Need to buy a car? Need to sell your car? Because Rachael does. She needs to sell one car and buy a new one as part of her salary package. Sounds like a simple transaction, but you'd be surprised. Unless you read this first. Then you wouldn't be at all surprised at how not simple this is. You would be prepared.
Let's start with selling your car. Rachael actually had two to sell, and, inexplicably, one was much easier than the other. It seems selling cars in Canberra is easier the cheaper they are. The hot little 15 year old sports car sold in about 12 hours of being advertised. The reliable economical safe 3 year old hatchback has taken three months to be close to selling, having had the price reduced three times. And it was not expensive to begin with.
The hardships of selling a car don't just include getting the price you want in the time you want, however. Once you have a potential buyer, you can expect everything to go to shit. Like, on the way to the inspection for the new owner, so that they can get the rego transferred and pay you for the car, tearing off the front bumper bar on a bit of warped metal sticking up from the concrete wheel stop at the front of the car space in your apartment complex.
Apparently in such instances the body corporate cannot be held accountable. Their sharp, protruding concealed hazard--Rachael's fault. Apparently.
Anyway, after this drama the car needed a new bumper, and the new bumper would need to be sprayed. And Rachael needed to organise all that in one day. In Canberra, this actually is possible. There are four ways to go for replacement parts: a wrecker, for used parts pulled off other vehicles; a repairer, such as Auto Plastic Repairs in Queanbeyan, who do an 'exchange' where they take your bar and give you one they repaired earlier; an after-market producer, for non-genuine, but new, replacement parts; and finally the authorised dealerships for your make of car for brand new genuine bits.
Queanbeyan is full of wreckers. Hit up Auto Dismantlers on Aurora Avenue if you don't mind dirt and occassionally non-existent service (Rachael left after ten minutes without any this time). We say occasionally because sometimes these guys have been great--it's just hard to predict. The auto plastics repairer was very helpful--he was happy to give Rachael a bar he was working on for another client and deal with the repurcussions later. He could also get it sprayed that day, he said, for $300. It was the wrong year model, which took it off Rachael's list (but he did still try to convince her it would all work out regardless). No deal. The best place for after-market parts we have found (they actually have a proper computer in a proper reception area which accesses a proper database) is Frank's on Yass Road. If they don't have it they know who does, how much it will cost and how to get it. But they don't make after-market bars yet for Rachael's model--it is three months too new.
As for dealerships, there are two in Canberra for Rachael's make, Hyundai. National Capital Motors in Belconnen was the first choice of contact--they are close to Rachael's office. They did significantly over-quote compared to the Phillip dealership however. Don't worry, Rachael called them on it, and they dropped their price. Rachael would still have bought from the ones who quoted properly in the first place, but Belconnen had the part in stock, so Belconnen it was.
Rachael asked them to get a price to have the new bar sprayed by their preferred panelbeater, and call her back. They didn't. Ever. Despite having three contacts with Rachael about it during the day. But Rachael was industrious enough to find her own panel beater. She had previously used AutoCo (who are the only ones here NRMA will deal with) in Phillip for repairs when her car was vandalised with a tyre iron in a car park. AutoCo had taken a very long time to give her back a car sprayed in two different colours. Then another very long time to retry their colour matching and do it properly. So they weren't high on the list. Rachael did some ringing around--most places were booked out for at least a month, which was not going to cut it. But then she found Gungahlin Bodyworks. Who, in our opinion, are just about the best damn panelbeaters in the territory. They would do it in about 2 hours, they said, whenever we could bring it in. For less than anybody else.
That arranged, it was in to NCM to pick up the bar. Oh, but now apprently it was at the Braddon dealership. I would have to go over there. But wait, we just called them and they don't actually have it. Our mistake. We can order it overnight though.
Great. Fine. Whatever. No time to do it through Phillip now of course. At least it is all organised, the buyer is still OK to go, the inspection has been rescheduled. It's going to cost $550 all together, but that's the way the cookie crumbles. The next day comes around, it all goes reasonably smoothly, the panelbeaters do a fantastic job and it looks better than new. The inspection is booked for the following day. The buyer is still keen.
Now it is the following day, as we type. Rachael dropped the car off at Bridgestone Tyres in Belconnen this morning--apparently they are one of the only places in Canberra now that do 'pre-purchase' inspections. What they really do is a Blue Slip, but they call it a pre-purchase inspection plus blue slip. They called her back about an hour later. Fail. Failyfailyfail.
