Comment is Free

I’ve got a comment piece in today’s Sun-Herald all about toilet paper, democracy, and why robust, vigorous debate in newspaper and opinion sites’ comment threads are actually a sign of a healthy polis.

Ironically, there is no facility to comment at the above link, so have at it here. And while it was written a while ago, it’s a nice rejoinder to Lizzy Farrelly’s attack yesterday on the “ignorant and heedless rabble” daring to have opinions different from her own.

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Enough With the Bouillabaise Already

Remember the old Mary Tyler Moore show? One of the running gags was Mary’s disastrous dinner party skills, often involving a failed dish of Veal Prince Orloff (which, it turns out, actually exists).

Well, we’ve found our Mary for the 21st Century. Only this time its her guests, and not her hosting skills, that are the problem. Meet occasional journalist, editor, author, and complainer Wendy Squires, writing in the Herald this weekend:

Remember the dinner party last year? The one I got up at dawn to shop at the fish markets for? I went to a lot of effort and was really looking forward to a fun night.

But as usual, it happened with a whisper that spread along the dinner table and before too long it was as if all conversation was put on pause. The fun was freeze-framed. The dealer had been called and – forget my bouillabaisse – his arrival was all that anyone was interested in.

Yeah, the sleazebag didn’t stay long but he certainly made an impact. The guests all separated into bedrooms and bathrooms, returning half an hour later with dilated pupils and chattering mindless gibberish. No one ate my food and, as I was the only straight person in the room, bothered talking to me.

Sounds like Wendy needs some hosting skills, rule number one being never complain about your guests, followed closely by never be boring. Which is not surprising, as she’s been repeating this same damn story since at least 2009:
I have seen dinner parties go from being about food (after I have schlepped to the fish markets, spend a mortgage on food and a day on preparation mind you) to guests pushing solids on a plate anxiously waiting for the dealer to arrive and the real party to begin.
If you live in the inner-city, a trip to the fish markets is not a “schlep”. But never mind. I’m with her guests on this one. If I were invited to someone’s house only to be regaled with stories from her latest Trafalgar Tour, I’d be sneaking off to another room to share a private giggle with the others, drugs or no drugs.
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Here’s A Tip

Pick up the latest issue of the Spectator Australia  – the one with Arthur Philip on the cover.

I’ve got a piece in there defending George Calombaris and calling for an American-style tipping system in Australian restaurants. I’ll post a link when it’s available.

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The Reuben Chronicles

It seems I’m not the only one looking for a good Reuben in Sydney. Ms Darlinghurst has just discovered another Reuben specialty shop, this time in Surry Hills, and she rates it. Yet, as she admits, it is not really the real thing: among other things, it comes with horseradish cream, rather than Russian dressing.

How hard can this be?

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Penalty Kick

It’s been a busy week so I haven’t had a chance to weigh in on George Calombaris’s comments about the penalty rates restaurants have to pay staff on evenings and weekends. I normally don’t have time for Calombaris — or the Australian MasterChef franchise — but this commentary in Australian Hospitality Magazine I think sums up the issue quite neatly:

The trouble is that George Colombaris has done the unthinkable in attacking one of the bastions of Australia’s lotus-living lifestyle. He couldn’t have attracted more venom if he had called for the banning of Australian Rules or suggested the Sydney Harbour Bridge be turned into a skate park.

Although the resulting focus of the fracas has fallen on the foodservice industry the problem is far wider and goes much deeper than that highlighted by George’s interests.

Quite simply, the whole Australian workplace and, therefore, the national economy is undermined by the pernicious concept of penalty rates. They are illogical and unsustainable, especially in these days when the chances of survival for any business are diminishing by the day.

Where is the penalty in working at night or on a weekend if you do so by choice. It is akin to a Press Club diner ordering one of George’s delectable dishes and then demanding payment because he decides it’s not to his taste. You chose it – you eat it. You seek a job in foodservice – you accept the hours and days of work.

Exactly right. Calombaris has been protrayed as quite the prick with a fork himself, with commentators suggesting that because he is successful and charges a motza for his food, he ought not complain. But his complaint is a large part of the reason why one can’t go out to breakfast with one’s partner on a Sydney Sunday and be sure of getting back change for a $50.

I would add that guaranteed wages undermine a service culture, which remains spotty to non-existent in Australian restaurants from cafes to three-hatters. Diners and servers alike would benefit from a move to an American-style minimum wage-plus-tips arrangement.

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Moore is Less

As a native New Yorker, when Michael Moore opened up his “Reuben & Moore” sandwich bar in the new Westfield on Pitt Street, I couldn’t have been more excited. I love Reubens, and the website even promised that the outlet would be ‘featuring the world’s most famous sandwich “The Reuben”.’

When I went the first time, and every time thereafter, all I got was disappointment. Not enough meat. Nor enough sauerkraut. And no Russian dressing, but instead some weird cornichons that didn’t belong.

Last month I dropped a note in to the website to the effect of, I appreciate a chef’s perogative to make a dish his own, but the Reuben is not a work in progress.

Yesterday I received an acknowledgment, but no firm answer.

Watch this space …

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Sheehan all wet

The often-sensible Paul Sheehan has fallen for the old “virtual water” canard:

If you enjoyed a cup of coffee this morning, it might interest you to know it took 140 litres of water to produce that cup. Such a simple but profound equation…a single steak…requires almost 10,000 litres of water to produce…

Not so fast:

A few days ago people were aghast and outraged when they saw a number stating that 34 gallons of ‘virtual water’ went into a cup of coffee. I understand their panic. That means we only have about 9,588,235,294,117,647 cups of coffee left before all the water is gone.(1)

Except water doesn’t actually disappear. There is the same amount of water on earth now as millions of years ago. That’s right, you’re drinking water a Neanderthal peed in. Water recycles. I understand that only 2.5% of all water is available ‘fresh’ water but that is why the outrage over coffee and hamburgers is unjustified.

