Around The World In 80 Dinners Part 3

"I didn't doubt your judgment about this place," Bill says, "but I did see that the popular Good Food Guide Good Food Guide gives it fifteen points out of a possible twenty for quality. Dozens of other restaurants score higher. Are they really better?" gives it fifteen points out of a possible twenty for quality. Dozens of other restaurants score higher. Are they really better?"

"Maybe so. Everyone respects the Good Food Guide Good Food Guide-our main newspaper has put it out for many years-but I like The Wharf personally, partially because it raises money for the Sydney Theatre Company. I made your reservations for Tetsuya's and est., two of the most highly regarded places. See what you think."

"I only wish we were able to get to more of the honor roll restaurants," Bill says. "We've read great things about Neil Perry, Peter Gilmore, Luke Mangan, and other chefs, but we don't have time to sample their food."

"To try all the serious restaurants, you would have to spend your entire three months here. Even a devoted Sydneysider like me wouldn't suggest that."

The next morning, we each buy a three-day Sydney Pa.s.s, providing us with a choice of several harbor cruises and unlimited travel on city ferries, trains, and a couple of on-and-off tourist buses that make circuits of the major sights. One of the buses gets us to the Darlinghurst neighborhood for a glorious breakfast at bills, the eponymous establishment of Bill Granger. The small corner-storefront cafe features three treasured and much copied morning dishes: corn fritters, scrambled eggs, and ricotta hotcakes with banana and honeycomb b.u.t.ter. All sound as simple as a pot of tea, but that's what stumps the imitators. Ordering a plate of each, we find them robust but subtly complex, perfectly cooked, and br.i.m.m.i.n.g with sterling ingredients.

Another bus on the same sightseeing line takes us to the other side of downtown, the site of the Sydney Fish Market. A large, full-bore operation, it encompa.s.ses a working fis.h.i.+ng port, wholesale suppliers, retail sales, and food and beverage outlets-even a seafood cooking school. With more than one hundred familiar and exotic species available daily, it brags about offering the greatest variety in the world except for j.a.panese markets. Eating with our eyes at the retail counters, which together extend the length of a football field, we devour a broad range of just-shucked oysters, scallops on the half sh.e.l.l with their crimson roe attached, "bay bugs" that resemble lobster tails, cobalt blue swimmer crabs, cooked red spanner crabs, glistening green-lipped mussels, hefty Tasmanian black dover mussels, and loads of fresh fish of every shape, size, and color. Cheryl says, "This is as good as snorkeling, with the same kind of Technicolor flash."

The market makes us want to take to the water and that's what we do for most of the afternoon, lounging comfortably on a ferry deck during a two-and-a-half-hour cruise of the harbor. The boat leaves from busy Circular Quay, in the area where the first English settlers landed in 1788 after an eight-month journey by s.h.i.+p. They pa.s.sed from the ocean into the harbor through the narrows known as the Sydney Heads, one of our destinations. Our captain hugs the southern sh.o.r.e on the way toward the open Pacific, pa.s.sing closely to the Opera House, the Royal Botanical Gardens, lots of waterfront homes (some bungalow-style, others grandly opulent), pretty bays, and several beaches (one nudist, most more dressy). Near the Heads, we cut into Middle Harbour under the raised center section of Spit Bridge, giving us access to the maze of waterways in North Sydney. It's a lovely, serene area, distant in spirit if not time from the bustle of the city.

This is our night for Tetsuya's, the most acclaimed restaurant in Australia, well known in food circles around the globe. Liz made the reservation for us seven months in advance to a.s.sure a table. A receptionist leads us through an impressive collection of contemporary art to an elegantly restrained dining room overlooking the spare, contemplative j.a.panese garden just outside a wall of windows. A waitress brings water and informs us that chef-owner Tetsuya Wakuda does without a printed menu, wanting his staff to describe choices personally. After listening as attentively as possible to the long recitation, both of us order the evening's tasting menu with paired wines.

