Rome... If You Want To!

When it comes to coffee, it seems that Melbourne has overtaken Rome. Kit Fennessy meets RRR’s Johnny Topper in Tridente, where they discuss the finer points of civilization.

Rome!
That eternal city, home to the Trevi fountain, infants suckling at distended wolverine nipples and of course, that most European of all aromas… collapsed sewerage tunnels.

Our room was on the fifth floor overlooking Via Gulius Caesar, and there were plane trees along the wide avenue outside that reminded me of home.

Let’s face it, Melbourne is like Rome in many ways – we both have Italians, coffee, gelati, Catholic churches, plane tress and parks, though Rome might just pip us at the post for archaeological diggings.


I had an appointment to meet our friend Johnny Topper for lunch; a radio announcer from Melbourne who works at Northside Records in Fitzroy. Famous for his significant pauses on ‘New and Groovy’, he’s done the hard yards of the Australian music scene and has played in numerous bands, including the Pete Best Beatles. But when we met him on the Ponte Regina Margherita, he was a changed man, squinting, fumbling in front of him and bumping into things. He’d lost his glasses!

We went for lunch at the Ristorante Enzo, which felt like eating in someone’s lounge room with a lot of men in waist coats topping up your Bisleri. If not the height of culinary excellence, it was at the very least authentically Italian. I had the pasta marinara misto, and as usual it proved the litmus test for all restaurants, which in this case was average. Jane had a pasta with cheese, quite plain and her fantasy food, Topper the risotto con artichokes. The culinary revelation of the meal was the dessert which was a cake dripping in honey, alternate portions stuffed with custard and cherry.

As we reclined over coffees, thoughts turned to our observations of Rome and how it is, and is not, like good old Melbourne town.

CULTURE
Cardinal Sins
When Jane and I arrived at St Peter’s square, or la Piazza de Basillico Pietro, there were queues and police everywhere. Going in the back way, we found they were set up for a Papal mass, and so scored an unexpected audience with the Pope.

Johnny: “Oh man, back in 1983 I was living in Sydney. I couldn’t believe it, I saw the Pope mobile driving through the streets of Sydney after John Paul II’s appearances at Randwick. It was surreal. I’d be coming out of a pub, and there was the pope mobile, driving through the red light district! Two nights in a row!”

For the first time in my life I felt sorry for Cardinals. OK! I know they’re career politicians pushing a conservative agenda, BUT they did have to sit out in the sun, wearing black, waiting for the Pope to come out. Those cardinals had to sit there and bake for around two hours, then watch their boss being cheered as he rolled around the crowd in the Pope-mobile. As the Pope’s head drifted above the crowd, he reminded me of the nun in ‘the Blue Brothers’, the penguin who never seems to walk but just rolls everywhere. The Pope was dressed in white and got to sit in the shade.

Australian politicians take note! Trouble with the back benchers? Time for a public rally. Somewhere really hot.


Public Monumental Phallicism
What is it with the Italians and… enormous columns and obelisks? Everywhere we went there were massive stone erections shooting up into the sky, phallocentrism in its purest form and simpatico with Italian consciousness.

Lift your game Melbourne! With the exception of the Cheese Stick, I cannot think of a single massive pillar erected anywhere in the public forum.


Toilets
Surprisingly, there aren’t enough toilets in Rome, but more than enough churches. I wonder if it’s anything to do with the denial of the physical form and an embrace of the spiritual life that’s lead to this situation? Probably not. Still, you never see any paintings of toilets in heaven at churches… though baptismal fonts are very high profile.

Footpath traders
African men are all over the place standing around with knock off YSL leather handbags at their feet. Elsewhere, people walk around tourist districts trying to flog bubble guns, or flying saucer toys that glow in the dark and shoot up into the air.

Another area we need to improve! We might have the occasional Vietnamese woman sitting on the footpath selling her home made confectionary, but the border line begging that these sales amount to is rarely in evidence. If we just have straight begging, how can we be considered a truly international city?

I didn’t see any gypsies, despite premonitions of babies being thrown at me around the train station, a la circa 1997.

Johnny: “Berlusconi had a real campaign over here. Picked them all up and shipped them out to Romania. That’s why they used to call them Romani gypsies. I think the same thing has happened in France.”


FOOD
The Cost of Food
True of Rome, true of all Italy, and indeed France, I was surprised just how affordable food is there compared to Australia. The most expensive meal we ate on the trip came to 95 Euros, which equates to roughly $150 for a four course dinner for two, including wine in the heart of the tourist district.

