pet peeves - breakfast

I caught a little of Cam Smith waxing lyrical about breakfasts yesterday on “Eat It” on 3RRRFM. Being on the road I had to restrain myself from phoning in to add to the list of pet peeves about breakfast dining. But it got me thinking…

The Food Nazi’s top 10 breakfast peeves

1. Waiting. I don’t mind being turned away at the door if a café/restaurant is full but I do mind sitting ignored at a table or waiting forever to place or receive an order in an establishment that has more seats than it’s floor or kitchen staff can handle. Though I’d pass in some circles as a morning person, not everyone is at their best til they’ve had their first shot of caffeine or got their blood sugar levels up. Twenty minutes twiddling your thumbs, waiting to give or get an order is way too long.

2. Shit coffee. This is Melbourne – stale beans, burnt coffee or weak espresso just doesn’t make the grade.

3. Frozen bricks pretending to be hash browns. These greasy pieces of crap might be acceptable at the golden arches but we expect better than a drive-through when we eat out.

4. Fried dollops of leftover mashed potato pretending to be hash browns. Slightly less greasy than the maccas variety they tend to be sloppy and dairy ridden. Call them something else and serve them but they aint hash browns either.

5. Non-disclosure of meat in a vegetarian breakfast. Enough said. *shudders*

6. Minimalist servings. This is breakfast. We’re eating out. If we wanted 1 piece of toast and a single mushroom, we’d have stayed at home.

7. Imperfect avocado. Brown, stringy, over-ripe or plain bad fruit and vegetables should not be part of any dining experience, regardless of the time of day.

8. Poached eggs that are too raw, over cooked or dripping with water and make your toast go soggy. If my father can learn to poach a half-decent egg at the age of 82, you’d think a cook could do it right each time.

9. And while we are on the subject of eggs, in this country the term “free range” doesn’t really mean anything at the best of times. If you want to justify charging patrons more for their eggs invest in organic.

10. Supermarket bread, boring menus, tinned baked beans…

I could go on all day but I’d prefer to know what your breakfast peeves are.

confessions of a kitchen hand

My parents’ original kitchen had a low bench, the perfect height for a child to learn the basics of cookery. It was the spot to mix eggs and sugar for cake batter with the electric hand beater or later the huge trusty Kenwood. The perfect height for making pastry or kneading bread. The right nook for placing the electric fry pay when cooking up a batch of pikelets or as a forerunner to a wok for making such 70’s savoury exotics as chop suey. It was where I liked to sit and swing my legs while watching the workings of the kitchen and ask those unending childhood questions that always began with “Why..?”

My familial apprenticeship complete, I moved to my first shared house equipped with my handwritten recipes and a toaster oven. A couple of houses later I’d finished my B.A. and quite unsurprisingly found myself unemployed. With a choice of being a waitress or a kitchen hand I opted for the latter. I’ve never done servility well and anyway tipping didn’t exist in the kind of establishments that I was likely to work in at the time. If I were to work hard, I’d prefer to get dirty and sweaty with a smile being entirely optional.

I found myself getting some plum shifts at a chaotic café run by a couple of refugees from the theatre. They had the romantic vision along the lines of “I’ve always fancied running a café” common to people who’d never worked in hospitality before in their lives. They were good women, working in the most grossly under funded area of the arts who wished to create a bohemian haven for their fellow travellers. Art adorned the walls, a soundproof door could be pulled across to make a performance space, there was often a joint to be shared in the storeroom and there was always a satisfying meal to be had for a pittance.

The kitchen was a moderate size and open for all to see behind a servery hatch. I’d start the shift prepping salads or whatever in the whirl of their day had not been completed a whisker before opening for dinner. The food was basic stuff – vats of homemade soup, large bakes, massive bowls of salad, huge cakes served in generous slices, a pudding with lashes of cream. There was no table service. Punters would line up behind the counter and be served on the spot. In the odd liquor licensing of the day there was no bar but Irish coffees were permitted – a mug of filter coffee with a dollop of whipped cream with a nip of whiskey poured over the top.

