In good company: Bistrot Traditionnel at Hainault Winery

Shall I bug you with some etymology or shall I just get on with talking about food?

Etymology, you say? Your wish is my command.

I love the word ‘companion’ and I don’t mean in a ‘Firefly’ sense (though if you like it in that sense, no judgement, enjoy, be safe etc). When you have spent as much time as I have messing around with classical languages, the original meaning of words often strikes me seconds before the current meaning does. So for me, a companion is someone who you take bread (Latin: pane, panis) with (Latin: com), a breadfellow and NOT a bedfellow despite what 'Firefly' would have you believe. Some one you sit down to dine with.

I was lucky enough last week to have a truly companionable dining experience at Hainault Winery in Perth’s Bickley Valley. I had a seat at a table with eight other people only one of whom I knew. The table was on a deck overlooking the sweep of the vine-covered hillside – a hillside which we had only just managed to get the car up there having been a perilous moment went the wheels spun on the gravel and we thought we were going to drift backwards towards the main road. The Bickley Valley is cool and quiet but our little corner of the deck was warm and noisy.

 

There were a few extra 'companions' who were not at the table but under it.

We were there for the ‘Bistrot Traditionnel de Paris’ – an evening catered by Chef Lloyd of Grape Provisions and accompanied (there’s that word again!) by Hainault wines. Our table was a wonderful group of invited guests – gardeners, growers, butchers, photographers, psychologists and sustainablists (and just one blogger) – and the convivial (Latin: convivere – to carouse together) atmosphere grew out of this interesting mix, assisted by wine.

I started with a glass of the Hainault Sparkling Pinot Noir Brut (2008), slight on bubbles, strong on apple characteristics, every-so-delicately pink. The first course was a classic bistro-style French onion soup made from fire-roasted onions and chicken stock and served with slices of Roman (yes! fits with my Latin leitmotif!) flatbread. The flavours were intense, as robust as you would expect a peasant-style soup to be and the chunks of bread added to the rustic look. It was a good beginning on a chilly evening.

 

The main course was also traditional and warming – pot au feu which, if you are to believe Raymond Blanc is “the quintessence of French family cuisine, it is the most celebrated dish in France. It honours the tables of the rich and poor alike”. This version also honoured the cow that provided the meat. “Tongue to tail” (langue a la queue) cooking uses every part of the animal in an effort not to be wasteful. There were six different cuts of beef through the rich sauce. I was able to notice the difference in texture but could not have identified with parts were tongue or tail (or cheek or saddle…) but we were fortunate to be sitting with Pip from Sebastian Butchers in Kalamunda who, through his expertese, was able to make the subtle distinctions. I think there might have been a tongue-in-cheek – pun intended – remark about the ‘autopsy at the end of the table’ but it was very interesting to have that knowledge there, even if it might have been a little confronting for some.

I think this was my favourite part of the whole meal -pane, panis (bread).


There was a mixed salad to go with the pot au feu and fragrant fresh-baked sour-dough, soft beneath the golden crust. I broke bread with my breadfellows while we listened to stories of growing gardens, European travel without a valid passport, and hosting difficult foreign exchange students.

 

The Latin word for 'owl' is 'bubo' because that is the sound owls make...

If anyone had been intimidated about being seated with strangers at the beginning, this was no longer evident. We mopped up our stew with the sourdough and chased this with the deep berry-ness of the Hainault 2009 Cabernet Sauvignon. I was put in mind of Breughel’s painting of a peasant wedding – simple food, done well and eaten in good company with much merriment.

 

The dessert was an interesting combination of pistachio ice-cream swirled with liquorice sauce and garnished with pickled strawberries. I personally would have liked more of the liquorice sauce, because I am a lifelong liquorice devotee, and fewer of the pickled strawberries which I found a little too intense for my taste, but which my companions enjoyed very much.

By the end of the meal, we had made seven new friends, had recommendations for an ice-cream shop in Kalamunda, had an invitation to visit an open garden, knew where to buy herbed sausages in the Bickley Valley, and had two bottles of the Cab Sauv to take home.

The last bottle of Cab Sauv was brought to the table by Chef Lloyd at the end of service. He deserved it more than we did, having successfully got out more than 50 covers, but it was nice of him to share. That extra glass was a lovely way to finish superb evening and I know that I for one was definitely content (Latin: contentus – satisfied, having all that one could desire).