In stores the cost of fresh produce was astoundingly cheap, and fresh. Alcohol? Try 17 Euros for a 700 ml bottle of Tanqueray Gin, or should I say around $23 Australian? Your taxes at work.

Crudo vs Caldo
A short note on the lingua franca. I went to a deli where we ordered prosciutto, and caused some confusion. What did we want? Prosciutto crudo or prosciutto caldo? It transpires the Italians call all hams prosciutto, the difference being the crudo (crude or salt cured ham) and caldo, or cooked, which is your more traditional “ham”. We bought both, and with cheese, olives, some bread and the remains of the bottle of chianti it made a stunning lunch.

Drinking in Parks
We walked all over the Villa Borghese, seeing (variously) the old Villa, which is now a museo with a beautiful and productive vegetable garden, caribinari on horse back, the Italian Globe Theatre, and people riding around on four seater bikes and Segues, which was highly reminiscent of ‘Arrested Development’.

We stopped and had a couple of beers in the park at a small garden shed, not as good as the Austrians do it, but pretty good. It occurs to me that there are not many drinking and dining establishments in Melbourne’s park lands, the exceptions being the café beside the Fairy Tree in the Fitzroy Gardens, the Kent Hotel next to a median strip in Carlton, and at a pinch the Sky High Restaurant in Dandenong. Take note Parks Victoria!


Dinner
An excellent dinner near la Plaza Popolo at a small ristorante where I had the grilled fish, a bottle of wine, profilterols and a coffee, and an ameretto. Jane had the pasta matriciana and a salata verde misto. Six tentacles!


Coffee:
‘You know, I’ve been here for three days, and I’ve yet to have a really good coffee,’ Johnny opined as we replaced our cups to their saucers.

And indeed the coffee culture in Europe is a million miles from that of Melbourne. Order a latte, and you’re either corrected into having a cappuccino or presented with a Viennesse style coffee. There’s no such thing as a long black (unless you go to a tourist savvy purveyor of coffee and order a “café Americano”, which is anathema to me). And the espressos can be disappointing.
But like everywhere, quality varies from store to store.

We ambled back towards the Vatican precinct, and found Johnny a coffee shop Jane was fascinated by because of the produti Italiano (little tins of sweets with paintings on them) and signage. The coffee there was heaven, and we left Johnny to find his way back across the river.

But we couldn’t help him, glasses or no. We had a flight to catch…


Next episode: Cagliari!

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The Atlantic

Crown Entertainment Complex
8 Whiteman Street
Southbank VIC 3006 Australia

http://theatlantic.com.au

OK. So it was Father’s day. I don’t have any kids, and so had no one to say “Well done Kit-Dad!” Add to the mix that Jane was sick (down with the flu), and that I’d been doing house work all weekend, you might understand that I was feeling, if not unloved, at least a little neglected. (OK, OK, I can hear you all rattling out your tiny violins).

It was time, come Sunday afternoon after shopping and cleaning and looking after a sicky, to do something for me. To let me know I was someone I liked anyway.

Cue tram ride and a quick disappear to the Crown Casino for a movie and dinner on my own. Never one to do things by halves, I booked a gold class film and had an hour or so to kill and take myself out for dinner. But where to go? I absolutely refuse to go to that scrotum-browed Gordon Ramsay’s restaurant.

Enquiring at the box office for a good place to have seafood, the cinema staff unanimously directed me to the Atlantic. Well, if you like seafood and are looking for ego support through food, let me tell you - you could do a lot worse.

The Atlantic is a relatively new restaurant down at Southbank. A stunning trio of hostesses (blonde, brunette and Asian) in short silver skirts greeted me at the door – turning a blind eye to my lack of sartorial elegance (I was wearing a hoody and crocs), and sashayed me to table 15, my lucky number, past piles of oysters on ice.

The kitchen is an open plan affair, with the head chef yelling out orders to the return choruses of “yes chef!”. It was just like being on TV!

The view looks, appropriately, straight across at the Melbourne Aquarium, and as each hour struck that night, the gas flames of the casino lit up the sky outside through huge windows that extend into the roof.

One of the waiting staff told me they’d only received one hat from the Age this year, as they were reviewed in the first few weeks of opening, but that they were batting hard for a second hat. I don’t doubt they’ll get there. The food is art of the highest order, particularly if you’re like old squid lips here. And their chef is some superstar called Donovan Cooke, who has worked in the UK, France and Hongkers, and is responsible for Melbourne restaurants including Est Est Est, Luxe and Ondine (winner of best new restaurant 2002).