Apparently, even though the car is mechanically perfect, because it is missing its 'Australian Designed Safety Standards Plate' it fails. Flat fail. Too bad.
This Bridgestone guy, by the way, is not the most friendliest helpfulest person. He tells Rachael she will have to take it 'to Dickson' (presumably to the Motor Registry). He is no more forthcoming than that--it's not his problem now apparently. When asked what could have happened to the plate (which should be in the rear wheel well) he says the panelbeaters must have taken it off and not put it back on. Guess who that was? AutoCo.
So Rachael calls AutoCo (I know, it is a long, tragic story). And actually speaks to the most helpfulest friendliest person in the entire automotive industry, 'Justin'. This guy is the shit. He can't find any trace of the plate they lost, but he does all the required ringing around--he calls back the Bridgestone man (who he comes to share Rachael's opinion of), calls Hyundai, calls the RTA. And calls Rachael back. With bad news. We can't get another plate. They are not replaceable. We need to get an ID check done on the vehicle. That could cost a bit. It might take a while. Let him know what else he can do to help (including possibly reimburse us).
So Rachael calls the RTA. It's all fine to book an ID check. Except, their system for bookings is down. Rachael will just have to keep calling back at intervals to see if it's back up yet...
So, you see, it's not always smooth sailing. Be prepared. If you have an accident, work through all your alternative options for repair and replacement before you go for the first quote from the first dealership. If you need painting fast, hit up Gungahlin Bodyworks. Or at least go with someone without a four week waiting period--if you explain the urgency most places should be able to sort you out pretty pronto. If you need a pre-purchase inspection, you can't really have one. You may as well just pay for a Blue or Pink slip and be done with it (in ACT whenever you transfer ownership you need one anyway). And don't necessarily bother with Bridgestone in Belconnen if you prioritise customer service. If you need to deal with AutoCo for insurance claims, make sure they get it right first time--while the service is great for fixing mistakes, it's just better if there aren't any mistakes in the first place. And for anything motor registry related call Canberra Connect on 13 22 81. As many times as you have to. There is no alternate way to book.
Buying a car, now that has its own trials and tribulations. And we think we have all had enough tragedy for one day. Watch this space for some more schadenfreude potential in weeks to come as we regale you with tales of purchasing woe, and maybe some happy news too. We are already formulating lists of who to buy from and who NOT to deal with, so don't miss the next installment!
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Runaway Cafe
Did I spell that wrong?
Oops.
I meant Runway Cafe--simply the snazziest discount-clothing-and-home-furnishings-warehouse-based eatery in all of Canberra. Overlooking the runway at the airport. In Brand Depot of course.
We are not averse to a bit of bargain hunting, and when you have picked up an art deco coffee pot for $8 you feel like rewarding yourself with something sweet. The food court at the Depot is a little bit dismal really, but in the back corner is a well-presented little cafe/lounge with plush sofas, low tables and menus written on mirrors. This is where we gravitated on our last trip.
The service at the Runway is something like the flight attendant interfacing you might experience on a Virgin flight. The waiter we had was polished and dapper and trendy and very friendly--he grabbed our attention straight away and hit us with a barrage of banter. But he was also a bit cheeky and jocular. No serious Qantas-style silken smiles and mild-yet-authoritative manners at this coffee stop. In fine form, when Rachael asked if there was a minimum EFTPOS she was told, yes. There was.
On assurance that all the cakes were guaranteed not to put any weight on, we decided to indulge with a slice each alongside our standard mocha and chai. The cakes were delicious. But, in keeping with the budget theme, presented rather unfortunately alongside a drift of spray-can whipped faux cream dusted with cappucino chocolate powder. The waiter also seemed to have some trouble with his milk frother so ended up just pouring extra milk into our drinks straight from the carton in the fridge--it made for faster service, but kinda lukewarm coffee.
Faux cream and lukewarm coffee aside--Runway is worth it for the very real, very fiery personal service. Overall, we like it. We're going again sometime.
And calling it Runaway is not really fair at all. But it is cheeky and jocular.
Oops.
I meant Runway Cafe--simply the snazziest discount-clothing-and-home-furnishings-warehouse-based eatery in all of Canberra. Overlooking the runway at the airport. In Brand Depot of course.
