, saving it from the steamed sameness afforded by little foil trays.

Chicken fattee with Arabic chick peas, organic five leaf salad, potatoes. Etihad First Class.

Half a century ago this was de rigueur for all who took to the skies. These days it’s the preserve of those behind the curtain whose private little domain remains a sanctuary from the lumpenmass.

If you rarely fly in anything but pig pen, though, take heart. Whatever the class, food generally does all taste the same. Aircraft pressurisation and altitude compromise the tastebuds. There’s a whole field of science working behind the scenes to inject flavour into that little foil tray. Over-seasoning is the best defence they’ve presented. If you ate the same thing on the ground, you’d most likely find it too sweet or salty to endure.

Yum Cha, Cathay Pacific Business Class

Over the years I’ve consumed many calories in the air. A few of them have been more than tolerable. I’ve been seduced by yum cha in business on Cathay Pacific and spoiled forever by an Arabian mezze in first class on Etihad. These, it must be said, were a tad better than the Chicken or Beef options down the back.  Hands-down winner, however, came in a little foil tray on Royal Nepal Airlines. It was the best dhal and rice I’ve ever had, served, gratis, by the national carrier of one of the poorest countries on the planet.

Canned Meat

Canned meat at the Helsinki Old Market Hall, Finland

At some point, it is hard to decipher exactly when, a compulsion for acquisition suddenly becomes a ‘collection’.

Beef Goulash

My collection of canned meat is something I can, with some certainty, trace. It is really a spin off of my collection of recalled items. UK and EU beef products were banned, and pulled from shelves, during the mad cow disease scare. And so I began to collect canned meat, beginning with corned beef from the UK. Then I began to pick up any canned meat with an interesting label, from anywhere. Old fashioned illustrations of  animals and fish being the most highly sought after.

This label was probably recently designed, yet looks antique.

Eastern Europe and China by far have the most diverse beasts in tins, and the prettiest labels.

There's a bear in there, and a reindeer as well

Bob the Food Snob

I have a friend who is a food snob. We’ll call him Bob. Largely because Bob is a three-letter name and I’m lazy. Also because Bob the Food Snob has a pleasantly evil ring to it.

Bob is a particular kind of food snob. Which is to say, he’s more prole than posh.  He cares not for provenance of his baby beets or the onset of truffle season. His raison d’être is to find, sample, and ultimately pontificate about curious cuisine. In this, he and I are gastronomic soul mates. And, we are fiercely competitive.

When I stumbled upon Café Armenia, then in Carnegie and now in Caulfield South, I was quite sure I‘d trounced him. I tucked into basturma, finely sliced and subtly spiced sun-dried beef, a perfect plate of pickles and succulent charcoal grilled lamb skewers. With a toothpick still in my gob, I rang Bob to gloat about my conquest.

Bob yawned. He’d been there, and if I hadn’t tried the solinka, a soup with ham, sausages, olives and lemon (I hadn’t), then I’d missed out on the best dish on the menu.

It was infuriating. At least he hadn’t been on a Saturday when there’s live Armenian music. He was gratifyingly miffed as I recounted the atmosphere.

The Armenian incident spiralled into our mutual quest: find great African.

Ethiopia is well represented.  Most particularly in Footscray. Bob and I argue about the merits of one or another and agree: they’re all essentially good. An important element at the Ethiopian table is injera, a traditional bread. Sharing is every bit as central to a meal as bread. At Cafe Lalibela, wat, thick spicy stews, are served on a single tray for all to dip into and enjoy. The flavours are rich and the spices complex. The heat is not explosive, rather gently warming. Eaten with injera, the stew is mopped up and eaten without utensils. This is a dish best enjoyed with Ethiopian beer or a delicious concoction of frankincense and coffee.

Over on Brunswick Street, Nyala is pan-African. It’s a good place to go to try dishes from different parts of the continent. Here, train your tastes buds and settle on a region you’d like to explore further. Try a sweet version of cous cous from Morocco, baboutie, a South African specialty made from mincemeat, fruit chutney, sultanas, almonds, and other spices, or Tanzanian futari, a mixed vegie dish cooked with spices, coconut milk and served with injera.

There’s an Ethiopian maxim: people who eat from the same plate never betray one another. I’ve shared plenty of plates with Bob, but I remain eager to betray him.  Or, at the very least, to stay one step ahead.

And I think I am.  Hello Afghanistan.

Nestled in Oakleigh, Nights of Kabul serves Afghanistani and Persian cuisine of a sort unique in Melbourne. The charcoal meats and kebabs keep the regulars coming, but subtler flavours are to be found on the menu. Mantu, traditional Afghan pastries, filled with mince meat, onion and mild spices then steamed are reminiscent of yum cha. Kitcheri kroot  arrives as pleasantly spiced rice and mung beans topped with yogurt and served with meatballs. If you’re looking for that special place to enlighten your friends about, come here.

Just don’t tell Bob.

 Café Armenia 179 Booran Road, Caulfield South, P: 9578 8151

 Nyala African Restaurant 131 Brunswick St, Fitzroy, P: 9419 9128.

 Nights of Kabul 39 Portman St, Oakleigh, P: 9564 7749

 Cafe Lalibela 91 Irving Street, Footscray, P: 9687 0300

iDuck

I didn’t try this. But I do love the almost desperate duck on the packaging. Like he’s really really trying to convince you that duck gizzards are tasty. Photographed in the basement supermarket at Super Brands Mall, Pudong, Shanghai.