After the half dozen Dunally (Tasmanian) oysters, I had the “Yellow Fin Tuna Tartare”, a kind of pressed square of tuna with black garlic, confit tomatoes (and, I suspect, dill), served with a parsnip and horseradish cream with delicate wafers draped in slivers of Iberian jamon. Just a starter with a rocket, parmessan and apple salad. I still had some time to kill before the movie, so I finished with a coffee, Grand Marnier and their home made nougat with cranberry pieces in it (yum!).

I know, what a lush. Hey, I’m not perfect, but I’ve never felt so loved in all my life. Like the universe was opening up it’s portals and pouring down its munificence on me. I kept having little “I’m not worthy of food this good” feelings, which I quickly assuaged by having another drink or thinking “If not me, who?”

So do yourself a favour, give yourself a treat, and spoil yourself. Again! I highly recommend the Atlantic if you’re feeling neglected. Tentacles? Forza. Does anybody ever get eight? Not yet. I’ll give them a strong seven and a quarter!
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Scusa Mi Ristorante

Mid-level, Southgate
Southbank
www.scusami.com.au



OK, how do you know when the restaurant trade has been taking a hammering?

When you walk into one of the best places you’ve ever seen, with great service, beautiful outlook, good food and the place is nearly empty. But surely we should take a look inside? Look at the lunch special!

OK, admittedly it was a Tuesday, down at a Southbank undergoing various renovations, but the sun was shining bright and, as I sat out on the verandah I felt like I was on holiday in Sydney, or maybe that it was my birthday. But no. It was just me and a book, catching a lunch special at Scusa Mi and catching a few rays.

The balcony overlooks Flinders St Station, the lunch special was great value (glass of wine, entrée – I had the octopus, and main; followed by the seared Salmon - $26!).

The name pretty much tells you it’s Italian food, and their card has three comedy chefs, so it doesn’t take itself too seriously.

As a quick aside, I'm amazed at how far Southbank has come as a dining precinct in the last decade. I’m beginning to suspect Southbank is becoming Melbourne’s version of Las Ramblas, the touristy walk flanked by the homes of jet-setty millionaires through the centre of town, and where you will increasingly find some of the very best restaurants going around.

OK, my particular lunch wasn’t the pinnacle of art in food – I did just have the special and I can’t recall seeing any “foams”, or titrations from the lab of some genius – but it was pleasant fare, a great view and attentive service. Plus, looking through their gallery, they look like they can rise to just about anything and match it with the foam/blindfold/food as painting and sculpture-ness-ness of any of them.

Thank God they are there.

Six tentacles out of eight!

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Persimmon

The National Gallery of Victoria
http://www.ngv.vic.gov.au/visit/places-to-eat/persimmon
11am–4pm
+61 3 8620 2434

This article is about going out for something to eat when you’re at the NGVi… you know, the international one, which is the old one on St Kilda Rd? Grey cinder blocks with the big arch window? The window with the waterfall on it that you used to stick your tongue on when you used to go there for excursions as a kid?

Look, if you don’t know what I’m talking about, move along, I don’t want to know you anymore. Oh go on, come back then, there’s hope for you yet. At least you’re keen!


Jane and I went there relatively recently for the Vienna exhibition. It’s pretty good, BTW (that means “by the way” – I’m one of these hipsters*). You should go while it’s still on:

http://www.ngv.vic.gov.au/vienna/exhibition/index

But it is loooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooong (the exhibition, that is). You’ll probably find when you’re half way through the tour that you need to go and get something to eat. But I had absolutely no desire to go to one of the obvious caf type nosheries on show around the gallery.

Never one to shirk talking to complete strangers, I asked one of the security guards where the best place was to go for a meal. Who better to ask than “the man on the ground” (though you’d think he could at least have sat on a seat as a matter of decorum).

‘What kind of lunch are you looking for? A sandwich?’ he asked, blinking up at me from the floor through milk bottle glasses.

I used to drive trucks for Peter Rowland catering, so can tell you a thing or two about their chicken sandwiches, but they just didn't seem to fit the bill.

‘Nah. Something with a couple of courses, sit down, with a glass of wine.’
He nodded affirmatively, cracking his head lightly on the cement floor. ‘In that case go to Persimmon. You can walk to it through the sculpture garden.’