The first course offers yellowfin tuna tartar over sus.h.i.+ rice, avocado cream, and tiny firm fish roe. You could easily find a cousin of this in Los Angeles, but not on this level of refinement. Alongside it, the server places a diminutive cup of sweet corn soup with a wee scoop of basil ice cream floating on top. Next comes a New Zealand scampi swimming in a chicken-liver parfait and a grilled scallop on the half sh.e.l.l with its roe, snuggling with lemon and mildly briny wakame seaweed that adds a touch of gelatin to the scallop juices. A Clare Valley Riesling couples well with both of these plates, and like all the wines except the sweet one at the end, it's bottled in Australia especially for the restaurant.

Then the chef sends out his signature ocean trout confit with ocean trout roe, which the Good Food Guide Good Food Guide calls "the most photographed dish in the world." The Tasmanian fish rests on a bed of fennel that provides complementary anise notes, and the kitchen scatters kombu seaweed around the centerpiece and accompanies it with a gla.s.s of Gewurztraminer and a small salad of mixed baby cresses and herbs with a hint of soy dressing. "Luscious," Cheryl repeats several times, "just luscious." Spanner crab ravioli follows, filled with bits of the crab and a smooth mousseline and covered with a fine chiffonade of fresh basil that helps to balance its East and West elements. It mates nicely with a lightly oaked Chardonnay. calls "the most photographed dish in the world." The Tasmanian fish rests on a bed of fennel that provides complementary anise notes, and the kitchen scatters kombu seaweed around the centerpiece and accompanies it with a gla.s.s of Gewurztraminer and a small salad of mixed baby cresses and herbs with a hint of soy dressing. "Luscious," Cheryl repeats several times, "just luscious." Spanner crab ravioli follows, filled with bits of the crab and a smooth mousseline and covered with a fine chiffonade of fresh basil that helps to balance its East and West elements. It mates nicely with a lightly oaked Chardonnay.

On to meats and red wines, starting with slices of veal fillet dabbed with a pungent wasabi b.u.t.ter and a Pinot Noir, and after that, young squab on a "risotto" of buckwheat, chestnuts, and Lilliputian j.a.panese mushrooms matched with a deeply colored Grenache-s.h.i.+raz from the Barossa. Both dishes and drinks excel, particularly the deliciously gamy squab, the best rendition of it either of us has ever eaten, with none of the liver taste that often puts Cheryl off.

In the pause before dessert, we reflect on the courses so far, deciding the meal boasts about as much sophistication and refined orchestration as any we can remember. Bill says, "I can recall some dinners where I personally enjoyed the flavors and textures of the food more, but few that left me in greater awe of the talent and ingredients." Cheryl agrees.

Paired with a Tasmanian iced Riesling, the desserts do nothing to undermine the impression. Number one is a blood-orange-and-beet sorbet with pet.i.te cubes of beet gleaming like faceted rubies. The second reminds us of a strawberry shortcake float, with a pureed strawberry mixture and a layer of cream on a biscuit base. The next, a bite's worth of a blue cheese vanilla bean ice cream with a sauterne pear jelly, makes us frown a little dubiously at first but the components harmonize beautifully. The finale offers a soothing variation on a floating island, layering custard and intense cherries with meringue and a dribble of chocolate sauce. "I'm in total bliss," Cheryl proclaims as Bill forks over a credit card for the hefty tab, approaching U.S. $500.

"I suspect it'll be the most expensive meal of the trip," he says hopefully, "but it was worth the splurge."

Still satiated in the morning, we have a simple breakfast at our hotel before boarding the Bondi Explorer sightseeing bus for a tour of Sydney's sh.o.r.eline. The route affords good, close-up views of coastal residential neighborhoods, which strike us as a Southern Hemisphere translation of British suburbia, with lots of solid brick homes as fully landscaped as similar ones in England except in a totally different, subtropical mode. The commercial strips along the way suggest much greater internationalism. A single block of two-story business buildings contains a Vietnamese restaurant, a pizza-to-go place, a Portuguese chicken diner, an Italian-style coffee shop, a Chinese acupuncture clinic, and a dental office. Our intention was to get off at famed Bondi Beach for a walk, but the day turns out cool and windy and Cheryl now has the sniffles, which develop into a full-blown cold by late afternoon.