We are not averse to a bit of bargain hunting, and when you have picked up an art deco coffee pot for $8 you feel like rewarding yourself with something sweet. The food court at the Depot is a little bit dismal really, but in the back corner is a well-presented little cafe/lounge with plush sofas, low tables and menus written on mirrors. This is where we gravitated on our last trip.
The service at the Runway is something like the flight attendant interfacing you might experience on a Virgin flight. The waiter we had was polished and dapper and trendy and very friendly--he grabbed our attention straight away and hit us with a barrage of banter. But he was also a bit cheeky and jocular. No serious Qantas-style silken smiles and mild-yet-authoritative manners at this coffee stop. In fine form, when Rachael asked if there was a minimum EFTPOS she was told, yes. There was.
On assurance that all the cakes were guaranteed not to put any weight on, we decided to indulge with a slice each alongside our standard mocha and chai. The cakes were delicious. But, in keeping with the budget theme, presented rather unfortunately alongside a drift of spray-can whipped faux cream dusted with cappucino chocolate powder. The waiter also seemed to have some trouble with his milk frother so ended up just pouring extra milk into our drinks straight from the carton in the fridge--it made for faster service, but kinda lukewarm coffee.
Faux cream and lukewarm coffee aside--Runway is worth it for the very real, very fiery personal service. Overall, we like it. We're going again sometime.
And calling it Runaway is not really fair at all. But it is cheeky and jocular.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Manuka's last champion of cheap
Lee. Ah, Lee. If it weren't for you and your self-titled Inn Manuka would be soulless. Because even the very, very trendiest hippest coolest jivest priciest place only has true cred if there is an underbelly of some description. Some small splash of grunge. A vestigial throwback to when the area was NOT cool. Because places born cool will never have that a la mode vintage feel of places that started life with at least one visible deep fryer.
Manuka has become like the Toorak of Canberra. It has the shopping, and the restaurants, the coffee. It's a sort of village for city folk. Note well, the hamlet atmosphere is just by day--by night Manuka fancies itself a club zone. Manuka, like most places in Canberra, has to be versatile: the same venue is a coffee house in the morning, an executive eatery at lunchtime, a sports bar after work, an a la carte restaurant for dinner and a nightclub by the time the last screening begins at the cinema. There just aren't enough patrons in Canberra to warrant many dedicated Canadian themed make-your-own pancake cafes, for example (although we hear they are very popular elsewhere...)
But one place that has no chameleonic tendencies is Lees Inn. It is a Chinese restaurant and take away. That's all. That's it. It has been there a long long time and will never in my lifetime try to 'diversify' with a Barista and live bands on Fridays (or live anything, for a matter of fact. Fish here probably comes from the freezer). Coffee costs $1.50 at Lees Inn. If you spill it by accident in your haste to get to the food on the Lazy Susan you can mop it off the vinyl jellybean tablecloth with the serviettes provided in a handy Diner dispenser on each table.
When we went in late on a Sunday evening there were two other tables occupied. One was full of bright young things in pre-club mode looking sozzled and sated, ready for a big night of posing in Minque. Lees Inn must work in symbiosis with the more elite establishments in Manuka--everyone can afford to go out to the best places if they already gorged and got drunk at Lees beforehand. The other table was taken up by a lone man who the waitress remembered, according to my eavesdropping from at least 3 years ago when he was last in with his partner. She inquired about the partner, and the lone man, being lone, was able to tell her they had been broken up for over two of those three years. We felt oddly included in this washerwomanesque interaction. This place was homely and gossipy. They weren't play music on the twin-deck radio cassette player above the counter--they were playing the Cricket.
The only problem was before we finished our meal the young male waiter, obviously keen to go and join the posing, abruptly came from out the back, turned off the air conditioner and switched off the radio and left. How do you spell 'uncomfortable' in Cantonese? We bounced back, though, when the friendly waitress broke the ice with some happy persiflage about the kind of food her toddler likes to eat, and she insisted we didn't rush. And it would have been hard to accelerate our eating very much more anyway--the servings at Lees are more than generous and everything tastes good. Possibly too good to be strictly salubrious, but for $30 for soup, entrees, drinks and mains for two people we weren't complaining.
