Well, hello there! It’s been a while since my last post. In fact, I’d dare say that my vain attempts at even considering myself as a part-time food blogger would be stretching the truth. But in an effort to possibly be the first person to publish a review of Scott Pickett’s newest incarnation, Estelle by Scott Pickett (aka ESP), I’ve decided to come out of food blogging hibernation.
Scott features heavily in my blog. There are a couple of reviews of the Estelle… maybe three, plus a couple of truffle dinner posts hosted at The Estelle. Some might also call it a man crush. For the record, he’s just a really top bloke who just happens to cook awesome food that I dig in a big way. Also, I am slightly biased towards fellow South Australians.
It felt as though ESP was a bit of an enigma, through lots of local council bureaucracy that delayed inevitable deliciousness; what was meant to be an April opening finally took place on Friday, but it was well worth the wait.
The fit out is incredible. It’s dark and moody, but in a good way. All the focus is on the open-plan kitchen, with ample bar seating around the perimeter for diners to watch in awe during and between courses. Why you’d want to sit at a boring table is beyond me.
So, what’s the difference between ESP and the ‘old’ Estelle, before it was reinvented as a bistro? Basically, things have gone up several notches. In a sporting parlance, it’s the ‘one percenters’ that should take ESP to that higher level and happily reside with Saint Crispin as a solid two-hatted establishment.
Some of the aforementioned one percenters are the dark linen napkins and the Laguiole knives, both fashioned with the well-recognised ‘E’ emblem, the house-made butter perched on its own little wooden log plate, which accompanied the warmed miniature bacon and onion scroll or (actually, in my case AND) pretzel roll and of course, there’s the theater in the dexterous and attractive presentation.
But thank God we do not just eat with our eyes; the flavour combinations were outstanding! My new favourite dish – Mud Crab, Cauliflower & Vadouvan (for the uninitiated… like me, before I googled it, is a sweet, mild, aromatic Indian spice blend, said to be developed by the French colonists in India). The aromatic curry flavours were incorporated into the cauliflower puree and highlighted the sweetness of the mud crab.
A serendipitous July opening meant that there was sure to be truffles featured on the menu and there were, featuring in a truffle-infused custard and onions executed with different techniques, burnt, pickled and as a consommé… with a generous shaving of truffle as a garnish.
Scott’s homage to mentor Philip Howard was delivered in the form of hand-rolled macaroni, a delicately tender sweetbread and the equally tender loin of White Rocks Veal and Mustard Leaf.
Tasting menus are funny things, you get to course two or three and you’re happy, you’re smiling. You have a large chunk of the night still ahead of you and you’re so, so thankful that there are still a good number of courses to go. Time passes, courses come out, wines are poured and you begin to lose count… is this the sixth course or the fifth? Before you know it, dessert is being placed in front of you.
Then you know it’s really all done when the Lemon Aspen Doughnut and Raspberry Vinegar Ganache ball arrives. It’s over. You fondly look over at the people across from you. They’re newbies, only just tucking into their Cod Roe & Potato Soufflé amuse bouche. They have so much to look forward to (sigh). You want to be those people.
Still, all good things do come to an end and ESP’s eight-course tasting menu will set you back $130. There are two wine matches apparently available, Premier ($90) or Grand ($120), although on the night, I wasn’t given the option. Service was relatively slick and will get even better with every service they chalk up.
Man crush aside, this is a real winner. Standing outside waiting for my Uber at the end of the night, I stood on the footpath, looking into a very full Estelle Bistro and an equally full ESP next door and felt proud for Scott, Josh and his team; they’ve worked long and hard to build up the Estelle brand and we deserve places like these. As for ESP, book now or you probably won’t be able to get in for a while.
Several weeks ago, I had a go at making my own bacon. This was my second foray into the world of simple homemade charcuterie, after duck prosciutto, which I recommend as a good entry-level effort to the craft of curing.
Bacon is pretty easy. Buy yourself some good quality, free-range pork loin or belly… or even better, the loin with the belly attached. Cure it in a mixture of salt, sugar, some cure #1, plus whatever other flavourings you want to add and then massage it into the meat. Chuck it all into a big zip-lock bag and put it in the fridge for a week, turning it every day or so. Once it’s cured, you can hot smoke it or in the absence of a smoker, cook it in a low (120C) oven for a couple of hours.
To make it smoky, you can lightly spray the meat with a liquid smoke before it’s popped into the oven. The one I bought from Misty Gully is great and smells like Cheetos’ Cheese & Bacon Balls. There are a few more steps to it than what I’ve outlined, but this post on the Overclockers Forum is a great resource if you want to give it a go yourself. Kudos to kodo78.
As for my attempt at bacon – it looked like and smelled like bacon. Finely cut and pan fried, it also tasted pretty bacon-y and damn good between two pieces of bread, butter and a good dollop of HP sauce.
Wanting a greater challenge and with some spare time on my hands at the moment; I sought some inspiration from Michael Ruhlman’s Charcuterie to seek out my next curing venture. As space is a bit of issue at my place, there was a requirement to stick to a smaller cut of meat, so I decided that Guanciale would be the most viable as it could be used in a number of recipes, as well as being delicious on its lonesome.
The direct translation of Guanciale is ‘pillow’, which may relate to the delicate texture, thanks to the higher fat to meat ratio in the cut. Or the simpler inference is that its name is derived from the Italian word for cheek (guancia). Either way, the cured and dried pork jowl is a little stronger in flavour than pancetta and as any staunch Italophile will tell you, is the only meat to use in a Carbonara or Amatriciana sauce.