Once the food was on the counter – I’d toil at the sink washing dishes, serve when one of the owners wanted a break, clear the odd table and wash more dishes. With no true chef on the premises I cannot confess to learning how to correctly slice or dice or pick up any handy cooking techniques but I’m proud to say my mother had trained me well enough that if a health inspector happened to pop in while I was on duty, the café would never fail the test. Of the many odd jobs of my youth, this is one I remember dearly. My ill-suited employers were good bosses, nice people and what’s more – on Sunday nights I got to take home all the leftover cake as they were shut the next day.

Wellington is now a city of funky cafes and more espresso machines than people know what to do with. The home of my hospitality experience of the 80’s has long ceased to exist, the women sold the place after a couple of years to someone more suited to the task. It eventually changed its name and at some point between visits the place sunk without a trace. But it was a great concept and I'm sure it holds a place in the hearts and stomachs of those who frequented it.

Whenever I hear someone who enjoys eating and cooking look around their local haunt and utter, “I’d like to run a café”, I smile quietly to myself and ask if they’ve ever worked in such a place. The reply inevitably is negative followed by a big but – they eat out so much they know how restaurants are run/all their friends tell them they are such a great cook and they should open their own place one day/they are sure it couldn’t be that hard. I think of the two friends from the theatre who followed their vision, worked so hard as to knock a few years off their life expectancy (or in one owner’s case – pickled her liver to compensate) and left a legacy of memories for some of their customers and the odd kitchen hand they employed.

in search of the bean - Khandallah

The guy at the counter scribbled my order – “short black, long mackiato” (sic). He stumbled over the last word and after a quick bite on his lip, passed it onto the barista. The café cum foodstore was approaching it’s peak hour. 10am pulls in mums with bubs and workers demanding their midmorning break. A capital city the public servant mentality reigns supreme, despite the long demise of the unions. Coffee breaks remain sacred. In this small suburb workers crawled out of unseen businesses. The short main street displayed a vet clinic, podiatrist, physiotherapist, a medical surgery and a hairdresser, but that didn’t explain the influx. It would depict a rather ill local population perhaps but the clientele looked healthy enough, lapping up lattes by the bucketful.

The owner proudly deposited a ristretto, as if wanting to demonstrate he spoke coffee even if the guy behind the till didn’t. Though it wasn’t exactly what I ordered (a full mouthful short of the espresso), that and the long macchiato were a decent brew. Thankfully.

Back on the street the 2 Asian takeaway joints remained closed at this early hour, also the local pizza chain, boutique brewery (show casing a well respected local brew) and an establishment that didn’t know if it was a café, restaurant or bistro – it called itself all three.

The next suburb, 2 minutes away features a slightly smaller shopping strip. There’s a homemade curry business, selling freezer packs of mild Indian meals. The only café appeared packed out with a mothers group. From every direction you could see women advancing towards it with a baby capsule on their arm or pushing a stroller. Their looks were identical – ‘come hell or high water or sleeping babies, I’m going to make it to group on time!’.

Though familiar from my childhood, as an adult the suburbs have become increasingly foreign to me. If you are the only café in the neighbourhood you can revel in mediocrity, as long as you are near the school/kindergarten/play centre – you are assured a morning and afternoon rush. On the weekend the café will be full for breakfast and lunch, of those who don’t want to get in their cars and travel. A captive audience. How I itch to shake them up.

The city has got the message. A place now stakes its reputation on choice of beans and skill of the person behind the espresso machine. But the suburbs are doomed to be random in the coffee stakes but can still knock up a mean afghan biscuit.

For now, it’s great to be home – knowing I can have a short black whenever the urge takes me, perfect every time and delivered to me by the cutest barista in the neighbourhood.