Lunch is at Sailors Thai Canteen, back in The Rocks almost directly across the street from the Russell. David Thompson, a renowned chef, still owns this and its sister restaurant downstairs, though he no longer does the cooking. The hostess escorts us through the main dining room, a long, dark s.p.a.ce just wide enough to hold a single galvanized-metal communal table, and seats us on a small balcony overlooking the harbor. "A beautiful view again," Bill says. "I wonder if Sydney residents get jaded about it?"

The menu includes a range of Thai favorites, such as green papaya salad studded with peanuts and prawns, pad thai, and beef and chicken curries, but we choose two deep-fried dishes-salmon with lime, mint, and chile; and chicken with rice, chopped peanut b.a.l.l.s, and an herb salad. "That sure cleared some nasal pa.s.sages," Cheryl says in one of her favorite compliments.

"Are you up for a walk around The Rocks, then?" Bill wants to check out three pubs that each claim the honor of being the oldest in Australia. The Fortune of War Hotel authenticates its position with a framed license dating to 1830. "The doc.u.ment looks official to me," Bill says, "but the best proof of seniority may be this carpet we're standing on, at least as old as the country itself." Contrary to his careful scholars.h.i.+p, historical purists point out that the pub went out of business for a year and only moved to its present location in 1921. The Lord Nelson Hotel avoids those embarra.s.sments but didn't open until 1841. The Hero of Waterloo Hotel, which appears to be the most ancient, was founded by a man who got a license in 1831 and then opened a pub at the current site at a later disputed date. Our sleuthing yields no ultimate answers, but our votes go to the Fortune of War because it's the closest to our hotel, where Cheryl needs a nap.

By the time of our dinner reservation at est., Peter Doyle's restaurant in the stylish Establishment Hotel, Cheryl is feeling worse than Bill, sinking fast into a deep chest cold. "I don't think we should cancel," she says, "but let's not linger late over the meal." Even skipping an intriguing tasting menu and dessert, we still spend well over two hours savoring various specialties, including an icy platter of juicy oysters, garlic-infused sweetbreads, juniper-crusted venison saddle, a comforting side of creamy mashed potatoes to soothe our sore bodies, and-the highlight of the evening-pork belly and scallops with a salad of jicama, apples, walnuts, and cress.

On our last full day, Liz wants to take us to her favorite breakfast spot, Bathers' Pavilion Cafe, the casual half of Serge Dansereau's Bathers' Pavilion Restaurant, both lodged in a renovated seaside swimmer's bathhouse directly on pretty Balmoral Beach. Everything on the menu sounds good, but Liz settles on the Gruyere souffle with shallots, mushrooms, and heavy cream. Bill opts for the fillets of smoked trout on brioche with spinach, fennel, and Nas.h.i.+ pear, while Cheryl chooses a poached egg tartlet with pea and leek puree, sugar snap peas, and scallion sauce, which she p.r.o.nounces on arrival "a lovely spring symphony in green." The dishes taste as bright and spirited as they look, bringing us all alert, colds be d.a.m.ned.

While we're eating, Liz asks how we've liked Sydney. "Most important, what did you think about Tetsuya and est.?"

"Wonderful restaurants," Cheryl says, "truly terrific. The striking thing about their food and the other fine meals we've had in Australia is the willingness of the chefs to be adventuresome with flavor combinations. They take risks and challenge expectations without falling into the trap of silly mishmash dishes."

"Yeah, you're right. I guess they're literally changing the tastes of Australia, moving us beyond a stale, inherited food tradition to a wide-open frontier. It's an exciting time here."

"Sure seems like it," Bill says. "I doubt that the best Australian chefs are more talented and creative than the best American chefs, but they push the boundaries much more. A lot of our top chefs are satisfied with putting a good, standard dinner on the table, because that's what sells, even though the food is seldom much better or different than a skilled home cook can make. These guys act like they should be culinary leaders, blazing new trails rather than catering to conventional tastes. I'm impressed-in a big way."