Great advice!

The day was sunny, the garden looking tip-top with bits of sculpture (hence the name), and we walked in to be seated by a waitress in a corner in the sun looking out at the Concert Hall. Our waitress was studying opera and was extremely theatrical, so I felt right in my element.

The clientele, much like the gallery as a whole, is predominantly female and well turned out. Jane suggested that going to the NGV is a great place to research what you might like to look like in your autumn years and pick up a few fashion tips. Well, if the men are anything to go by, it’s either a biliously large gay theatrical producer with a comb over, or a skinny Asian guy in a tight t-shirt for me.

The food was great! They had a bunch of themed dishes to go with the exhibition, so you could tuck into schweinfleisch and knock it back with a chilled glass of Osterreich riesling. Ist gut, ja?

We got steered toward the lunch special by our charming waitress, two courses with a glass of Saloman Gruner Veltiner each for $40. We shared the chacuterie of Austrian cured meats which I followed up with the fish – I think it was Rainbow Trout with mash – while Jane enjoyed the Otway pork chop. Can I just say, what an absolute surprise the quality of the food was, and ultimately not bad value for money.

So next time that you’re feeling arty,
Spoil all your senses and add a food party
(thank goodness I didn’t have to resort to using the rhyme farty).

“So, what will be tentacle score?” I hear you ask with baited breath (you do know it’s supposed to be bated breath, don’t you?... and please remove those worms from your tongue – you’re putting me right off). I’m going to give it six and a half tentacles for the restaurant, view and service, with an extra half a tentacle because it’s located in a top cultural institution. Seven tentacles!

(*No you're not - Ed)

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Cavallero

300 Smith St, Collingwood VIC 3066‎
(03) 9417 1377‎
us@cavallero.com.au
http://www.cavallero.com.au/

So, where do you go when it’s the end of financial year AND you’ve finally sent out the email about your new website? (I speak, of course, about bluevapours.com, you silly person! If you haven’t seen it, go there and check it out… NOW!!).

Well somewhere in Fitzroy, close to work, obviously. But we’ve been everywhere. Wabi Sabi? Nah, done it to death. Half the joints were shut, including Huxtable and Easy Tiger. Even the Chinese joint that’s never ever open was shut (what a surprise!). Press on. But wait a moment! What’s that tune I hear rising from the chorus line? Ah yes:

‘I’ve been undressed by kings
And I’ve seen some things
That a woman’s not supposed to see (a king’s penis?)
I’ve been to paradise
But I’ve never been to Cavallero.’

Cavallero. Bar. Brekky. Brunch. Lunch. Dinner. C’est cool man, and nestled on the mean streets of Collingwood. But what is it? Cavallero? It means horseman in Spanish. Do they serve horse? And there’s a quote from Wind in the Willows on the menu. What is going on? Let’s take a look, shall we?

Cavallero is nestled at the Johnston St end of Smith St, between the artist formally known as Safeway and the one hour photo developers that sells the cheap picture frames. Hardly the top end of town, but discretely far enough from drunky’s corner (near the TAB) to prevent any blatant change begging or general groping as you walk in the door.

I know the bar as the habitué of one of my television working confreres, who has his morning latte there as he reads all the newspapers before going to work. Well, the Herald Sun, anyway. They know him by sight and just make the coffee without him saying anything.

There’s a bar along one wall, with a large antlered deer head looking down at you dramatically over bottles of spirits. There’s a large communal table at the rear, if you miss out on a booth, high ceilings and an arched window that looks like it might have been an archway to the stables back in the olden days.

The shop floor is industrial, the ceilings high, the walls white, like so many places in Fitzroy; a converted shop that may be a hundred year old factory space or warehouse and subsequently a rooming house, gambling den, brothel, butchers and haberdashery in all its various manifestations.

The glass narthex at the front, a kind of recessed door from the original shop, lets tonnes of light into the space and is the architectural highlight.

But what is it? A bar, a breakfast club, a light noshery for brunchenette, a tea time swank-a-thon? Surprisingly, it’s all of the above. As the day progresses, the staff and the offerings change, to make it more of an “every moment of the day we’ve got you covered” kind of feeling.

Breakfast and lunch dishes, ‘Brunch’, are served till five, and then a dinner menu starts at six.