Now you would think that with all of the various bits of pork we consume regularly, the cheeks and jowls would be a little more omnipresent and therefore easy to find, but they’re not. That is, until they probably feature in a future series of Masterchef and Coles will start to sell them at ridiculously-inflated prices. Alas, it wasn’t as simple as walking to either of the butcher shops on my street. I suspect the local restaurants might get first dibs, given jowl is so meltingly delicious.
After unsuccessfully widening my search to incorporate the surrounding suburbs, the next obvious place was Victoria Street, Richmond. Sadly, after 10 minutes, I was zero from six on Victoria Street and so I decided to cut my losses and head to the most next obvious place – the Queen Vic Markets.
Thirty five minutes, a further nine butchers, eight bucks for parking and a doughnut from the American Doughnut Van later (alright, it was two), I was still jowl-less.
A quick Google search had me back in the car heading towards the next, next most obvious place – the Footscray market, which in hindsight was probably what I should have done in the first place.
By butcher number five, my luck had changed and the guy was only too happy to hack off a couple of jowls right before my eyes… All for the bargain price of $4.50, later finding out for an extra dollar, I could have purchased the whole pig’s head. Perhaps next time.
Sourcing the jowls was easy, compared to my next dilemma; to cure or not to cure with curing salt. And if I did use it, which cure do I use? Cure #1 or Cure #2? There were so many conflicting recipes that used different cures, if at all. Now I wasn’t in the mood for seriously harming my family and friends through some serious food poisoning or worse, botulism.
Therefore a bit of research is always a good thing. In Cure #1, the sodium nitrite only keeps the meat safe for a short period of time, as well as imparting that nice ‘cured’ taste. It’s also assumed that anything cured with Cure #1 is cooked after curing. In Cure # 2, the sodium nitrate breaks down over time and transforms to sodium nitrite, which is further broken down to become nitric oxide; the key oxidising agent that keeps the meat safe from that nasty old botulism. This cure is reserved for the likes of salumi, etc; things that aren’t intended to be cooked before consuming.
So knowing which cure was the best for me, the rest of the cure recipe was pretty simple and the one I used was from Nuovo Mondo, by Stefano de Pieri & Jim McDougall.
Guanciale (for 2 cheeks)
2 pork cheeks
300g table salt
300g caster sugar
5 garlic cloves, smashed
30g black pepper, lightly crushed (I only had white pepper on hand)
½ bunch thyme, chopped (stems and all)
2.5g Cure #2
The cheeks needed a bit of a trim up for starters. Mainly to get rid of some of the flappy bits, as well as to remove some of the glands that still may be attached to the jowls. The glands are pretty obvious-looking things; they’re grey in colour so they are usually pretty easy to distinguish from the fat or muscle.
Once trimmed, they were ready for the cure, which was as easy as combining all of the ingredients together. As for the amount of cure, I used the cure packet as a guide. The 100g pack was enough to cure 40kg of meat, so using my trusty brain and a calculator, I worked it out to be 2.5 grams of cure per kilo of meat. My jowls weighed in at around 1kg after trimming, so 2.5g of cure was mixed well into the salt and sugar before adding the thyme, garlic and pepper.
As the cure was going to draw out moisture from the jowls, I added an extra base of salt to the bottom of my container before rubbing down the cheeks with the cure mix and placing them into the container. I also made sure that the cheeks were only in contact with the cure mix and not the container or each other.
There was nothing left to do, other than pop them in the fridge and let the cure do the rest, for about a week. Every day or so, I check on them and ensured that they were happy and the cure was still covering each cheek.
After a week, it was time to wash the cure off the cheeks, but not with water. So, unless you were a magician, like Jebus, white wine was the traditional method for washing the cheeks and I thought I’d do the same thing. I can’t remember the last time I’d bought a cask of goon and sadly, I thought Fruity Lexia might be a tad too sweet for washing the cheeks, so I opted for a drier, more highfalutin Semillon Chardonnay.
Once the cheeks were well washed in the good stuff, I patted them dry with paper towel, ready for the next step. They had firmed up in the cure nicely and now they were ready for a rub down of spices, ready to hang. I used a combination of juniper, green peppercorns, fennel seeds and chilli. I went for green peppercorns as I wanted a milder pepper flavour. Juniper, fennel and chilli are fairly traditional spices as far as Guanciale goes.
The last step before hanging was to weigh the cheeks. I’d read that the same principle I’d followed when making duck prosciutto was also relevant to making Guanciale; that was when they’d lost 30% of their initial weight, through loss of moisture, they were done.
Actually, a precise figure of 30% is a little subjective. Jowls that contain a lot of fat won’t lost as much weight as the moisture is lost. I guess I just had to wait and see. My cheeks had lost around 100 grams in the fridge cure, so I was aiming to lose around 120 grams. In my little wine fridge, set at 13 degrees Celsius and with a humidity of around 65 percent, this could take anywhere from four to eight weeks.
Fast forward to just shy of six weeks later and my impatience had gotten the better of me. On the scales, they hadn’t met the ’30 percent’ rule (closer to 20%) and since I first checked on them at the one month mark, there had been very little additional weight lost over the past two weeks. However, they were nice and firm; I was pretty sure that they were ready.
