I tend to measure experiences by non-specific tools such as flow of thought, easeness of memory retrieval and the passing of time whilst travelling in a crowded bus. It’s amazing how Kenneth and I couldn’t stop talking about food, smiles lit on our faces, as we recalled the best moments of the culinary conquests dotted liberally in our minds. From suburban bus-stop to city centre, walking along North Terrace, we had nothing else to speak of. Ignoring the fact that Kenneth is earning (dental registrar; in medical school for oral-maxillofacial surgery training) and that he drives around from one restaurant to another in a spanking new BMW, whilst mine was more of a discussion of strolls from one rickety stall to a slightly more pimped-up Malaysian shack in frumpily-brown ballet flats, food is a universal language that is understood and loved by all.

One place that we both could rave equally about was (in fact) a Kenneth-recommended joint. Located at the tip of a very long highway, nestled rather discretely beside a generic all-goods store, lies Shira Nui - the gem of Japanese food. When Kenneth told me, with a straight face, that their sushi was beyond the standards of that in Japan, the glistening bubbles of my gastric juices popped in delight - because despite the fact that I must travel to Japan for comparison’s sake, to authentically dispute or agree on Kenneth’s remarkable claim, I’m too gullible culinarily to even care. Getting to Shira Nui was hard enough a journey.

I absolutely adore sushi. There’s something exciting, mildly romantic even, to see these little works of art placed centrally on a massive leaf-shaped plate. My introductory sushi journey, the fillers throughout these years, more or less involved cheap supermarket joints and shameless modifications trumped with classy interior designs but mediocre ingredients. Japanese food is all about fresh seasonal produce, with smallish portions that effectively showcase their brilliant craftsmanship.

We had the Omakase menu - literally leaving everything up to the chef. We had loads and loads of wonderfully made sushi and because we didn’t know what to expect, our mouths were salivating as we watched Yuki-san, the apprentice sushi chef, run around preparing the items, keeping a watchful eye on what topping he was meticulously piling up on the sushi rice.

My absolute favourites were the spicy tuna with raw quail’s egg and the grilled oyster with Japanese mayonnaise (pictured above). They were creamy; the flavours blended so well together. It would perhaps be better to describe them as ‘orgasmic creations’ - my hands instinctively cupped my mouth with each bite, gushing unashamedly in delight, savouring each and every single taste explosion as if it was my last.

It was hard to decide which morsels were more delicious than the other. The effort placed into each item was an experience worth watching and a delight worth consuming. Yuki-san even used a blowtorch to lightly scorch the fish, creating a shiny sheen that not only made it look good, but added a special smoky flavour to an already marvellous piece of sushi. Like icing on a cake.

A sushi chef is an artist - none more pleasant, chatty and (erm) drunk as the owner Hiro-san. He could effortlessly make English sound like Japanese (!), and just as adroitly, could conjur beautifully tasty pieces of sushi while entertaining us with jokes. He made the special ones - they were possibly more difficult to construct - and comically ordered Yuki-san in Japanese to create some more everytime he noticed our empty plates. He lavished all his attention on us because we were the only ones at the counter - we came late. We traded humourous tales, family anecdotes and gossiped about the local celebrities that had walked through his doors.

We were the last customers to leave that night, even unabashedly extending the closing hours a little further because we just had to try the creme brulee (it had an exclusive mention in The Age Good Food Guide). Mine was made with green tea, and it was just luxurious (for lack of a better description). A fitting way to end such a memorable meal.

I cannot stress how wonderful the food is. Because of its immense popularity, the omakase seat (at the counter) demands an early booking. We were pathetic; we had to beg because our reservations were made a couple of days before. I would love to return in the near future, with a fatter wallet and an emptier stomach, simply because I have never tasted anything better than this.

In fact, as a parting note, Kenneth has agreed to bring me back to this place (and more) should there be time for us to make that culinary pilgrimage once again. In the meantime, we can only yearn; re-living it all within the 25 mins it takes to travel from suburbia to culinary heaven.

Shira Nui
247 Springvale Rd
Glen Waverley
VIC
(03) 9886-7755

Haigh’s: A Gift for All Seasons

There’s something deceptively delightful about chocolate - the degree of influence it has on our tastebuds, the way little melted imprints on our fingers leave a mark of its journey to our tongue and how everyone says that, no matter what, chocolate is bad for you.

But that voice in your head tells you no and your heart wishes it wasn’t so. Pass it through my lips, but don’t let it settle at my hips, I used to guiltily chant, as if I could whisper away the negative aura of chocolate. It’s the only sin that I would so willingly let slip without so much as a fight. Because face it, we are all addicted to its charms. We tremble at the thought of chocolate. As if the mere idea of swimming in it whilst travelling to the nether regions of Euphoria was an idea too impossible to not accept. One of my Surgical Consultants knows too well - he reckons everyone should be prescribed some cocoa; letting his wisdom flow through his mouth and into my ears as he handed me a double-coated TimTam.