First stop, the bar. Beers on tap, including a very nice porter / dark beer that was highly reminiscent of chocolate. And for the ladies? Bubbles ahoy! We (I managed to sneak a glass) enjoyed a Prosecco, which is a dry sparkling wine from Italy (prosecco means dry, apparently, in Italian – who knew?). And affordable at around thirty bucks and would give many French champagnes a fright.

Truffle infusions seem to feature prominently on the menu, and I wonder if they get them from Tasmania? I bet they do. Hey! No horse on the menu. Gah! What did we have ,and was it any good? Short answers: Food, It was.

It was excellent. Drool-able. I am now wiping down my keyboard.

Jane had the chicken and coleslaw sandwich; they apparently knew about super tasters and which buttons to push. But not just any chicken and coleslaw sandwich: “Herb & parmesan crumbed free-range chicken breast with dill and yoghurt coleslaw.” Enviro, humane, kind of boom-shanka, almost guilt free.

Simone? The tasting board which came with olives, dips, risotto balls, salad, and the most delicious looking terrine.

Me? I had the pan fried barramundi that sat on a bed of hummus (the texture was heavenly), and a parsley, sumac and pomegranate salad. Yum!

Dessert? Cue internal dialogue:

Ring the bell!
Cor, someone is going to end up the size of a gorilla.
Do you have to ruin everything? Just eat it and enjoy it and don’t mention the “f” word.
Saturated fat – oops!

I had the pistachio frangipani tart with crème anglaise – a bit like a crumbly and slightly overcooked muffin (meh!), Sim the candied walnut and chocolate genache tart (hers looked better)… and Jane just had a black coffee because she is good, and pure, and doesn’t like having the nice savoury tastes washed out of her mouth by the cheap prurience of sugar.

So the judgement? Go! Go there soon. It’s a jeans more than a suit place, but they take anyone. If you go for a meal, try and arrive early or late, because it’s just not the sort of place that seems to take bookings. I’m sure you can, you’d just feel like you were overcooking it a bit by making one. Tentacles? Let’s call it a six; it’s not fine dining but casual grazing, but none the less a fine experience for all of that.
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Metropolitan Hotel

36-42 Courtney St (Cnr Blackwood St)
North Melbourne
http://www.metrohotel.com.au

Have you ever had one of those moments, walking into a restaurant or hotel you’ve never been to before and felt like yelling out ‘Darling, I’m home!’ as you toss an imaginary brown leather satchel into the corner and recline onto a leather chaise lounge and tilt your hat over your eyes?

Well that’s how I felt when I walked into the Metropolitan Hotel for lunch the other day. Fan-friggin-tastic. Want to come in and take a look?

What can I say? Old stain glass windows. Traditional wooden bar. Beer. And what beer! Taps and taps of it. An old dining room, reminiscent of my Mum’s dining room, with old furniture, white table clothes and playing Nat King Cole over the audio system as we were seated.

But the pièce de résistance? What the restaurant specialises in. You know I am going to hell for this, and the planet getting burned to a cinder by our profligate farming practices, but I don’t care if this is what it means. You got it. Steaks!

Oh gosh, just even writing these words makes me come over all gushy and want to skive of down the pub… again.

OK, now I’d better just lower your expectations a little. It’s not perfect. The staff say things like ‘Have youse decided what to order yet?’ The antique chairs in the dining room are beginning to go in the bum a bit (like us all), and the tables are a little rocky. The floor creaks and there are fat blokes sitting around in suits.

But this place is about nostalgia. Pub nostalgia for an era that may never have existed but is even more glorious for that. You know, that kind of yellow light memory you have while you’re experiencing something? Golden and glowing and pure, because you realise you’re witnessing the end of days of something; a perfect pearl sitting in a glass of vinegar that Cleopatra holds while licking her lips. Something pure and refined, but kind of sad too. With beer on tap.

I’ve noticed recently that North Melbourne has a treasure trove of gourmet pubs. There’s the Royal Park hotel about two blocks from the Metropolitan (OK, a bit uni style, with hand crotched art on the walls and used brown couches – but carpet bagger steaks! – like the seventies never ended!), and I suspect dozens more venues hiding around the back streets. This may in fact be one of my new ventures, to go out and seek every back street North Melbourne gastro pub scenario. And then maybe I’ll turn my sites on Seddon.

I had the aged poterhouse with red wine jus and side orders of rosemary potatoes and a green salad, washed down with a very serviceable Heathcote Shiraz. There were five of us (rather than the four in my previous entry), we drank more, and it still came out to cost less than Shakahari… and animals gave their lives for our meals! (Bless them, they did not die in vain).