Lee's. Ah. Edible juxtaposition. Homeliness and hostility, lots of food and little prices, trendy block and outdated decor. But not the deliberately outdated kind. It's authentically outmoded. Our kind of grunge.
Manuka has become like the Toorak of Canberra. It has the shopping, and the restaurants, the coffee. It's a sort of village for city folk. Note well, the hamlet atmosphere is just by day--by night Manuka fancies itself a club zone. Manuka, like most places in Canberra, has to be versatile: the same venue is a coffee house in the morning, an executive eatery at lunchtime, a sports bar after work, an a la carte restaurant for dinner and a nightclub by the time the last screening begins at the cinema. There just aren't enough patrons in Canberra to warrant many dedicated Canadian themed make-your-own pancake cafes, for example (although we hear they are very popular elsewhere...)
But one place that has no chameleonic tendencies is Lees Inn. It is a Chinese restaurant and take away. That's all. That's it. It has been there a long long time and will never in my lifetime try to 'diversify' with a Barista and live bands on Fridays (or live anything, for a matter of fact. Fish here probably comes from the freezer). Coffee costs $1.50 at Lees Inn. If you spill it by accident in your haste to get to the food on the Lazy Susan you can mop it off the vinyl jellybean tablecloth with the serviettes provided in a handy Diner dispenser on each table.
When we went in late on a Sunday evening there were two other tables occupied. One was full of bright young things in pre-club mode looking sozzled and sated, ready for a big night of posing in Minque. Lees Inn must work in symbiosis with the more elite establishments in Manuka--everyone can afford to go out to the best places if they already gorged and got drunk at Lees beforehand. The other table was taken up by a lone man who the waitress remembered, according to my eavesdropping from at least 3 years ago when he was last in with his partner. She inquired about the partner, and the lone man, being lone, was able to tell her they had been broken up for over two of those three years. We felt oddly included in this washerwomanesque interaction. This place was homely and gossipy. They weren't play music on the twin-deck radio cassette player above the counter--they were playing the Cricket.
The only problem was before we finished our meal the young male waiter, obviously keen to go and join the posing, abruptly came from out the back, turned off the air conditioner and switched off the radio and left. How do you spell 'uncomfortable' in Cantonese? We bounced back, though, when the friendly waitress broke the ice with some happy persiflage about the kind of food her toddler likes to eat, and she insisted we didn't rush. And it would have been hard to accelerate our eating very much more anyway--the servings at Lees are more than generous and everything tastes good. Possibly too good to be strictly salubrious, but for $30 for soup, entrees, drinks and mains for two people we weren't complaining.
Lee's. Ah. Edible juxtaposition. Homeliness and hostility, lots of food and little prices, trendy block and outdated decor. But not the deliberately outdated kind. It's authentically outmoded. Our kind of grunge.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Folkus
Rachael loves Kristina Olsen. She is an LA blues/folk/jazz musician who writes killer lyrics and has one of those compelling cynosural voices that makes you sit up and listen. So when she found out Kristina would be doing a gig in Canberra this month, Rachael just had to go.
Now, folk music is definitely a Rachael thing. Previously the closest James had been to Folk was overtaking a Combi on the road to Majors Creek. But in the week leading up to the gig Rachael's contagious enthusiasm was hard to ward off and by Tuesday night James was thoroughly infected. He was open to the idea of a new musical experience. What he wasn't so sure about was the environmental experience.
The Folkus Room is an event more than a physical place--its only corporeal trappings are the backboards erected temporarily to cordon off a section of the Serbian Club in Mawson (near Woden, south of the City) a few nights a week when a show is booked. The backboards serve a kind of Looking Glass cum Wardrobe role--on one side is pokies, a pool table, flickering fluoros and beer-sopped bar runners, and on the other is a mellifluous melange of round tables, curtains, sofas and, of course, folkies, all murmuring and clinking glasses to the faint strains of Parisian tango music. The 'doors' open here at 6, and the support acts don't start until 8, so the spirit of the evening is well and truly abroad by the time the lights dim down and the stage is occupied.
Of course, when we attended a week earlier to secure our tickets, there was no Parisian tango music, no clinking glasses, no atmosphere at all. Just 'blipblipblip' and 'dingdingDONG' and other pokie Sirensongs. And Bill.