Note: I dined as a guest of Grape Provisions/Hainault Winery but paid for my drinks.

Breaking the Birthday Law: Grass, Amphoras, The Nic and The Moon

I broke the fourth commandment of Bri's Birthday Law by coming to work. However, in a busy week with my boss away and a whole lot of organisation to be done, the luxury of a day at home just wasn't on the cards this year. 

Still, I was determined that despite a lot of general crapness that has been going on of late, I was going to have as good a birthday as possible. I was going to be kind to myself and treat me to some quality me-time if possible.

Breakfast for one seemed a good place to start. Grass Espresso is my latest West Perth discovery and perhaps my choice to go there today had a lot to do with the fact that I could have a glass of Pommery N.V. along with my mocha and eggs Benedict. If you ever feel like toasting me with champagne (you know, if the whim strikes you...) then Pommery in all its wheaty gold goodness is my declared favourite.

 

Like a putting green but sideways.

I like it at Grass and not just because of their astroturf walls. They are all so smiley there and sometimes, though not this time, they do latte art teddy bears on the top of your coffee. Even without a friendly bear, my mocha was excellent, good coffee with some chocolate in it and not the other way around.

The eggs Benedict, sorry, Grass Benedict, was just right too. I’m not much of a breakfast person, but eggs Benedict is the dish most likely to sway me into matutinal eating. It’s the Hollandaise that does it for me – nothing quite like a creamy, tangy sauce over the top of warm poached eggs with just enough liquidity in the yolk. Add a generous ripple of smoked salmon, and alfalfa sprouts on top of a white doorstep of bread – this is a breakfast worth having.

I had a moment’s nostalgia when the eggs were served up on an apple-green plate. When I was a kiddie, I had a favourite poem (which I cannot find online anywhere) which put forward the idea that food tasted better ‘off apple-green plates’ and to this day, on the rare occasion when an apple-green plate is placed before me, I think of that poem and smile. Apple-green plates and the shimmer of Pommery, opened and poured in front of me, and I was off to a very good start.

Arriving at work, I thought my luck had changed when I discovered two police cars parked out the front. I almost turned around and went home. The thought of having to deal with the thin blue line (and, yes, it has happened to me in the past) made me not a little anxious. It turned out, however, that it was nothing to do with my building, so huge sigh of relief and on with business as usual.

Somebody else's problem.

Lunch was more sociable than breakfast and I was lucky enough to have the company of wonderful work and blogger friends (thank you for joining me Nic, Mel, Liv, and Sarah-Jane!) for tapas and prosecco in the sunshine. Amphoras never lets me down and it was really, really kind of the wait-staff to organise an extra serve on each tapas plate where possible, so there were 5 portions where there would normally be 4.

We started with the glazed chorizo which is an Amphoras must-have – don’t let them take it away before you have mopped up all the glaze with bread – then there were marinated mushrooms, arancini, anchovy toasts, crumbed goat cheese, and warm bread with butter and black salt

Anchovies are one of those love it or hate it foods – I love them but I get that other people don’t. Still, these were superb – not the super-salty, tiny crumbly morsels that you get in tins – these were large, fresh and marinated in vinegar, served with tomato salsa and bread. They matched really well with the prosecco – tart, appley bubbles to chase the sharpness.

 Fresh anchovy fillets.

I was grateful to have to chance to sit in the sunshine – yes, sunshine! I was lucky with the weather – and have a laugh with some smart, talented and funny ladies. As I said to Mel afterwards, I couldn’t have wished for better but longer would have been nice.

I did drag my feet a bit when it was time to go back to the office, but the afternoon was busy, and the last part of the day disappeared in a flurry of paperwork. I walked to the bus-stop via Gangemi’s. The guys there know their stuff and can always be guaranteed to point me straight at the wine I want. This time I was steered towards a De Bortoli Este 2006 “ultra sauvage, hand riddled, hand disgorged” which was deeply amber and tasted of honey toast - an appropriate book-end to a day which had begun with Pommery. 

Later that evening, I matched the Este with cheap pizza and The Sound of Music on DVD.

Hey, the birthday law, the sixth commandment in fact, says that thou shalt do whatever the hell you want, and if that’s alternating mouthfuls of deep-pan Super Supreme with karaoke renditions of “Edelweiss” and "The Lonely Goatherd", then so be it. 