From the first cut of the knife, I knew my impatience was justified. The flesh was a rich and red in colour and the fat was lovely and firm. It smelled fantastic and tasted even better! Rich, buttery and a little nutty. A little bit of sweetness lingered from the cure and the spicing rounded it out perfectly.
A wee favour called in at Maria’s Deli (a few doors down from me) and soon enough their meat slicer had transformed one of my cured cheeks into paper-thin slices.
They say that 2015 is going to be the year of recession, so maybe we should get in early and start to tighten our belts. As I’m not working at the moment, I’m already trying harder to not be so frivolous with my money. I am not yet at the stage where I am making my own moonshine or clothes, but I am spending far more time planning when it comes to grocery shopping, so there is less spent on the weekly shop and as a bonus, less weekly wastage.
Our household still produces its fair share of waste; but more recently, it’s been a case of an increasing awareness to minimise what is getting binned. Any bananas that are still around at the end of the week are chucked in the freezer and when there are enough, I’ll make banana bread. The abundance of lemons that are often given to us are turned into curd and any vegetables that look like they only have another day left are easily turned into pakoras or okonomyaki with a few other pantry staples.
It’s led me to think more about the things that we would normally throw away; things that could easily have a second chance as something else to enjoy, rather than simply becoming landfill or worm food. Stuff that we simply do not think about or most likely; couldn’t be bothered doing anything about. Using vegetable peelings for stock is one that comes to mind. Sadly, I’m just not that driven to be that overtly conscious, although I should try harder.
With summer fast approaching, my kids love nothing more than eating their bodyweight in watermelon and I’m quite partial to the stuff too, particularly as a salad with marinaded goats feta, mint and olives. I hate the wastage though. Over half of what is bought usually gets dumped in the bin or at the very least, if you buy a whole melon, you can make a zany helmet to wear to the cricket.
Using watermelon rind for a jam or pickle has been in the back of my head for a few months. A friend of mine in Adelaide is running a stall at a local market that sells a range of naan breads and other home-made treats. Their preserves and pickles have been big sellers and their watermelon jam is a winner.
This was enough for me to give it a go and see for myself. Is this the epitome of turning waste into a delicious commodity of a condiment?
So, what to make? A Pickle, preserve or chutney? What would I use more? I opted for a pickle to start with. It’s pretty interchangeable with chicken, pork, charcuterie or even with a good, crumbly cheddar.
The recipe is pretty basic. No more than 10 minutes of prep and 15 minutes on the stove.
Pickled Watermelon Rind (makes approximately 500ml)
Rind from one mini watermelon (mine was the size between a lawn bowl and a bowling ball), including some of the red flesh
1 cup cider vinegar
2/3 cup caster sugar
1 tbsp salt
2 star anise
1 cinnamon stick
I used a boning knife to cut the flesh from each half of the watermelon, leaving about half a centimetre of flesh on the rind, before using a vegetable peeler to remove the green skin.
After cutting the flesh from the rind and using a vegetable peeler to remove the green skin, I cut the rind into a half-centimetre dice. One mini watermelon gave me a little over four cups of peeled rind.
The rind was paced into a medium-sized saucepan with the other ingredients and simmered over a medium-high heat for around 15 minutes, until the rind becomes a little translucent.
If you leave it to cool, then refrigerate for a few hours, it’s ready to go. Otherwise, you can pop it into a sterilised jar, where it should keep for a couple of weeks. It’s a reasonably small quantity, so hopefully it won’t last you that long.
I’ll never be as inventive or inclined as Joost Bakker, but this is a great step forward in turning potential waste into deliciousness… one recipe at a time.
I love birthdays. Especially mine. It’s one of the only times of the year I can usually get away with frivolous purchases, without the follow-up question of “do you really need that?”
This year, I was the grateful recipient of a Hark Electric Digital Smoker and happily ticking the frivolous box with a big fat red marker, the most problematic issue is that where I am living has no private access to an outdoors area… just a public laneway. Obviously, this makes it a tad difficult to crank up the smoker indoors (yes, I foolishly tried) and in the laneway, I’d hate for a panicky neighbour to think that their place was in danger of catching fire.
Fortunately on a recent weekend, I headed up to a friend’s property near Geelong for a few days; a great opportunity to load the smoker into the boot of the car along with several kilograms of ribs and some chicken.
Ribs seemed the most fitting for the maiden trial of my smoker. Get it right and you are rewarded with one of the messiest, most delicious sharing dishes I can think of.
Way back when, there was little thought or effort that went into cooking ribs, other than ‘making’ my own sauce from a blend of commercial sauces, maybe some extra sugar and perhaps a few seasonings and whatever I could find that was on hand. Then it was a case of chucking them in the oven for a couple of hours, in foil, on a slow heat, followed by cranking up the heat as high as possible to caramelise the ribs.
I didn’t know any better or indeed know what better could be until several years ago when Melbourne became slowly indoctrinated to North American Barbecue, largely thanks to people like Burger Mary.
Nowadays, every third or fourth pub has revamped it’s menu to pay homage to the Pit Master and, like all the other food trends that we have embraced over the years, most of us are aware of what makes good Barbecue; meat, rubs, smoke, heat and lots of love, time and care… and perhaps a lick of BBQ sauce.