Liz drops us at the nearest ferry stop for a leisurely boat trip back across the water as she zips off to work. These outlying ferry piers are pleasantly civilized, with little shops offering coffee, dry cleaning, shoe repairs, key cutting, and other same-day services. Out on the harbor, the boat pa.s.ses some of the suburban inlets that make up the area, where all the residences face the water and enjoy some kind of access to it. Many of the homes along the sh.o.r.e have docks for boats, usually sailboats, and even some high on the hills flaunt funiculars to get down to a berth. Sidneysiders obviously love their harbor.

At Circular Quay we switch ferries to go to the Darling Harbour development, a huge complex of shops, restaurants, and other attractions geared to locals and tourists alike. Our interest is the Sydney Aquarium, which disappoints us a little given its international reputation. It's so cramped in its s.p.a.ce, and so crowded even on a weekday, we don't get a good look at the tanks featuring sharks and giant rays or at the display about the Great Barrier Reef. "At least we saw some of Nemo's family," Cheryl says, sighing, as she puts stamps on postcards of the orange clown fish to send to our grandkids.

To conclude our sightseeing, we do another full circuit on the downtown tourist bus, stopping only at the Sydney Opera House for a closer peek. After walking around the marvelous structure, it becomes clear the building shows its best face from a greater distance, like on the harbor, where you can catch the full sweep of the cantilevered, soaring rooflines. Curiously, the Danish architect, Jrn Utzon, has never seen it from any perspective. He quit the project before its completion in a dispute about cost overruns and refused to return to the city.

Back again at Circular Quay, we walk down the waterfront a short way to make dinner reservations at Wildfire, owned in part by American chef Mark Miller, who also consults with the kitchen. The Good Food Guide Good Food Guide calls the restaurant "a party girl." It's certainly big, boisterous, and flamboyant, more so than we usually like, but we're curious about Miller's take on Down Under dining and find parts of the menu appealing, especially the wood-oven-roasted fish with bouillabaisse sauce, the Asian fish preparations, and the various chilled seafood platters with combinations such as lobster, crayfish, crabs, king prawns, bay bugs, and scallops. Unfortunately, we have to cancel our date later with the party girl. By dinnertime, Cheryl is running a fever of 102 degrees and can't budge from bed. calls the restaurant "a party girl." It's certainly big, boisterous, and flamboyant, more so than we usually like, but we're curious about Miller's take on Down Under dining and find parts of the menu appealing, especially the wood-oven-roasted fish with bouillabaisse sauce, the Asian fish preparations, and the various chilled seafood platters with combinations such as lobster, crayfish, crabs, king prawns, bay bugs, and scallops. Unfortunately, we have to cancel our date later with the party girl. By dinnertime, Cheryl is running a fever of 102 degrees and can't budge from bed.

Despite this setback on our last night, both of us feel thrilled about our food and wine experiences in Australia. The country's Mediterranean-like climate, fabulous vineyards and winemakers, strong Old World roots, and growing love affair with Asia clearly give Aussies the genes and means for culinary genius. Our greedy mouths yearn for additional tastes, but we're content for the present at least to relish a small bite of this new brand of Continental cuisine.

THE NITTY-GRITTY.

[image] ROCKFORD A ADELAIDE www.rockfordhotels.com.au/go/ south-australia/rockford-adelaide 164 Hindley Street, Adelaide 61-8-8211-8255 fax 61-8-8231-1179 Small, moderately priced downtown business hotel with s.p.a.cious "corporate" rooms.

[image] BAROSSA F FARMERS M MARKET at the corner of Stockwell and Nuriootpa Roads, Angaston, Barossa Valley Sat.u.r.days year-round, 7:3011:30 in the morning.

[image] MAGGIE B BEER'S F FARM S SHOP www.maggiebeer.com.au Pheasant Farm Road, between the towns of Nuriootpa and Tanunda, Barossa Valley 61-8-8562-4477.