Real water is what people care about, not pretend water. ‘Virtual water’ can be used for shock effect but it’s basically an intangible.

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The Oyster Bar

I grew up in a household where it was taken as an article of religious faith that one never, ever cooked an oyster. But I have married — or at least partnered — into a family of Mornayers, and as in any mixed marriage, my convictions have been shaken. As such I now delight in a wide variety of cooked oysters, from those lightly slathered in herb butter a la Eric Ripert at La Bernadin to those covered in mornay sauce, a la the mother-in-law.

But having shaken one orthodoxy, I have now taken up a whole new set of dogmas. First among them, oysters that are cooked must be done right, and oysters Kilpatrick requires Lea & Perrins. Yet last week on the far-north NSW coast, I encountered Kilpatricks baked to buggery with bad bacon and … wait for it … barbeque sauce. Not once, but a number of times. Is this a regional thing? Whatever it is, it is wrong.

All was not lost, however; top marks to both Season and Fin’s in the Salt Beach resort complex. Season’s oysters, done a number of ways (including tempura-fried with wasabi mayonnaise) were among the best I’ve had recently. If you are at Fin’s, which brings yummy bacalao amuses out for the kids that are preferable to those given to the grown-ups, do not go past the tuna tartare.

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Asleep at the whale

Well, well, whale, what have we here?

Australian environmental activists who boarded the whaling security ship Shonan Maru No 2. risk being sent to prison in Japan, according to Tokyo’s Institute of Cetacean Research.

The three men evaded defences overnight to board the ship off the coast of Western Australia in an attempt to force it to abandon its pursuit of the Sea Shepherd ship, Steve Irwin.

ICR, which conducts the Antarctic whaling program on behalf of the Japanese government, said the trio risked being taken to Japan and jailed.

It has been a long, long time since I took a survey course in international law, but this promises to be the most interesting case of an Australian getting arrested overseas (or, more accurately, at sea) since the Bali boy. While memory is hazy on the subject, I do not recall there being much favourable precedent for those who board another vessel uninvited; indeed, viewed uncharitably, the whole thing smacks of piracy. Which is why, as different as the Bali boy and the Sea Shepherd cases may seem at first glance, I imagine that the defendants in both instances hoped or are hoping that being white, Australian, and seemingly sympathetic victims of heartless, suspect, foreign legal regimes will stand them in good stead in the only court that seems to count any more, that of public opinion.

I have never eaten whale (though I have a vague curiosity to do so the next time I am in Japan, if only because it is forbidden fruit to us Australians), but it is interesting to note that officials seeking to supplement the meagre diet of post-World War II Britons attempted to make whale meat the next big thing, with Ministry of Food home economists noting that ‘[while] it is not very satisfactory grilled or cooked as a joint, most people cannot distinguish it from beef steak when it is finely cut before cooking or mixed with strong flavours.’ And anyone who has had experience reading or writing overly-optimistic government briefings will not be surprised that the stuff went unsold before being turned into ‘selected fish food for cats and kittens.’*

* Humble, Nicole, Culinary Pleasures: Cookbooks and the Transformation of British Food, London, 2005.

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Not So Sweet

The Age, March 8, 2009:

Alcopops tax a success: research

Alcopops sales dropped by 29 per cent following the introduction of the federal government’s tax hike on ready-to-drink alcoholic beverages in April, new figures reveal.

The data, released by the Australian Drug Foundation, shows the number of alcopops sold in the last 10 months dropped by the equivalent of 310 million standard drinks.

“This independent data is irrefutable and unbiased, and demonstrates a big loss in spirits sales for the liquor industry,” drug foundation policy spokesman Geoff Munro said in a statement.

The Age, September 25, 2010:

Alcopop tax fails to curb teenage drinkers

THE contentious tax on alcopops has failed to influence teenage drinkers and done nothing to curb binge drinking, according to the first survey of underage alcohol use since the federal government introduced the excise hike.

A Victorian government three-yearly survey of high school students shows the tax faltered on two fronts: pre-mixed sugary alcoholic drinks have become even more popular among the young, and the tax’s main targets, teenage girls, increased their risky drinking, with one public health expert describing the female drinking trend as ”an absolute disaster”.

So raising the price of booze hasn’t slowed young people drinking … hey, I got an idea! Let’s raise the price of booze!

YOUNG binge drinkers have simply switched to cheaper booze to beat the Federal Government’s controversial “alcopop” tax.

New research shows 15 to 29-year-olds have dodged the 70 per cent tax on popular pre-mixed drinks by changing their drink of choice.

The University of Queensland study found no significant reduction in binge drinking-related hospital admissions since the tax was introduced in 2008.

It has prompted fresh calls for a minimum price on alcohol.

The story goes on predictably from there: young people drink to get drunk, o tempora, o mores. Given that booze in Australia is already highly overtaxed — a bottle of gin is about twice in Sydney what it is in New York due mostly to various excises, and my uncle who lives outside Washington, DC, reports that his local Costco sells Grange for less than your average bottle shop here sells it for. Hiking prices will likely do little but further pick the pockets of the harried middle-aged and middle-class while driving youth to cheaper, more portable, and less- regulated substances to aid their thrill-seeking. Say what you will about drink, at least it hasn’t been made by some smelly guy in a garage … oh, wait.

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