I’ve learned a lot about Barbecue over the last few weeks. Much more than I thought I would from just watching episodes of BBQ Pitmasters on Foxtel. For starters, there was a lot more to know about ribs than I thought I already knew. From a little piggy’s fourteen rib bones, there are two common cuts; Baby Back Ribs and Spare Ribs. Further to this, there are also St Louis-cut ribs, which are Spare Ribs that have been trimmed up (removing the sternum and flap of meat at the bottom), effectively squaring up the ribs to make them neat and more uniform (I found a really great post the Serious Eats website on how to trim ribs). Then there are also Country-style cut ribs, which are extremely meaty and cut from the sirloin or rib end of the pork loin. Rib porn.
The common Baby Backs are the from the ribs found closest to the backbone of the pig and connected to the loin. They bones are smaller, curved and pretty close together and most of the meat is on top of the bones. When I was a kid, Mum would buy these ribs for maybe no more than a dollar or two for a couple of racks. Back then, they were tantamount to dog bones and were most likely sold as such. Today, they command around $20 per kg, which is a lot given that there is more bone than meat.
As you move further from the spine, you find the Spare Ribs, where the bones get larger, flatter, straighter and wider apart with more meat between the bones. Also, the further you get from the spine, there is a greater amount of marbling because it’s closer to the belly. In fact, because of their affiliation with the pork belly, the belly itself can be sometimes sold as ‘boneless spare ribs’. It’s kinda technically true, but it’s just pork belly.
Sadly, most ribs in Australia are butchered to be devoid of very little meat, which is largely due to the demand of other pork cuts that would otherwise be compromised if ‘proper’ rib cuts were made available in Australia. The vast majority of Australian butchers and retailers purchase specific cuts through a commercial boning room. Therefore the proposition of buying and breaking down an entire pig for awesome ribs would be to the detriment of leaving cuts that are not too popular in the Australian market, so unfortunately, it’s uneconomical.
Perhaps with an emerging demand for other not-so popular cuts of meat, we may find better ribs in the near future. For now, I’ve found the best quality spare ribs are from Costco at around $16 per kg. They’re meaty and require very little trimming up, unless you want to make them St Louis-style. One rack (around 1.6-1.8kg) will set you back about $28-$30, which is enough for two moderately hungry people. However, smoking just one rack seems pointless, so stock up and get your friends over.
BBQ sauces are fairly subjective as far as flavours go. As you move through the BBQ belt in the United States, flavour profiles are tweaked from region to region. A Kansas-style BBQ sauce is your typical tomato-based sauce. It’s unctuously sticky, dark and sweet from molasses and it’s the sauce that most people will duly recognise; albeit a far cry from the overly sweet sauces that most of us are subjected to, thanks to the mass-produced brown muck you find in squeezey bottles.
Sauces from North Carolina are all about tang that is driven from a big dose of vinegar. Pork in its many forms (but think pulled pork) is the most popular meat in this part of the world, so the preference of a vinegar-driven BBQ sauce that cuts through the richness of the meat makes perfect sense.
Tennessee sauces contain the ubiquitous slosh of whiskey, whereas Texan sauces tend to be on the spicier side and Louisiana sauces are even hotter.
With all this in mind, I started to trawl various BBQ forums and recipes to look at the more common ingredients so I could build a sauce of my own at this is what I came up with.
Paul’s BBQ Sauce (makes 1.5 litres)
200g Celery, very finely diced
200g, Onion, very finely diced
50g fresh Ginger, finely grated
500ml Tomato Ketchup (I used Heinz)
100g Brown Sugar
125ml good quality Bourbon
1 tbsp Habanero Tabasco Sauce (Note: start with a ½ tbsp and if you feel you need more heat, add another ½ tbsp.)
2 tbsp Worcestershire Sauce
4 tbsp Apple Cider Vinegar
1 tbsp Mustard Powder (I used Keens)
125ml Orange Juice
60ml Maple Syrup
125ml fresh Espresso
Quite a number of rubs and sauces contain celery seed or salt. I opted for fresh celery and onion (as opposed to powder) to use as my aromatics, as well as to thicken the sauce after blending. I sweated this mixture down slowly with some butter (lid on, but stirring frequently) for 10 minutes, then added the ginger, leaving a soft, fragrant and translucent base to continue adding the rest of the ingredients.
Once the ketchup had been added and incorporated into the softened aromatics, the remainder of the ingredients were added judiciously, in the order of ingredients listed above. I tasted the sauce as each ingredient was added to understand how each ingredient contributed to the overall flavour. Over the slowest heat possible on my biggest burner, the process took around 40 minutes of simmering and adjusting until I was happy with the consistency and flavour. The espresso was a last minute addition and I’m glad I used it. The coffee notes really brought out the bourbon and the acidity helped to further balance some of the sweetness.
Once I’d blended the sauce to make it nice and smooth, I stored it in the fridge overnight to allow the flavours to develop. When I tried it the next day, it was good, but not great and perhaps a little too spicy to be universally kid-friendly.
With some corrective action, I poured the sauce back into a saucepan over a low heat and added another 125ml of molasses. It was nearly there, but not quite. Rather than add more molasses or brown sugar, I added 125ml of kecap mains (ABC Sweet Soy) for a little more depth and colour. Finally, to further balance the sweetness with a little more acidity, another 2 tablespoons of apple cider vinegar was stirred in. At this point, the sauce was only back to blood temperature; enough heat to allow the new ingredients to emulsify.
The end result encapsulates all of the key elements of the various regional BBQ sauces from all over the US; the tempered heat from tabasco, the sweetness from the molasses and brown sugar, the twang from the apple cider vinegar and a cheers to the folk in Tennessee with a generous splash of Bourbon.