Before I reached home, I stopped off at The Nic in Subiaco for a quiet glass of red (Yelland and Papps Shiraz) to toast myself and the fact that I have survived to celebrate another birthday.

It's not a birthday without some Shiraz.

I rarely go to bars by myself, so it was a different experience to sit and sip my wine and watch other people socialise. The Nic (formerly The Suite) has recently changed management and expanded its premises - what you get is a big airy bar in a quiet part of the suburb. Worth a return visit when I am back that way, next time with friends.

It was also a time for contemplation and for planning how I am going to continue to be kind to myself in the year ahead. I have gifted myself with some travel before the end of the year, some good food and drink experiences, and a couple of adventures. You'll get the blog posts on those as they happen.

Commandment Eight also says it is permissible to stretch out your birthday over multiple days, especially if your actual birthday is on a week day.

And that's my excuse for yesterday's dinner at The Moon Cafe in Northbridge. (No food photos - mood lighting issues) In actual fact, I wasn't there to celebrate my birthday at all, I was there to have a reunion with some former colleagues, one of whom was visiting from Switzerland, but when I got there, there was present for me, and another friend just happened to have a musical birthday cake candle with him (it was Barbie Pink and played a tinny version of "Happy Birthday" if you pressed a button) so they sang the song and I got to blow out the candle.

Berry cheesecake with cream AND icecream and a musical candle.

Funnily enough, I quite forgot to make a wish. At the moment I blew that candle out, I was in such a happy place it didn't even cross my mind..

I've checked The Birthday Law - candles and wishes are not mentioned, perhaps they are sub judice as their place in the law is considered? Perhaps it's not necessary to mention them; if your birthday brings you wine and song and friends and cake and apple-green plates and, if liked, anchovies, then really, what more is there to wish for?

Through a glass darkly: The Victoria Room, Sydney.

The soft glow of amber lighting – I love it. Give me the pinpoint of a tea-light, the buttery warmth of an ivory-shaded table lamp, or the muted fire of a fringed standard lamp: all are a beacon for my inner romantic.

Not for my inner food blogger though. The more romantic and muted and softly-glowing the light of a restaurant or café is, the less opportunity there will be to take decent photographs unless I descend to the barbarism of using a flash and risk ending up with food ‘mug-shots’. I suppose I could take a photography course, learn to do the do with my SLR, but that is a big, clunky piece of equipment, and not the kind of thing you can subtly whip out mid-dining experience. So I use my iPhone and I make do.

Of course, when out with other bloggers, this problem is easily fixed. In a spirit of cooperation that could lead to world domination if properly harnessed, food bloggers are always there ready to light each other’s shots – to use their iPhone flashlights to light your dish from above or from the side so that the pesky shadows are eliminated without the food looking as if it has been caught in flagrante…

At The Victoria Room, I was in non-blogging company so my “Aah!” of delight as I ran up the carpeted staircase with its discreet floor-lights, soon gave way to the “Oh” of regret when I realised that any food photography was pretty much out.

 

It’s an elegant space. High ceilings, hanging bamboo partitions, white linen on the table and everywhere the lamps. It reminded me of The Raffles Hotel in Singapore (where I have never stayed, you understand, but used to go for drinks in the Long Bar or High Tea in the Tiffin Room as a treat when I lived in Singapore in the 90s) – very Raj Quartet and 1920s colonial. If someone had put a Singapore Sling down in front of me, I would not have been surprised.

As it was, the charming manager welcomed my dining companion, F., and me and asked if we would like a drink at the bar first or if we would like to be seated directly. We’d already been for drinks at Hinky Dinks which was just a little further up the street, so we asked to be seated and he personally escorted us to our table – a linen-covered, ruby tea-light lit affair in a quiet corner of what was an unexpectedly large premises.

 

Above us, there was a large chandelier with a shade over it – no dazzling sparkle of crystals here, just a subdued effect with the occasional rainbow glint.

 

But there no dazzling food photography (not that mine ever really approached dazzling anyway) that evening either. So here we have it, the worst food blogger sin is being committed - a blog post with zero pictures of food. Judge me if you must. But you know something? For me that's just fine. Every now and then, it is nice to have a meal where the only things that you hold in your hand are knife, fork, spoon, and wine-glass. The phone/camera stays in the bag for the most part, and you focus on your friends and your food. There will be pictures of food in my next post - I promise.