We can say, having met Bill Arnett, James has now truly known Folk. This guy used to help run the Merry Muse, and is also known as the Big Fat Fairy. This man has enough character to power all the generators in a folk festival beer tent for a long weekend. He is so engaging that after meeting him at the beginning of the night Kristina was calling everyone else on stage 'Bill' for the rest of the show. We didn't just buy tickets when we met Bill--we were educated in the history of the Merry Muse, the predliections of Kristina and the similarities between Danny O'Keefe (also performing with Kristina) and another guy that once played somewhere, sometime, that Bill liked rather a lot.
We left eventually, clutching our tickets (and each other's hands), a little shellshocked. Hence why James was chary of the return visit--how could he possibly cope with 45 of these 'folkies', this new and peculiar and garrulous breed? Combined with the thought of 'Serbian' counter meals as sustenance for this session, he was leaning towards eating elsewhere beforehand and ducking in at the last minute.
As it happened, we did brave the bistro, and the folkies, with no obvious signs of injury. In fact, the food was exceptional. Good ingredients, well prepared and cheap to boot. The only problem was our unfinished plates were very industriously cleared away in the interval while we were off looking at merchandise. They run a tight ship at the Club, and the Folkus folk are shipshape too--the sound and lighting were great, there were no technical glitches, the acoustics were good and Bill as emcee was irreproachable. The whole experience was intimate and comfortable and engrossing. We liked it. James found new musical heroes in Danny O'Keefe and Peter Grayling, and Rachael got a CD signed by KO herself.
The verdict--yes, oh my yes. We loved it. Blues Narnia. Fairy and all.
Now, folk music is definitely a Rachael thing. Previously the closest James had been to Folk was overtaking a Combi on the road to Majors Creek. But in the week leading up to the gig Rachael's contagious enthusiasm was hard to ward off and by Tuesday night James was thoroughly infected. He was open to the idea of a new musical experience. What he wasn't so sure about was the environmental experience.
The Folkus Room is an event more than a physical place--its only corporeal trappings are the backboards erected temporarily to cordon off a section of the Serbian Club in Mawson (near Woden, south of the City) a few nights a week when a show is booked. The backboards serve a kind of Looking Glass cum Wardrobe role--on one side is pokies, a pool table, flickering fluoros and beer-sopped bar runners, and on the other is a mellifluous melange of round tables, curtains, sofas and, of course, folkies, all murmuring and clinking glasses to the faint strains of Parisian tango music. The 'doors' open here at 6, and the support acts don't start until 8, so the spirit of the evening is well and truly abroad by the time the lights dim down and the stage is occupied.
Of course, when we attended a week earlier to secure our tickets, there was no Parisian tango music, no clinking glasses, no atmosphere at all. Just 'blipblipblip' and 'dingdingDONG' and other pokie Sirensongs. And Bill.
We can say, having met Bill Arnett, James has now truly known Folk. This guy used to help run the Merry Muse, and is also known as the Big Fat Fairy. This man has enough character to power all the generators in a folk festival beer tent for a long weekend. He is so engaging that after meeting him at the beginning of the night Kristina was calling everyone else on stage 'Bill' for the rest of the show. We didn't just buy tickets when we met Bill--we were educated in the history of the Merry Muse, the predliections of Kristina and the similarities between Danny O'Keefe (also performing with Kristina) and another guy that once played somewhere, sometime, that Bill liked rather a lot.
We left eventually, clutching our tickets (and each other's hands), a little shellshocked. Hence why James was chary of the return visit--how could he possibly cope with 45 of these 'folkies', this new and peculiar and garrulous breed? Combined with the thought of 'Serbian' counter meals as sustenance for this session, he was leaning towards eating elsewhere beforehand and ducking in at the last minute.
As it happened, we did brave the bistro, and the folkies, with no obvious signs of injury. In fact, the food was exceptional. Good ingredients, well prepared and cheap to boot. The only problem was our unfinished plates were very industriously cleared away in the interval while we were off looking at merchandise. They run a tight ship at the Club, and the Folkus folk are shipshape too--the sound and lighting were great, there were no technical glitches, the acoustics were good and Bill as emcee was irreproachable. The whole experience was intimate and comfortable and engrossing. We liked it. James found new musical heroes in Danny O'Keefe and Peter Grayling, and Rachael got a CD signed by KO herself.