Another key step to smoking is the process of marinating the meat with a dry rub.
Dry rubs are exactly as their name describes; a mix of dried herbs and seasonings that are rubbed onto the meat to impart flavour. Meat, obviously being moist, will make the rub tacky when left for several hours or overnight, meaning most of it will remain on the meat before and during cooking (although some rib recipes call for a thin layer of mustard on the ribs, which, additional flavour aside, also allows the rub to stick to the meat). Sugar also features as a key ingredient as it allows the meat to caramelise.
Like BBQ sauces, dry rubs are also very personal in flavour. Most recipes are a combination of sugar, salt, paprika, chilli or cayenne, pepper, powdered garlic, onion and ginger and dried herbs, like oregano, rosemary and thyme. From there you can then play with the combinations of the above or add your own personal touches. I’ve got an idea of maybe trying some freeze dried pineapple powder, but for my first rub, I stuck to a fairly generic recipe.
Generic Rib Rub (makes 2 cups)
3/4 cup Brown Sugar
3/4 cup White Sugar
1/2 cup Paprika
1/4 cup Garlic Powder
2 tbsp Black Pepper, freshly ground
2 tbsp Ginger Powder
2 tbsp Onion Powder
2 tsp Oregano, dried
On the day prior to smoking, I trimmed the ribs up, removing the flap of skirt meat that runs diagonally on the backside of the ribs. I ended up cooking the flaps separately, but in the same manner as the ribs, which became a tasty and fuss-free meal for my 4 year old. I also removed the thin, papery membrane from the back of the ribs. I’d never done this before, but many sites and forums advocated this for the sake of allowing better smoke penetration (also conversely refuted by other sites and forums). Another apparent and more practical advantage was better texture once the ribs are cooked. This made more sense. It’s quite a tricky and laborious step. The membrane is a slippery little sucker, but after a couple of little knife nicks to the fingers and some quality swearing, it was job done.
Once the ribs are trimmed, they’re given a generous coating of rib rub, then left to marinate in the fridge overnight until you’re ready to fire up the smoker.
The Hark Electric Smoker works well. My only gripe was that initially the door wasn’t flush with the body of the unit, which meant that smoke billowed out where the door seal wasn’t sealing adequately. Sadly, Hark did not respond to my photos, which was disappointing. I fixed the problem with some self-adhesive fibreglass tape I picked up at a BBQ store for around $25. A cheap, effective fix, but unnecessary when you’ve forked out $600 for a brand new smoker. Gripes aside, it’s also pretty economical, only requiring a scant 1/4 cup of (apple) wood pellets, so that 10kg bag I purchased might take a little while to use.
The cooking method I used for the ribs was the popular 3-2-1 method. This method consists of placing your rubbed ribs in the smoker for 3 hours with your wood chips or pellets, uncovered and untouched. This is followed by a further 2 hours in the smoker, wrapped in alfoil. Finally, the ribs are unwrapped and placed back in the smoker for another hour, lacquering every fifteen minutes or so with BBQ sauce and a trusty sauce mop. The temperature of the smoker remains at a constant 110 degrees Celsius throughout the entire process. I also threw in some bone-in, skin-on chicken thighs and a couple of chicken marylands, adding them to the smoker after the ribs had endured their first three hours (I added some more wood pellets at this point to give them a chance to smoke).
The whole process is most definitely a labour of love and time. But by God is it worth it. There are so many other things to try next… brisket, pork butt (neck) or shoulder. Maybe all at once. All I need is a backyard. If you can provide me this, I’ll promise you a meal you’ll never forget.
It sounds a bit weird given it only opened three years ago, but things appear to move pretty fast in Scott Pickett’s world.
In a little over the last twelve months he’s opened Saint Crispin with Joe Grbac. Then last October, chef and business partner, Ryan Flaherty, left the business to start his own restaurant, Mr Jennings (Bridge Rd, Richmond), which coincidentally opens today… I can’t wait to check it out.
More recently, there has been an impressive renovation of the courtyard (previously home to a fire pit and suckling pig on a spit) which delivers full overhead cover and comfortable heating to increase patronage by around 30 seats and an excellent refurbishment of the amenities.
This is all topped off with the addition of Josh Pelham as Head Chef in the kitchen. Like Scott, Josh is an alumnus of Phil Howard’s two Michelin-starred London restaurant, The Square, where Josh was Head Chef.
I dined here several weeks ago and noticed that there have also been a few alterations to the menu. What once was a choice of 5, 7 or 9 courses has become 6, 8 or 10. And gone is the ‘adventurous’ beverage pairing, which offered some more left-of-field alternatives to the more basic wine matches; like maybe a sake or a simple cocktail. Alas, making a cocktail (to order) is a far more laborious task within a very busy restaurant and relying on the next beverage match to be ready for its accompanying course is paramount. It makes sense.
As for the food, it was better. The pork jowl, apple and turnip has become my all-time favourite dish, closely followed by the Phil Howard-esque hand rolled macaroni, featuring pine mushrooms, parmesan and (in addition to a $15 supplement) a generous shaving of black truffle.
And to my not-so-subtle segue.
Last night, was the Fringe Food Festival’s fourth annual Truffle Dinner hosted by The Estelle (with the exception of last year, which was held at Saint Crispin), with truffles lovingly supplied by Madame Truffles.