10:30 A.M A.M.5:00 P.M. P.M.

[image] YALUMBA W WINES www.yalumba.com Eden Valley Road, Angaston Barossa Valley

[image] PETER L LEHMANN W WINES www.peterlehmannwines.com Off Para Road, Tanunda, Barossa Valley

[image] ADVENTURE C CHARTERS www.adventurecharters.com.au Kangaroo Island 61-8-8553-9119 fax 61-8-8553-9122

[image] BRIDGEWATER M MILL www.bridgewatermill.com.au Mount Barker Road, Bridgewater, Adelaide Hills 61-8-8339-3422.

lunch only, Thursday to Monday Thursday to Monday

[image] HUGH H HAMILTON W WINES www.hamiltonwines.com.au McMurtrie Road, McLaren Vale

[image] CORIOLE V VINEYARDS www.coriole.com Chaffeys Road, McLaren Vale

[image] D D'ARENBERG W WINES www.darenberg.com.au Osborn Road, McLaren Vale

[image] THE R RUSSELL H HOTEL www.therussell.com.au 143a George Street, Sydney 61-2-9241-3543 fax 61-2-9252-1652 Enough said.

[image] THE W WHARF R RESTAURANT www.wharfrestaurant.com.au Pier 4, Hickson Road, Walsh Bay, Sydney 61-2-9250-1761.

lunch and dinner

[image] TETSUYA'S www.tetsuyas.com 529 Kent Street, Sydney 61-2-9267-2900.

dinner and Sat.u.r.day lunch

[image] SAILORS T THAI C CANTEEN 106 George Street, Sydney 61-2-9251-2466.

lunch and dinner

[image] EST EST.

252 George Street, Sydney 61-2-9240-3010.

lunch and dinner

Barossa-Style Breakfast Sandwich SERVES 4 4.

Pickled Onions1 medium red onion, sliced 1 1/8-inch thick cup cider vinegar teaspoon salt4 extra-large farmers' market fresh eggs2 to 3 tablespoons b.u.t.terSalt and freshly milled black pepper4 soft egg rolls or buns, 4 to 5 inches in diameter, preferably just baked, or at least warmedPear, peach, or other fruit chutney4 slices top-quality smoky Canadian bacon, such as Nueske's (www.nueske.com), seared, or 4 thick-cut slices hearty country bacon, such as Allen Benton's, cooked just short of crisp Prepare the onion at least an evening before you plan to serve the sandwiches. Bring salted water to a boil in small pan, enough to cover the onion slices. Add the onion and blanch for a quick minute. Drain onion and place in a small bowl. Pour the vinegar and 2 tablespoons of water over the onion; stir in salt. Cover and refrigerate until shortly before serving the sandwiches.

Crack each egg into a cup or ramekin. Warm b.u.t.ter on a griddle over medium heat. Nudge the eggs one by one gently onto the griddle, side by side. Cook the eggs for 1 minute, sprinkling with salt and pepper while they fry. Gently turn the eggs, puncturing the yolks so that they run a bit as they finish cooking "over hard," another 1 to 2 minutes.

Slather each roll with chutney, then arrange bacon and an egg on each. Top with pickled onions to taste and serve right away, preferably with a cup of steaming hot chocolate.

NEW CALDONIA.

OUR COLDS GET WORSE ON THE FOUR-HOUR FLIGHT from Sydney to New Caledonia, leaving us exhausted and feverish when we land. Alighting on terra firma lifts our morale slightly until a greeter from our hotel, the Novotel Surf, summons us outside the airport terminal with a placard: "Mr. William Jamison." He politely informs us in practiced English, "The Novotel Surf is closed because of a strike"-this is a French island, after all-"but, no worry, we have moved you to the Nouvata Park at the same rate." Bill saw a photo of this subst.i.tute spot once on the Internet, and rejected it as a lodging option right away because it looked large, impersonal, and graceless. This is the nastiest shock yet on our trip, and it comes on a day when we feel as st.u.r.dy as Jell-O and our skin color smacks of chicken soup. from Sydney to New Caledonia, leaving us exhausted and feverish when we land. Alighting on terra firma lifts our morale slightly until a greeter from our hotel, the Novotel Surf, summons us outside the airport terminal with a placard: "Mr. William Jamison." He politely informs us in practiced English, "The Novotel Surf is closed because of a strike"-this is a French island, after all-"but, no worry, we have moved you to the Nouvata Park at the same rate." Bill saw a photo of this subst.i.tute spot once on the Internet, and rejected it as a lodging option right away because it looked large, impersonal, and graceless. This is the nastiest shock yet on our trip, and it comes on a day when we feel as st.u.r.dy as Jell-O and our skin color smacks of chicken soup.

