"If you smiled, the walls would fall down on all the people in this pick up joint," I told myself, as I toyed with a ginger martini while enjoying the bay views from the top of the Grand Ana Hotel above the rocks. Relieved to be keeping the "real Australia", with its funnel-web spiders, sloppy meat pies and elderly men in shorts at arms length, I was on my way to dinner at Quay, Sydney Morning Herald's restaurant of the year.
Quay is on one floor of a fairly ugly modern building on Circular Quay, which does afford the advantage of harbour and opera house views. The evening I dined there, a mild storm was sweeping in, pushing black clouds over the bay in suitably dramatic fashion. With widely spaced tables, Quay does give most, maybe all, tables a fair portion of the scenic vista. The furniture took after the building, metallic and tubular, but otherwise this had the atmosphere of a serious, luxury restaurant.
I found ingredients as good as one could wish, cooked with precision, but assembled into dishes the syntax of which bewildered me. After a forgettable shot of soup, I was looking forward to the first course, a signature dish of crisp pork belly with scallops. The scallops were first rate, bursting with sweetness; the two rectangles of pork belly were suitably rich and toffee-like, garnished with some Chinese mushrooms. I tried putting the scallops and meat in my mouth together, but could taste only the succulent pork. I tried eating meat and scallop alternately, but they didn't seem to want to make friends. It was a little like two good but contrasting dishes served on the same plate.
I may have ordered badly - I hear the fish entrees are good - but I was tempted by the special roast squab. With laquered skin and delicate flesh, this was a distinctly Chinese-style bird. The scallops showed up again as a garnish, this time in the company of black-lipped abalone. Abalone is chewy little customer I've never seen the point of, but my complaint here was that again, nothing united the individual components. A thin, soy-based broth poured around by the waiter didn't help.
Service was good and generous. I drank a 95 vintage Moet as an aperitif; the sommelier recommended I continue drinking it with the pork, and freely topped up my glass. I also drank a memorable young Shiraz, Jacob's Ladder (?), which had desirable vegetal barnyard notes instead of the usual sweet, chocolatey fruitiness. Overall a disappointing meal.
Pausing only to kiss myself in four places, (okay, and do a day's work) I moved on to a
degustation at
Tetsuya, last year's Sydney M.H. restaurant of the year, and the most talked-about table in town. A rambling cottage behind eery electronic gates, almost concealed off Kent Street, has been refurbished in ersatz Japanese style. Furnished with modern sculptures, and more tubular furniture, there were at least two dining rooms and some busy private rooms too. Note - as I said on another thread - I had no difficulty getting a reservation, and some tables were empty.
The staff move smoothly into the no choice ten course menu - in fact, it's even more complex than that since some courses consist of several small dishes. I took the wine pairings - all young wines, and good rather than astounding. $275 Australian per head, including tip and everything (about $178 US, which is a little less than such a meal would cost in New York).
I will spare you the details. The cooking was careful, imaginative, and rich in luxury ingredients, but none of the dishes really caught fire (figuratively speaking). Tetsuya-san was in his whites, happily being photographed with satisfied customers.
Highlights included:
- a pair of shot glasses containing caviar over dried, crumbled eggs and asparagus puree (eggs, humor) and a refreshing orange and beetroot jelly respectively;
- a quartet of small tastes: marron (a local crustacean) with generous, pungent black truffle shavings; a skinny roll of New Zealand venison carpaccio stuffed with foie gras; raw kingfish with blood orange (clash!); and a chilled sip of very purely flavored tomato broth. This was one course, note.
- lime-infused Tasmanian scallop with soft slices of foie gras mi cuit; this was a hit.
And so it went on. An earthy lobster raviolo, very like the one I ate at Kable's a few days before; a skimpy strip of Wagyu beef (now raised in Australia), overwhelmed by some fresh flat mint stuffing; a dangerously young baby chicken - okay chick - poached then tanned under a salamadner, and served on a pedestal of braised daikon; cheeses - mainly French; a blood peach sorbet, showing the essential flavor of the fruit; an old fashioned and nicely wobbly floating island on a creme anglais.
My dining companion, not yet licensed to eat at such a staggering altitude, was begging for mercy. I was suitably impressed with the chef's skill, but I wasn't laughing, or crying, or shouting his name to the blue summer sky.
Tim Pak Poy, on the other hand... when I think about him I touch myself. This guy, cooking at a long-established little bistro in Woolaharra, named
Claude's sent me to heaven. Everyone,
this should be your first reservation when you come to Sydney, and maybe your second one too. Buzz to enter the small dining room behind the discreet wooden door. The decor is white, with a big distressed mirror which remidned me of London's The Lindsay House. They do run to a carpet, however, as well as more of that metallic furniture; I am forced to concldue that people here like it.
Two choices only, a three course dinner or five course tasting, sharing several of the same dishes. About twenty five covers (I'm told there's a small room upstairs), but the place was only half full on a Thursday night. Service was uncharacteristically reserved and reticent by local standards, but polished. Another marathon dinner with wine pairings for me, please.
Knowing the chef's reputation for adventure, I was worried by the
amuse: ocean trout roe in little pastry cornets dusted with icing sugar. The eggs, which looked like salmon roe, burst on the tongue with a dramatic, forceful pop - but I wasn't looking for a humorous, gimmicky dinner. Another false start with the little cup of smoked salmon consomme. I lifted it by the handle, tasted the warm cream floating on the soup, took a sip, and scalded my tongue. Ridiculously hot. But as the pain subsided, the meal took off.
- soft shell crab over peppered lentils, with buckheat noodles, sweet green tomatoes, fresh mint and what appeared to be flower petals. The petals had been treated somehow - maybe smoked? - and added exotic flavors to the beautiful balance of the dish (this is now sounding like Iron Chef, I know. Bear with me).
- in one bowl, a glazed filet of Murray River cod (thanks to Balic for the correction), a single cherry, cucumber salad with dill, scattered with tiny white flower blossoms; in another bowl, a "sugared" oyster, shreds of abalone, a chilled tomato
en gelee, garnished with dry seaweed.
May I never eat again if this was not one of the finest dishes (or pairs of dishes) I have ever eaten in my life. The sweetest, freshest cod, the deepest flavored oyster, the range of textures and temperatures. Pass the hankies.
- Quail "sausage" (looked like whole boned quail to me, legless of course), served on a hot char-grilled slice of melon. Yes, hot and sweet and thirst-quenching melon. And a champagne sauce; an old fashioned-cream thickened, but delicate and tasty, champagne sauce.
Wagyu beef. A generous slice this time, with ox heart tomato, chunky slices of oyster mushroom, and a porcini jus. For the first time, I really saw the point of Wagyu beef; not only is it well-marbled, but the fat has almost the flavor and consistency or well-cooked bone marrow; double unctuous. The restaurant presented large, whole Perigord truffles, with an aromatic impact I have never found in New York or London (why?), and shaved them very generously over the beef at a putative (no weighing) $6 Australian per gram.
More truffles? How about black truffle ice cream served over a fresh roast fig. I asked for a gallon to take away, but my server smiled and moved on. Then an upright almond souffle, filled with fresh, diced peach and cream. Petits fours.
I want to tidy up my wine notes for this dinner, and maybe Tetsuya, before posting further. You must pity me now as I pick myself up and head for dinner doubtless cooked by mere mortals. Onward, but surely not upward.
I think I have just eaten the best meal of 2003.
Edited by Wilfrid, 07 February 2003 - 04:25 PM.