Winter staples are a perfect vehicle for the unbridled addition of truffle; rich pasta dishes, creamy sauces, under chicken skin and many other delights where buttery and cheesey goodness go hand in hand with nature’s black gold… I had a crack at a few recipes myself a few years back. And yes, we all know that high amounts of this stuff is not good for you in the long term, but The Estelle does moderation quite well and to be frank, the truffle season is very short indeed.
Last night’s menu kicked off with salty and warm – fresh from the oven – foccacia with truffled olive oil. This is opposed to the various incarnations of ‘truffle infused’ olive oils which are in most cases inferior. The olive oil was grassy and rich with the perfume from the very visible shaved truffle from Daylesford (VIC). Bagel and Pretzel mogul, Dan Taranto and I took turns seeing who could capture the most bits of shaved truffle onto our focaccia. It was a draw.
A delicious scrumpy-style cider from WA’s Custard & Co accompanied a most delicious Isle of Mull Cheddar and Truffle cheese soldier to whet our appetites. I’m not a big cider fan; my foray into fermented apple drinks was largely killed off thanks to the likes of Strongbow as a teenager. I will be heading to Wine Republic later this week to pick up a flagon (such a great choice of receptacle) or two as I am now a convert.
The warming and satisfying Jerusalem artichoke veloute with pine mushrooms and a 63 degree egg (for 40 minutes) was topped with the nutty crunch of toasted rice and truffle from Pemberton in WA.
For the next course, we stayed in WA for a little longer. Western Australian marron was teamed with the most famous hand-rolled macaroni, basil and pan fried Brussels Sprout leaves. The sauce that embalmed the pasta was heavenly; rich with flavour from what I assume was the shells of the marron.
A quick trip from the west coast to the east coast was taken for our next course. Truffles from Braidwood (NSW) were paired with meltingly tender, slow-cooked beef shin, oyster mushrooms, miso and oyster mushroom puree, jus and a small nugget of deep-fried bone marrow.
We closed the night closer to home, with truffle from the Yarra Valley (VIC) featuring in the (truffle infused) sponge cake and the ice cream, as well as honeycomb crumb and charred pear. I was a little apprehensive about the ice cream. I’ve had great truffle-flavoured ice cream in the past, but some former versions have been far too dominant in flavour, overpowering the other elements of the dessert and the wine. This version was quite redeeming.
Another memorable night at The Estelle and if you’re quick, you may be able to snag a ticket to next Monday’s Truffle Dinner (details are here), which coincides with Bastille Day.
You wouldn’t think it could get any busier for Scott, but it does. There’s also a book coming out in November. Teaming up with renowned Australian food writer, Rita Erlich, Scott’s next foray delves into stories and recipes that have shaped and pay homage to his so-far 25-year journey in cooking.
I know what will be on the top of my Christmas list.
I’ve recently spent several months working in Melbourne’s outer south-eastern suburbs. Work-wise, it was a nice break from the hustle and bustle of the corporate environment in the CBD. For food and my lunch in particular, the outer south-east is a great area to sample some good fare. So beyond avoiding Sofia’s colossus pasta meals or averting the temptation of yet another six-inch Subway Club on honey oat with all the salads, extra pickles… no onion or carrot, a short drive to Glen Waverley or Box Hill in pursuit of finding the best Hainanese Chicken and Rice was a far more sporting challenge.
Hainanese Chicken from the Chinese island province of Hainan is actually known as Wenchang chicken, which is not to be confused with UK’s new wave pop group.
Wenchang actually means ‘white cut’.
As the Hainanese settled throughout South-East Asia, the dish became prominent in both Malaysia and Singapore. Of course, there’s contention as to which is better; the Malaysian version, which is subtler in flavour or the Singaporean version, which features a more savoury rice. My preference is the latter.
Did I find my utopian chicken and rice? I don’t think so. Whilst I scoured the net to give me a few clues as to where I might find a really good serving of chicken and rice, I also came across some real shockers; chicken that had been boiled for far too long that resulted in tight, stringy proteins, flavourless rice, insipid or no condiments.
Surprisingly, the best and most consistent chicken and rice was from none other than China Bar on Kingsway in Glen Waverley, with its robust condiments, moist chicken and extremely flavourful rice.
Still, nothing is as rewarding as cooking it yourself and taking advantage of a quiet weekend, I could think of nothing more therapeutic than spending several hours creating this wonderful dish. Of all of the recipes I read through, there are key methods that largely remain the same, as do the core ingredients of chicken, ginger, garlic, chillies and soy sauce. Then there are the hundreds of variances in the methods and other ingredients.
This was the second time I had cooked chicken and rice and I decided to stick with Adam Liaw’s Grandmother’s recipe as my base recipe, which features in his book, Two Asian Kitchens. I’ve made a few modifications, which are largely made out of taking on some of the other techniques in other recipes plus a bit of cheating in an attempt to boost the flavour of the rice.