The verdict--yes, oh my yes. We loved it. Blues Narnia. Fairy and all.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Lucino Ristorante Italiano
We frequent Manuka and Kingston very regularly. We live around the area, and we often make small detours on our way home from a ride or a run late in the evening to grab a frothy hot chocolate or a decaf. And this Thursday just passed we did just this, selecting Lucino's in Kingston for our nightcap.
Lucino's can be a bit off-putting when you are not properly dressed. It is rather plush and deluxe from the outside looking in--elegantly laid out, palatially lit and accoutred. And we were wearing track pants. But, unapolagetic as we are, we decided to seat ourselves outside on the little checkered chairs and order us up some tea.
Up close, Lucino's is not so opulent. The fabrics are cheap, the paint job is budget and the finer points of decor (vases, chandeliers) are decidely malapropos. No problem, we think. It's a very good folly--all the trappings of opulence without the overheads that come with it. We will be immersed in quasi-Italian decadence if we just squint a bit, don't touch anything and don't look too closely at the dried stick arrangements. We will sip at out tea and our imagination will do the rest, unfettered by anxiety over how much they will have to charge us for it to pay for the new tub of silver polish.
So we order our tea. English breakfast and a mint. And out come the tea pots, with a big spoon full of honey for Rachael's. James' English Breakfast turns out to be Earl Grey, which is an unpleasant surprise to people not accustomed to drinking eau de toilette, but mistakes happen so we are resigned to it. The problem is that our pots of tea are actually just pots with a Lipton tea bag in them. One tea bag, fairly overdiluted in the two-cup capacity pot.
Suddenly squinting is not effective any more. This place is cheap, appearances aside. They don't just budget on the fittings, they budget on the ingredients. Don't get the wrong idea--we happen to love cheap eats--but we call a spade a spade. This place seems to be a sow's ear passing as a silk purse. It looks the goods, but it's all for show.
Unfortunately, they took themselves a little too seriously right up to the end. We knew we had just been given Lipton tea bags, they knew we had just been given Lipton tea bags, but they still charged us $4.90 for each of them.
K, thanks, bye, Lucino. Addio.
Lucino's can be a bit off-putting when you are not properly dressed. It is rather plush and deluxe from the outside looking in--elegantly laid out, palatially lit and accoutred. And we were wearing track pants. But, unapolagetic as we are, we decided to seat ourselves outside on the little checkered chairs and order us up some tea.
Up close, Lucino's is not so opulent. The fabrics are cheap, the paint job is budget and the finer points of decor (vases, chandeliers) are decidely malapropos. No problem, we think. It's a very good folly--all the trappings of opulence without the overheads that come with it. We will be immersed in quasi-Italian decadence if we just squint a bit, don't touch anything and don't look too closely at the dried stick arrangements. We will sip at out tea and our imagination will do the rest, unfettered by anxiety over how much they will have to charge us for it to pay for the new tub of silver polish.
So we order our tea. English breakfast and a mint. And out come the tea pots, with a big spoon full of honey for Rachael's. James' English Breakfast turns out to be Earl Grey, which is an unpleasant surprise to people not accustomed to drinking eau de toilette, but mistakes happen so we are resigned to it. The problem is that our pots of tea are actually just pots with a Lipton tea bag in them. One tea bag, fairly overdiluted in the two-cup capacity pot.
Suddenly squinting is not effective any more. This place is cheap, appearances aside. They don't just budget on the fittings, they budget on the ingredients. Don't get the wrong idea--we happen to love cheap eats--but we call a spade a spade. This place seems to be a sow's ear passing as a silk purse. It looks the goods, but it's all for show.
Unfortunately, they took themselves a little too seriously right up to the end. We knew we had just been given Lipton tea bags, they knew we had just been given Lipton tea bags, but they still charged us $4.90 for each of them.
K, thanks, bye, Lucino. Addio.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Dickson Cafe Zeitgeist
There is an odd juxtaposition in Dickson shopping centre, five minutes' drive north of Civic. East meets west, cafe culture meets bingo bourgeois, gourmet saloon meets greasy spoon. It's a microcosm of Canberra itself.
On Sunday (after Trashing it) we cruised over to Chinatown, centred around Wooley Street in Dickson, to check out the Chinese New Year festivities. We were there a bit early, when things were just getting off the ground. The restaurants were all shut of course, it being a holiday, so Rachael's dreams of yum cha quickly evaporated. Much to James' secret delight, as he has never really gotten used to the idea of eating scallops so early in the day.