Lots of photos in the official Victoria Room book though...

 

The food was good. Nothing out-of-this world, but a decent meal. It’s tapas-style dining, so we chose a few dishes to share. I think my favourite on the night had to be the fried Goats Cheese Balls with balsamic onion marmalade and truffle honey – cracking the breadcrumb shell, to get to the mellow, melty cheese in the middle was a real pleasure and the sweetness from the onions and the honey, with a noseful of truffle to help the flavours along, was a different experience.

We also tried the Queensland prawns pan-seared with lemon, chilli and garlic, the spicy Moroccan style meatballs, and the grilled herb bread. These were more standard tapas fare but still well done – the prawns were large and succulent, the meatballs of a good size and hidden in the tomato-based sauce. We used up all the grilled bread in soaking up the sauce, and we could have done with more.

 

My experiment of the evening was not in the food though, but in the drink. The Victoria Room bar is as much a study in dark wood and decadence as the rest of the restaurant is a fantasy of crystals and candles. They have an unusual cocktail menu which uses Bach Flower Remedies in the drinks. This cocktail range is called “What the Doctor Ordered.”

 

Quick aside – I am a sceptic through and through. I do not believe in homeopathy. If you catch me on a bad day, do NOT offer me your Rescue Remedy or things will not end well between us. If this was what a doctor actually ever ordered, there would be more than words, there would be whole lectures with the full weight of my sceptic certainty behind them. There would also be a viewing of this video...

 

 

I am all for an interesting taste sensation though and this seemed like a good opportunity to try something new.

My Seachange cocktail set me back $21 – but fair enough, it had a decent mix of the curious within: Quandong and Gentian liqueur from the Tambourine Mountain Distillery, Hendrick’s gin (always a favourite), orgeat, and lemon juice. The homeopathic magic was provided by the Bach Flower essence Wild Oat and it claimed that I would know my destiny – the advertising said ‘know thy destiny’ and the use of the word ‘thy’ should tell you everything you need to know here – and be able to choose life’s path. Of course, the menu, had the typo, 'know the destiny' - which is more overwhelming still. I waited to see what omniscience my tipple would bring to me.

The actual effect was pleasantly herbal at first, and let’s face it, with that many botanicals going on, why wouldn’t it be? After that, it was like an Army Navy cocktail with a whole heap of extra florals and aromatics.

Did I choose life’s path? No. Did I get a sudden urge to try out The Victoria Room trapeze? Absolutely. I think if I’d had one more cocktail the whole ‘trapeze is not for public use’ caveat would not have been enough to stop me.

We asked a waiter why it was there. Apparently, The Victoria Room has fun Sunday evenings with circus and burlesque acts at their Performance Carnival. This would have been something to see indeed, and the next time I am Sydney, I will reserve a Sunday evening to watch this happen - as it was that Sunday evening saw me on a plane back to Perth.

 

If ambient lighting and atmosphere are your delight, then The Victoria Room is for you. You'll be romanced by the décor, warmed by the food, and entertained by the performances if you go on a Sunday. Choose your evening carefully though – that romantic dinner for two might not work so well on the same evening as the burlesque hula-hooping– and choose your cocktail carefully too: your future path may just depend on it.

 

 

A Fine Theobromance: Chocolate Class with Sue Lewis, Artisan Chocolatier.

“Go on,” says Sue.

I’m about to pour a couple of litres of melted chocolate all over a flat-topped table, not, you understand, because I’ve suddenly lost my mind and taken to doing impromptu Jackson Pollock impersonations in the kitchen, but because I’ve been asked to do it. That’s right - it’s a requirement. And I’m hesitating.

I’m back at Sue Lewis’ Subiaco shop to take the chocolate class that I’ve been promising myself for months and I’m a bit self-conscious when she hands me the container, telling me to invert it. I have inhibitions which scream ‘keep your workspace tidy’. Sue has none.

“All over the table,” she says, “Go on” and when she says ‘Go on’ she makes it sound like, “I dare you.”

I don't look as nervous as I felt.