1 whole chicken (about 1.5kg), at room temperature
a good handful of sea salt flakes
5 whole cloves garlic
5 thick slices ginger, unpeeled
1 tbsp sesame oil
coriander, sliced cucumber and spring onion, to serve
350g jasmine rice
625ml reserved chicken stock
2 thick slices ginger, unpeeled
1 sachet of Asian Home Gourmet Hainanese Chicken Spice Paste
3 red birds-eye chillies
3 red long chillies… the mild ones
2 tbsp grated ginger
2 garlic cloves
1 tsp caster sugar
1/4 tsp sea salt flakes
1 tsp lemon juice
2 tbsp reserved chicken stock
Spring Onion & Ginger Oil:
4 spring onions, thinly sliced
2 tbsp grated ginger
1/2 tsp sea salt flakes
3 tbsp peanut oil
One of the great tips I found was to give the chicken some love by means of an exfoliation. A handful of sea salt rubbed judiciously all over the chicken will leave you with one good looking bird. It’s amazing how much gunk is removed leaving the chicken with taught, smooth skin and a better final result.
One of the other handy tips to produce really good rice is the use of chicken fat. Trim any of the visible pieces of fat from the chicken; there’s usually a good amount inside the rear cavity and I also use the parson’s nose. Roughly chop all of the fatty bits and place them into a small saucepan and over a very low heat, in around 30-45 minutes, you should have 1-2 tablespoons of chicken fat.
Don’t throw away those crispy pieces of chickeny goodness either. Season them and stack them on top of your rice as a garnish or even better, crack a beer and have yourself a most excellent beer snack to keep you going whilst you’re cooking.
After your chicken’s skin rejuvenation, it’s time for a spa bath. Place the garlic cloves and ginger slices in the cavity of the chicken and place breast-side down in a saucepan that is just bigger than your chicken. Ideally you want to make enough chicken stock to cook the rice, plus the small amount required for the condiments and at least a litre left over to serve as a cleansing broth. So that’s probably around two litres of cold water to cover your chicken.
Get the heat ticking to just under a simmer and keep it going for around 20 minutes, then place a lid on your saucepan and leave it to continue cooking in the residual heat for another 30 minutes. The end result should be a perfectly, ever so just cooked chook.
Remove the chicken from the stock, drain, then place your chook onto some plastic wrap. Rub the chicken all over with a good drizzle of sesame oil, then wrap it up snugly. It will look a little like Laura Palmer.
Your chicken is now ready to cut up when it’s time to serve. Put your stock to one side as you’ll be needing it later on.
While your chicken is cooking and resting, it’s time to get stuck into making the condiments.
To make the chilli sauce, combine the chillies, ginger, garlic, sugar and salt in a mortar and pound to a paste. Adam Liaw’s recipe called for six birds-eye chillies, but to make this a little more kid-friendly with less heat, I used three long red chillies to keep the chilli volume without adding any more heat. Once I had a relatively smooth paste, I added the lemon juice and a couple of tablespoons of the reserved chicken stock. The result is a fragrant, spicy and sweet sauce that it much needed to cut through the richness of some of the other elements.
To make the spring onion and ginger oil, again in your mortar, add the spring onion, ginger and salt and pound lightly with the pestle. Heat the oil in a small frying pan until it just hits smoking point and pour onto the mixture. Once the crackling and sizzling stops, combine lightly with the pestle and leave to infuse for a few minutes, giving you a punchy, yet rich condiment.
The dressing for the chicken is pretty simple and serves as an integral background flavour for the chicken. Mix together the sesame oil and soy sauce with 50ml of the reserved chicken stock and add the sugar until dissolved. Adam Liaw’s recipe called for light soy. I didn’t have any, so I used normal soy. I also opted to add a touch of sweetness, hence the addition of a little sugar. You can leave it out if you want to.
My tweaks to the rice would most likely raise the scorn and ire of the purists, but it’s a delicious result, so I’ll stick to it. Heat your 1-2 tablespoons of chicken fat in a large saucepan over medium heat, add the ginger slices and the sachet of Hainanese Chicken Spice Paste, which is pretty much shallots, ginger and garlic. Cook out the paste until fragrant, then add the rice and toss until well coated and it starts to become opaque and begins to crackle… a bit like making a risotto. Add the reserved chicken stock, give it a stir and when it comes to the boil, pop the lid on, set your smallest burner to the lowest heat possible and leave your rice to cook slowly for 12-15 minutes. Try not to remove the lid and after the time is up, leave your rice to rest for a further 5-10 minutes.
To serve, slice the chicken up without hacking it into a complete mess. One day I’ll learn how to cut a chicken ‘Chinese-style’, which for me means annoying bones in every bite. Pour over the dressing and make it look pretty with some coriander and cucumber. Serve it with your most very flavourful rice, condiments and broth, which is the remaining chicken stock plus a little adjusting to the seasoning thanks to some salt and soy sauce.
Cooking Hainanese Chicken and Rice is most definitely a labour of love; given there are quite a number of steps. However, it’s more than worth the end result as it is one of those dishes that exemplifies how you can treat a very small number of ingredients with some care and respect to deliver a complete meal.
I haven’t posted anything since last September. Time tends to get away from you a bit… family, work, moving house. One month becomes two, then six. I haven’t really been eating out as much either. A few places, but nothing new… except for a trip to New Zealand. Cibo in Parnell, just out of the Auckland CBD, was great, but I forgot to take photos, otherwise I would have written a review.
There have been a few articles of late that spruik the latest and greatest food fads, which are more or less titled [insert number here] of the [best / weirdest / latest] foods you need to eat before you die. I don’t want to think about dying in that way. On my deathbed, with tubes inserted into every orifice, connected up to a machine that goes ‘ping’, the last thing I’d be thinking about would be a truffle-filled cronut wrapped in lardo. Maybe.