Piling misery on misery, a gloomy tourist bus provides the only transportation from the airport to our destination, the capital city of Noumea, and it's on full stall, sitting sans driver for more than an hour waiting for all the pa.s.sengers on our flight to claim their ma.s.sive loads of luggage and then collect their wits enough to climb onboard. The drive to town takes another hour, and after that the bus stops at every other local hotel before reaching the Nouvata Park, where our worst fears about the place are immediately confirmed. Dozens of people are trying to check in at once, and the reception staff dawdles along like mules on a mountain climb.

After Bill gets to the front of the line, he says snappishly, "Our original reservation a.s.sured us a room with an ocean-view balcony," the major consideration for us at any tropical seaside hotel. "Are we getting the same kind of room here?"

That's going too fast for her; she needs five minutes just to find the paperwork, sitting in several unorganized stacks behind the long desk that keeps customers at bay. Finally she answers, "Oui," but we remain skeptical, taking the elevator up with jaded expectations of foreboding.

When Bill opens the door, we gasp in disbelief. The balcony alone could hold a small island and it affords a splendid view over the hotel pool to the beach, sea, and sunset. From here, balmy tropical temperatures and gentle sea breezes a.s.sure us succor from our colds. The enormous bed faces the same scene through sliding gla.s.s doors, and the curtained windows behind the bed provide an identical vista from a circular Jacuzzi tub and shower. The huge room borders on Vegas flash, but of all the places we stay on our entire trip-including some much nicer quarters-none is better suited for rest and recuperation. Over the next few days, we learn that most of the Nouvata Park rooms fall well below this level of comfort, as do all the accommodations at the closed Novotel. Our good fortune results from making a reservation specifically calling for an ocean-view balcony, available at the Nouvata Park only in the most expensive doubles and suites, normally priced considerably higher than we're paying on our Novotel rate. The hotel is bigger and busier than we prefer, and not within walking distance of as many restaurants as the Novotel, but hey, we're slower than we prefer and temporarily more concerned about our congested chests than our taste buds.

Cheryl collapses right away onto the bed, unable to manage much of anything except to confirm that her temperature remains 102 degrees. She says, "I think we should have the hotel call the doctor on duty," something neither of us has ever done in decades of travel. "I must have a bronchial infection."

"What are the chances of good health care," Bill asks, "out here at the end of the earth, marooned on a speck of land in an immense ocean? We could try the antibiotics we've brought for other purposes."

"No, as a French territory, New Caledonia must have decent medical resources."

"You're probably right."

Bill sucks in a lungful of willpower and returns to the crowded reception desk to try to convey an urgent need for a doctor. Although it's late on a Sat.u.r.day afternoon, within a couple of hours the promised physician appears at our door carting a bulging black bag. "h.e.l.lo," he greets Bill in cheerful English. "Am I at the right room?"

"Yes, come in," Bill says, leading him over to the primary patient. As the doctor listens to Cheryl's raspy breathing with a stethoscope and takes her temperature, Bill asks, "How did you get to New Caledonia?"

"I grew bored with my practice in Paris and wanted a change of scenery. I had visited here before and knew it would be a big break from city life." To Cheryl, he says, "You've definitely got a bacterial infection. I better check you, too," he tells Bill, and goes into the same diagnostic routine. "I'm not sure you have the bug yet, but I'll write an antibiotic prescription to cover both of you, just in case.