I did a very touristy thing a couple of days ago (and I refrain from using the word ‘naughty’); I visited a Chocolate Factory. Not the kind that you are picturing in your mind: swirling ganache rivers, edible sugar flowers by an Oompa-Loompa’s feet, Charlie bloomin’ Bucket by my side. Oh God, if that ever happened, surely the Grim-Reaper would visit me, chocolate scythe gripped tightly with his chocolate fingers, his chocolate robe falling in luscious waves. Personification of a Delightful Diabetic Death..in effing Chocolate.

Mom and Dad had never been to one, I haven’t been to one either, so it seemed natural to visit one, particularly when it’s located so close to the city center. The criminal in question is Haigh’s Chocolate, an Adelaide establishment that dates back to the 1800s when a certain Aussie learned the most sacred of gastronomical arts from the Lindt family (in exchange for English lessons). That trip gave birth to an Adelaide icon and in what has laced my memories as I walked down the streets of Rundle Mall, a day after first arriving years ago, I held a box of Haigh’s and thought to myself - “I could never afford such luxury.”

chocolate!

In the Eating World, perhaps two phrases could apply so perfectly “You are what you eat” and “You damn straight get what you paid for”. The latter I could relate to, when I was handed some milk chocolate buttons during the tour (ignoring the fact that it was technically free). Being a small, family-owned franchise, the building itself was not very impressive; significantly more minute than the sprawling grounds of Cadbury’s in Tasmania, but perhaps quite acceptable for a company that handles quality strictly and distributes their goods Australia-wide tightly. A pleasant woman brought us, a party of 15, around as we saw how cocoa beans were processed, milk powder added and truffles dipped by the handfuls. Haigh’s still makes its chocolate by hand, and the novelty of watching someone place lemon-mint drops on each hand-coated chocolate square adds a certain degree of love, if not a more delicate touch of individuality. The mechanical nature, the expressionless entity of Cadbury chocolates must surely pale in comparison (though I beg to differ that it doesn’t compromise on taste..for that is still the best supermarket brand).

Why not hesitate to buy Haigh’s then, when it’s nearly twice the price of a Cadbury? I may have been brainwashed by the tour guide, my tastebuds bribed by the fistfuls of free nibbles, my desperate attempt to salvage my immediate Wants when I grabbed a milkbar and brought it to the counter. As it melted in my mouth, a sliver of glee tingled my palate. It brought about a wave of satisfaction a post-gym Cadbury craving could never imitate. Those little lines that form a pattern on the bar, like an Aboriginal painting, was telling a story of how it was made by hand, how its cocoa beans were sourced from Europe, how lines of people put in so much effort to produce such a work of art. And I was eating it.

gaaah! more chocolate!

Either that, or like a woman slipping into her Manolos, I was telling myself that it must be of more worth. But who cares really? My Haigh’s, Cadbury, Dove, MnMs and Nestle can live quite peacefully side by side. So long as it leaves its little trail, fingertips licked eagerly, the traveller itself holds little bearing if its destination was to slide gracefully down my oesophagus. For a chocolate lover gets what a chocolate lover wants - and that is to fall into the sinful graces of death. By chocolate.

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For a more descriptive account of the tour that is less swayed by the effects of the hunger centre in the brain (if there ever was one), Esurientes wrote an interesting piece that is worth taking a look at.

(Resurrected and edited from an experimental blog I set up last year, which met an unfortunate journey towards its unmarked grave as months passed.)

Food blogging - a little corner in the worldwide web that revolves around pretentious yuppie-ism - boasting about what great French restaurant they visited today or laying out a recipe for impossibly ritualistic homemade lobster-truffle-caviar soup; they may offer visual art, but many would lack soul. Tucking into soup is comfort, even if it’s emptied sloppily out of a can. Those little fish fingers that purists scoff at, lined up neatly like soldiers in all their preservative goodness; an unhealthy earthly delight that brings memories of Mom frying up a batch whilst I was still in pigtails. That’s food - something that elicits emotions, that brings out fond recollections. Whatever nature they may be.

Nigel Slater could do a timeline of his life based on what he ate. Historical events revolved around the banquet tables of kings and generals. Cleopatra seduced Caesar on board her luxurious ship with a sumptious Mediterranean spread; rose petals piled up to form a fragrant carpet. The best way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Or so they said.

Nigella Lawson is gastronomic erotica; someone who ignites a fiery passion (and a hunger pang) for food that strikes a chord within one’s comfort zone. You don’t have to eat good food to know what joys food can do for you. It’s the simple act of mushing up peas with one’s fingers, or the slathering of butter on warm toast that brings waves of satisfaction in those few minutes you could spare for a little self-indulgence.

Food: that’s a four letter F word I don’t have to think twice about.