To pass the time before the fanfare properly kicked off, we wandered across the road, past MacDonalds: the bastion of Westernisation buttressing the long established dowdy shops of Dickson against the prevailing winds of chinoiserie. Over on the other side of the centre, as far as you can get from steamed duck, you will find an enclave of coffee shops. This courtyard is a veritable living zeitgeist, the vibes of each cafe recursing into each other as if the whole thing is an optical illusion and there's really a big mirror where those cyclists are sitting. There are several cafes nestled in a corner, all sharing a common al fresco space. So common, indeed, that when we were there on Sunday the cyclists were all appropriating chairs from neighbouring cafes to support their rapidly metastasizing fluoro empire.
This time we picked Praga. The service here is fantastic(o)--friendly, fast and efficient. The food is just like home made. Like, as if we made it, at home, from ingredients we found in the fridge. And we shop at Aldi, people. The bread was Tip-Top, the ham and cheese were processed slices (ham should not be perfectly circular, as far as we know). The tomatoes looked like Rachael chopped them with a blunt spoon when she was late for a bus--rough and thick. However, the raisin toast was thin sliced. Not the natural order of things.
But is was yummy. And comfortable. We certainly did feel at home, and the price was right. But be prepared for Praga--sit with your back to Hudson's so you can't see the oversized plates piled high with fluffy scrambled eggs, golden hash browns and baked bananas. We didn't have too much endive envy on Sunday, however, as we had sated our inner epicurean at Hudson's the day before.
Hudson's had markedly more lavish food, but worse service, coffee with no chocolate sprinkles and the dubious practice of serving orange juice either in wine glasses or milkshake tumblers. The chai latte was putrid I'm afraid, but the bacon was copious enough to make amends. We will almost certainly try it again, as the aspect is so lovely, but maybe not until next summer. Next time in Dickson will be Deli Marco's next door (well, next door but one--right in the corner is a Vietnamese restaurant, soon no doubt to be squeezed out and reappear back on its rightful side of MacDonalds).
Back, then, to Chinatown, where the firecrackers were about to be lit. There sure were a lot of them. And they sure went on for a long, long time. I think what we have learned about firecrackers from this experience is that less is more. All they do is bang, really (well, they also generate clouds of acerbic smoke and drifts of pink paper fallout that get all over your spring rolls). This was apparently the longest single event in the Multicultural Festival calendar, and I think the crackers were a significant contributor to that status. The consensus: Chinatown is fun on festival days, but a little more fun when the food is inside and things aren't exploding. Be sure to visit next time you are up that end of Northbourne Avenue.
On Sunday (after Trashing it) we cruised over to Chinatown, centred around Wooley Street in Dickson, to check out the Chinese New Year festivities. We were there a bit early, when things were just getting off the ground. The restaurants were all shut of course, it being a holiday, so Rachael's dreams of yum cha quickly evaporated. Much to James' secret delight, as he has never really gotten used to the idea of eating scallops so early in the day.
To pass the time before the fanfare properly kicked off, we wandered across the road, past MacDonalds: the bastion of Westernisation buttressing the long established dowdy shops of Dickson against the prevailing winds of chinoiserie. Over on the other side of the centre, as far as you can get from steamed duck, you will find an enclave of coffee shops. This courtyard is a veritable living zeitgeist, the vibes of each cafe recursing into each other as if the whole thing is an optical illusion and there's really a big mirror where those cyclists are sitting. There are several cafes nestled in a corner, all sharing a common al fresco space. So common, indeed, that when we were there on Sunday the cyclists were all appropriating chairs from neighbouring cafes to support their rapidly metastasizing fluoro empire.
This time we picked Praga. The service here is fantastic(o)--friendly, fast and efficient. The food is just like home made. Like, as if we made it, at home, from ingredients we found in the fridge. And we shop at Aldi, people. The bread was Tip-Top, the ham and cheese were processed slices (ham should not be perfectly circular, as far as we know). The tomatoes looked like Rachael chopped them with a blunt spoon when she was late for a bus--rough and thick. However, the raisin toast was thin sliced. Not the natural order of things.