Tasty Smoked Gizzards

Sandwiches

Summer Sausage, Cheddar & Wholegrain Mustard Sandwich at The Lady Killigrew Cafe, MA, USA

I’ve just  bought a cookbook on eBay that I’ve been hunting down for years. Seven Hundred Sandwiches was compiled by kindred spirit Florence A. Cowles back in 1928. As hard as I try, I cannot conceive the idea of 700 sandwich recipes. This is why I must own the book. At some point Florence must have become insane with boredom. I’m hoping the recipes conceived on those down days will raise a smile. But I’m also hoping there’ll be a handful of sandwiches that will blow my mind. It was in this book that one of my favourite sangers of all time, the BLT, was first referenced.

There’s not much point in trying to improve the word of the sandwich god, but like any zealot, I’m always hoping to twist the original scripture.

Although the sandwich bible might not tell you, a great BLT requires bread that’s thick enough to toast without becoming brittle, and whole egg mayonnaise. In my heaven, heirloom tomatoes, thinly sliced Spanish onions and a fiery hot sauce complete the picture. It may not be authentic, but sandwiches provide an excellent canvas for combining flavours you really enjoy. There aren’t many ‘don’ts’ in the world of sandwich construction, and the creation stories behind the most famous sandwiches usually involve a combination of boredom and available items. Just like religion itself, in fact.

Great sandwiches can be found all over the globe. Felafel, souvlaki, Vietnamese bánh mì baguettes, Indian masala dosa, and tacos all qualify as sandwiches in my book. The epicentre of all that is holy wrapped in bread is, however, the United States. Philadelphia Cheesesteaks, Po’ Boys, Reubens, hoagies, hot dogs and hamburgers are all designs worthy of their own scripture.

Burger at Five Guys, Pennsylvania, USA

My most recent sandwich obsession came about from watching an episode of 30 Rock when hungry. The characters all get sandwiches from a secret place in Brooklyn frequented by teamsters. While the contents of the sandwiches aren’t revealed, Tina Fey’s snack-induced rapture got my imagination firing. And not about Tina Fey.

Here’s what I imagined the sandwich to be: a crusty French roll, the kind you get at Vietnamese bakeries, topped with five or six spiced meatballs in a thick tomato sauce and mozzarella cheese. It would be grilled until the cheese is bubbling and the edges of the bread are golden brown. A judicious sprinkling of finely diced onion and hot pickled green peppers would finish it off. Having conceived of them, I set about making them the very next day. They ended up being roughly the size of my calf, and after devouring them, we weren’t quite right for two days. It may have been a colon crime, but it was the best damn sandwich I’ve ever eaten.

The ultimate meatball sub

It pays to be inspired and experimental, but as flexible and forgiving as the sandwich formula is, there are times when being a purist is vital.

The Club Sandwich should always, always simply consist of turkey on the bottom layer and bacon, lettuce and tomato on the top, separated by three layers of toast.

It’s a staple of room service menus and nine times out of ten it’s a crashing disappointment.

It remains to this day my Holy Grail of divine carbs.

Tea

I have created a monster.

But, to give credit, a high-end Fat Farm helped. My hair-shirt wearing, recovering Catholic partner had signed up for ‘the program’ at the Elysia Golden Door Health Retreat. I didn’t.
Even with the edgy double-barrelled name and promise of luxe, fluffy robes and massages, I wasn’t fooled. This would be a week of early mornings, pre-breakfast exercise, and self-improvement workshops. Followed by more exercise, a calorie controlled dinner, and in my case, no doubt, tears. The real deal breaker for me was the ‘no booze, no caffeine’ regimen. Thanks, but no thanks.

Partner was, however. Partner spent a vacation in the pursuit of better bowel movements. I jetted off to Beijing to devour Peking duck, dumplings, and buckets of Tsing Tao beer.

Peking Duck service at the Peninsula Beijing

“I’m going to die,” Partner wailed over the phone on her second day. This non-smoking, moderate-drinking gym member wanted to go to hospital. Her coffee consumption had crept up to six cups a day, and going cold turkey had hit her like a cricket bat to the forehead.

Quite convinced, and secretly delighted, that I’d made the right vacation decision, I cajoled and soothed as best I could from a distance. I suggested tea, but that too was verboten. It was only after Partner’s threats to torch the place that the gentle staff relented with access to small amounts of green tea to help combat her withdrawal symptoms. Meanwhile, in Beijing, I went tea shopping.

Determined to support my newly reformed coffee addict, I sought out the best low-caffeine tea that money could buy, and discovered that I couldn’t afford it. Not in any sort of impressive quantity, anyway. It seems there’s tea, and then there’s tea. Much in the same way that there’s shiraz, and then there’s Grange.

Tea ceremony at Gong Wongfu, the residence of Prince Gong, Beijing, China

The most highly regarded green tea in China is called lung ching, or Dragon Well tea, from Hangzhou. Only the finest leaves are hand-picked using gloves to avoid any perspiration from the harvester’s hands from fouling the end product. A tea connoisseur friend describes its buzz as ‘relaxed awareness’. Light on caffeine, it tastes like a spring day; it’s brisk and just a little floral.

Dragon Well Tea

At the next shop I discover white tea. With even less caffeine than green tea, and purportedly higher health benefits, it’s amongst the most expensive teas in the world. The very best is silver needle. It is at once buttery and nutty, and tastes delicately of autumn fruits. I buy a tin the size of a film canister.

White Tea

My gifts of tea from China were well received, and having survived prison, Partner has become quite the aficionado. When I’m sent out to buy tea I now break into a mild sweat, fearful of coming home with an inferior leaf.

Tea Monster swoons over organic silver needle and frowns suspiciously at tea bags bought at the local Asian grocer. I’ve discovered that T2 shops are a reliable source of the good stuff.

I still enjoy my morning coffee, but in the afternoons I’ve switched to tea. I may not have endured the luxury horrors of a health retreat, but by proxy I’ve become a convert to the magical properties of a great cuppa.