I tip the container. The chocolate flows and pools. The joy  I experience at seeing this happen, in  making this happen, reminds me of  first reading about the chocolate waterfall in ‘Charlie and the Chocolate Factory”. I walk up and down, zig-zagging a trail as I go, while my classmates get in behind me and smooth the chocolate all over the surface with spatulas. When the whole table is covered, we use paddles to scrape it back into the centre and then smooth it out all over again.

Ready with the spatulas!

I have a sudden urge to giggle and I’m not sure whether it’s because I’m playing with chocolate, listening to Sue’s jokes (she tells a good one about a baby polar bear), or drinking champagne. We were welcomed with glasses of bubbly and it’s probably a good thing that you can’t be arrested for pouring chocolate under the influence. 

Off to a really good start.

We’re tempering chocolate on the slab, but that’s not the only activity we’ve done tonight. The three hour introductory class  begins with tasting. We sample cocoa in all its forms – nibs, powder, mass, butter – while Sue talks us through the history and chemistry of chocolate production. Her overview is interesting and educational. I appreciate the way she explains the processes in laymen’s terms but without dumbing things down. The descriptions come alive in the cocoa-fragrant warmth of Sue's kitchen. I learn new vocabulary: conching does indeed relate to the word for the sea-shell, but nibs have nothing to do with pencils even though that is exactly what I think they look like.

Nibs are on the right - they *do* look like pencils!

Tasting chocolate is just like tasting wine and I feel a little shy as I try to analyse the exotic morsels – from Madagascar, from Ecuador, from Papua New Guinea – that Sue gives us. I test my language along with my taste-buds. What is the mouth-feel? Where is the chocolate experienced in the palate? How would you describe it: bitter, tangy, alkaline, citrusy, fruity, light, dense?

Truffles and powder.

“Can I say ‘vinegary’?” I ask. That sounds so wrong – surely you can’t talk about chocolate in those terms and I’ve just done so in front of an expert. How embarrassing.

“Of course you can,” says Sue, and proceeds to tell me about some chocolate she tried once that tasted so intensely of vinegar that it brought tears to her eyes. Reassured, I continue to explore, becoming more confident with my descriptions. Sue is generous with her samples and this time when she says “Go on” she means “Have some more.”

Cocoa mass.

I’m the only person in this evening's class who doesn’t have any formal training in cake-making or patisserie. The one thing we have in common is a love-affair with chocolate – our theobromance. Otherwise, I’m as a rank an amateur as you can imagine, so when it’s time to make the ganache, I think it has to contain cream. The term ‘water-based’ is new to me.

“What do you want in it?” Sue asks, throwing out tempting possibilities: rose-water, ruby port, pear cider? We choose the pear cider. 

“Right, first we have to try it!” 

No arguments there. We take sips of the cider so we can decide, and it is very much our decision, which ingredients we want with it. Sue’s shop contains a bazaar’s worth of spices and fruit to enhance the ganache. Star anise, cinnamon sticks, and chopped crystallised ginger are our romantic trifecta. We cluster around the saucepan to watch it all combine with the cider and chocolate - a coven of chocolate-loving witches watching the mixture bubble, bubble…

Or perhaps mad scientists would be a better comparison? As the evening progresses, chocolate isn’t the only thing that flows, creativity does too. Moulding chocolate? Let’s have the moulds that look like frogs. Yes! And the ones that look like seashells AND let’s add edible sparkle! Blue, green or laser-rainbow sparkle? All three! Why not? Disco-frogs and disco-seashells! It doesn't sound strange, it sounds perfect.

Any hesitation I might have had about kitchen and personal tidiness is quite gone by the time we get into the truffles. I snap on my latex gloves like a pro. It’s hands-on. It’s hands-in! I’m up to my wrists in chocolate and, baby, I was born to enrobe. We are smelling, tasting, feeling the chocolate, and when Sue says, “Go on” this time she means “Take a risk, be creative, have some fun”.

It's every kid's dream, right?

At the end of the class, we leave a spattered table and floor behind us. When I get home, I notice I have a large streak of chocolate from just below my ear to my collarbone – that’s how good an evening it has been.

Drizzled table.

Chocolate classes at Sue Lewis Artisan Chocolatier in Subiaco are held on Thursday evenings. The cost is $110 which buys you a whole lot of learning, of chocolate-covered fun, of rediscovering your inner-child and, if you are debating whether it’s worth it, I have two words for you:

Go on.