So obviously, you know I liked it. Stuff it, I loved it. Give me more please. This isn’t fine dining. Not in the strict sense. There are no velvet gloves emptying your pockets, and it’s a bit too earthy to be posh. But it’s my style. I guess I must be a fat gutted, middle aged bloke (on the inside, bursting to get out through the veneer of urbane and svelt intelligentsia) who really likes drinking beer, red wine and eating steaks in convivial surrounds. The verdict? A strong six and a half tentacles out of eight. Forza!

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Shakahari

201 Faraday St
Carlton VIC 3053
www.shakahari.com.au

I know what you’re thinking!
Shaka Zulu? Hari Kumar? Kit has gone all African-y/Indian on us!
But nothing could be further from the truth! Shakahari is the name of a vegetarian restaurant in Carlton I went to with some friends for a vegetarian meal the other night, and I thought you might be interested.

I’ve had complaints about this blog previously (hello Dharamjot!) that everywhere I pick is polluted by the corpses of our animate brethren. But far be it for me to be said to be biased agin vegetables. Hey, I don’t mind lentils and mung beans. Let’s see how the herbivores do it, baby! (Answer: on the grass… much like the reviewer - Ed).

Located in a terrace house opposite Brunetti’s, Shakahari was the only vegetarian restaurant in my copy of the Age’s Good Food Guide. The only one? Yes! And a hat! So let’s take a look at the ONLY vegetarian restaurant in Melbourne that made the cut for the Age Good Food Guide, shall we?


Shakahari has been around for donkey’s years (read around twenty), and some of my older pals had heard of it. Ask a Gen Y-er about vegetarian food, though, and they all say ‘the Veggie Bar’ (Brunswick St).
So how would you describe Shakahari? In one word? Hippies. In a few words? Vegetarian hippies who have a predilection for Asian grub. I should have been twigged right off when I called to make a booking.

“Hello? I’d like to book a table for four tomorrow please.’
(Longish pause…) "Sigh. Alright.”
“Um, would you like my name?”
“I suppose.”
“Kit. For four.”
“Fine.”
“Would you like a mobile phone number?”
‘I guess... You know there’s no BYO?”
“That’s OK. See you tomorrow!”

How’s the ambience, I hear you ask? My initial reactions were positive. Wood floors, wood furniture, carved elephant statues, orange walls. But the tables? Too high. Chairs? Too hard. Lighting? Too bright. Porridge? Too hot… oh no, that’s another story. But you do have to go into the back garden and trip over loose bricks to go to the loo, though, so there is an element of a bear in the woods… if you get my drift.

And the other clients? Nutty. As in as nutty as a nut cutlet. It did make for an entertaining floor show though; people with anaemia saying things like “I’ve just been really stressed, you know?”, rockabilly boys chatting up tattoo girls, and same sex couples holding hands over lentils. You know. Cool people. Vegetarians.

The food is Asian inspired with a western influence. This can pretty much be distilled down to “Eastern food, Western plates”. Not a share thing, although the entrees said ideal to share and each one came with four portions. But then they came out on massive bits of white crockery, we had to decant them onto side plates, the serving was a disaster.

The menu has V (vegan), D (dairy), and E (egg) written against the various dishes, so you can work out what is least offensive to your sensibilities and or delicate digestional situation. I did, however, find myself with a tummy upset after going here (whether it was the food or not I’m unsure, so am unwilling to litigate); I guess the moral is just because something’s vegetarian doesn’t necessarily mean your body won’t reject it.

We had the mushroom dumplings (yum), the fried five C’s in pastry (I dunno what the five C’s were – and stop being rude), and the avocado magic (deep fried with capsicum and eggplant). For mains, I tucked into something called the Shaolin Treasure Chest – basically tofu with mushrooms (Asian) with five types of rice grain. Dessert was a lactose intolerant person’s wet dream, with tofu based baked goods that were delish.

The verdict? I thought it was a little bit on the expensive side, especially considering that no one died in the preparation of my dishes. If you HAVE to take out a vegetarian, or even better a vegan, GO! Go gangbusters. But if you’re looking for a fine dining experience, cross the road to Brunetti's and have a cake and coffee. Hard core vegetarians would no doubt give it a seven and a half out of eight. Me? A confirmed mollusc eater and lover of luxury? Meh. Let’s call it a scrape-y five tentacles out of eight.

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