I haven’t got a fantasy café, but this summer I have at least come up with its signature breakfast dish.
So everyone’s talking about René Redzepi and his seal fuckers* coming to Sydney.
* Warning, this post contains adult themes.
Can people really want their eggs to come like that? Poached, scrambled or Rollied?
Are there any prawns in prawn crackers?
Like bread and butter, like oysters and lemons, food and words are natural partners.
If you do it without the salt, it’s called a Greyhound. Still good, but I say the salt is what makes it.
When you think about it, the Irish and the French have something going on.
It was the Growers Market at Blackheath this weekend, which has incredible local produce and the best plant nursery ever. Just as well because it is high time we replenished our woody herbs and our depleted veggie patch.
Fat Tuesday pancakes, which are really French style crêpes made from a classic Australian cook book. Happy Mardi Gras.
We drove up Highway One through Big Sur, then headed across the San Joaquin valley to camp up in the Sierra Nevada before schlepping back West to San Francisco. We saw Giant Redwoods and Sequoias and stunning mountains, we went swimming at Lake Tahoe, and we ate our way around the state.