But it did get me thinking about my top 5 things that I love. The things that I tend to revert back to and revere. They’re not necessarily fancy or expensive, nor would they rate too highly on someone’s culinary bucket list (some might).
So, without trying to sound like John Cusack in High Fidelity, here is my all-time, desert island foodie top 5…
Coeliacs, look away now. I’m not talking about your standard Wonder White variety that I feed to my kids. I’m talking about bread with character. Stuff that’s been made with love. A Treat of France is a Boulangerie and Patisserie that is only a few doors down from my place. They make the best olive sour dough I’ve ever eaten. Hit that shit up with some Myrtleford Butter, Pepe Saya or at the very least, Lurpak.
Northcote Bakeshop make the bestest, densest fruit loaf. Cut thin and crisped up in a low oven. Forego butter and opt for a tangy, creamy blue or a perfectly ripe triple cream brie.
Toasted sandwiches also rate a mention… on Wonder White if that’s all you have. I originate from Adelaide, so it’s not a jaffle either. Nan used to make us toasties with that Kraft processed cheese that you bought in the aisle, near the Vegemite or with tinned braised steak and onion that was so hot, you couldn’t taste anything else for a week until your tongue healed.
These days, simple ham and cheese is just fine or at the very least, the perfect medium for left-overs… like the meat from the previous night’s lamb shanks with cannellini beans. The best baked bean toastie there is.
I only started drinking coffee when I started my first full-time job in 1994; nearly half my life ago and of course, it was Nescafé from one of those cafébar things where one click of the dial dispensed the recommended amount.
Way back then, I think my three clicks into a plastic disposable cup bred my love of a strong coffee. Fortunately, my tastes in coffee have matured, as has my passion for making the best coffee I can. I use St Ali’s Steadfast Blend, (formerly known as Orthodox and before that, known as Chompy) and with my Breville Smart Grinder and Gaggia Classic, I can belt out a most very decent, rich creamy shot, time after time. It seems more satisfying with the more tactile process of making an espresso with a manual machine. People may scoff at the rest of the process. Skinny milk in my favourite rabbit mug, heated in the microwave for 70 seconds, topped with a double shot and half a teaspoon of panella sugar. Hey, that’s how I like it.
I also feel like a bit of a wanker when it comes to ordering my small strong skinny flat white with half a sugar. I always have this feeling that then they write STSKFW 0.5 on my coffee lid with a sharpie it could also mean stupid skanky fuck wit. I hope they don’t mean that.
I know that’s a pretty broad brush to paint with, but life without condiments would be joyless and somewhat less tangy, fruity, sweet and delicious.
I moved house recently and it was a good time to take stock of what lived in my fridge. Six kinds of mustard; Sweet Alstertor Mustard (that comes in the small beer mug), which we slather on sausages to get our German on, Maille Dijon and wholegrain mustards for cooking, Masterfoods Mild English for Lily’s ham and cheese roll for school, Hot English (Colman’s, of course) and that yellow stuff you put on hotdogs.
There is also Gochujang chilli paste, hoi sin, miso, pickles in many forms. Countless jars of preserves, chutneys, sauces. Hank’s Chilli Jam goes with practically everything. They will all be required at some point… maybe to make up a quick BBQ sauce for ribs with tomato sauce, mustard, plum sauce and sriracha. I also keep a big jar of homemade chimichurri sauce in the fridge too. It goes with everything. I start with this recipe from Matt Preston, but vary the heat and herbs depending on how I’m feeling at the time.
2. Asian Food
And you thought condiments was a pretty broad brush. Unfortunately there’s no better way to describe so many dishes that I love that cross Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese, Korean, Malaysian and Thai borders. There are probably more too. It’s safe to say that of the 14 lunches and dinners available to me per week, some form of Asian cuisine would take up at least 10 of these spots.
I love dumplings. But then if I just had dumplings on my list, I couldn’t have pho or sashimi or bibimbap or any of the meats that feature in the window of a good Chinese restaurant.
Other favourites are Hainanese chicken and rice, Korean fried chicken (and beer) with pickles and kimchee, a laksa that blows your head off, crispy crunchy Vietnamese coleslaw and rare beef salad with roasted rice, broken rice with a perfectly cooked pork chop and a punchy nuoc cham, freshly made banh mi with lots of coriander, pickled carrot and chilli, gua bao, agedashi tofu, My discovery of the raw prawn dish, Gung Chae Nam Pla, Karē Raisu, okonomiyaki, satay, red duck curry, chicken skin yakitori… any yakitori!
A fresh Thai dish that can nail the perfect combination of hot, sour, sweet, bitter and salty can be just as exciting as a simple and comforting congee. I love it all – I’m enjoying a Bulgogi Hot Pot for lunch even as I write this; rich, sweet stock, a little heat from chilli, slippery sweet potato noodles, tender beef… You don’t get that from a salad sandwich or something from Red Rooster.
So what’s number one? Number one is tough. There are many things I’ve missed, like beer, potatoes in many forms, good hamburgers, ice cream, eggs, pigs, fresh strawberries at their prime, roast chicken, a perfect steak, ribs… or fancy stuff like truffles or even the Chinese deliacy tong zi dan, where every spring in the city of Dongyang, eggs are boiled in the urine of young schoolboys (I’m not making this up).
Sadly, there is no number one. Yet… and this remains a top 4 for now (sorry John Cusack). Fact is that there are so many things in the culinary world that I revert back to and revere and I guess that’s part of being a so-called foodie.