But is was yummy. And comfortable. We certainly did feel at home, and the price was right. But be prepared for Praga--sit with your back to Hudson's so you can't see the oversized plates piled high with fluffy scrambled eggs, golden hash browns and baked bananas. We didn't have too much endive envy on Sunday, however, as we had sated our inner epicurean at Hudson's the day before.
Hudson's had markedly more lavish food, but worse service, coffee with no chocolate sprinkles and the dubious practice of serving orange juice either in wine glasses or milkshake tumblers. The chai latte was putrid I'm afraid, but the bacon was copious enough to make amends. We will almost certainly try it again, as the aspect is so lovely, but maybe not until next summer. Next time in Dickson will be Deli Marco's next door (well, next door but one--right in the corner is a Vietnamese restaurant, soon no doubt to be squeezed out and reappear back on its rightful side of MacDonalds).
Back, then, to Chinatown, where the firecrackers were about to be lit. There sure were a lot of them. And they sure went on for a long, long time. I think what we have learned about firecrackers from this experience is that less is more. All they do is bang, really (well, they also generate clouds of acerbic smoke and drifts of pink paper fallout that get all over your spring rolls). This was apparently the longest single event in the Multicultural Festival calendar, and I think the crackers were a significant contributor to that status. The consensus: Chinatown is fun on festival days, but a little more fun when the food is inside and things aren't exploding. Be sure to visit next time you are up that end of Northbourne Avenue.
Trash talk
Camden. Queen Victoria. Paddy's. Jamison.
In descending order, and ascending fire resistance, Rachael's favourite markets.
We recently patrolled the carpark of the Jamison shopping centre, which is in Macquarie, just west of the City. Every Sunday the Belconnen Rotary Club host a Trash and Treasure market. It's like a massive, organised car boot sale. And it has been running for something like 30 years.
James thought it was mostly trash. In fact, entirely trash. And he wasn't wrong. The theory is, one man's trash is another man's treasure. But, you see, it has to BEGIN as one man's trash. Its not treasure until the right person has claimed it. And James did not find any treasure. Don't get him wrong--he is as cheap as they come. And actually not overly discerning (genetic inheritance from his paternal lineage we think). There just isn't much that's Jamesy at a place like this.
Rachael, however, did find treasure (even though she's not a man). These markets are composed at least 40% of household 'goods' and tacky bric a brac; 20% of clothes and shoes; 10% of books and DVDs and the remainder is just unclassifiable. If you want a rooster with a side of hammers, come here. Rachael did not want a rooster, but she did want some books. Rachael is as big a bibliophile as they come, and with whole boxes of Goethe, Shakespeare and Dante for sale for $10, she had some conniptions to contend with (incidentally, the best place for cheap books we have found so far is at the Fyshwick Fresh Food Markets charity stall every Saturday and Sunday. 50c for any paperback and $1 for hardcovers is pretty unbeatable!)
She also wanted to scope out the potential of this Canberra Cheapside for flogging her own household 'goods' and clothes and shoes (she will never, never part with any books, no matter how many boxes threaten to avalanche upon her foolish bookish head, and no matter how many cold sweats James lurches awake in after nightmares involving same). For $15 a space, it looks very probably worthwhile. If we take the plunge (which means getting on site before 6am to set up) we will be sure to let you know.
Overall, trash fantasy. Highly recommended for book lovers and/or people seeking meaning in their lives by amassing rubbishy acrylic paintings of dogs.
In descending order, and ascending fire resistance, Rachael's favourite markets.
We recently patrolled the carpark of the Jamison shopping centre, which is in Macquarie, just west of the City. Every Sunday the Belconnen Rotary Club host a Trash and Treasure market. It's like a massive, organised car boot sale. And it has been running for something like 30 years.
James thought it was mostly trash. In fact, entirely trash. And he wasn't wrong. The theory is, one man's trash is another man's treasure. But, you see, it has to BEGIN as one man's trash. Its not treasure until the right person has claimed it. And James did not find any treasure. Don't get him wrong--he is as cheap as they come. And actually not overly discerning (genetic inheritance from his paternal lineage we think). There just isn't much that's Jamesy at a place like this.
Rachael, however, did find treasure (even though she's not a man). These markets are composed at least 40% of household 'goods' and tacky bric a brac; 20% of clothes and shoes; 10% of books and DVDs and the remainder is just unclassifiable. If you want a rooster with a side of hammers, come here. Rachael did not want a rooster, but she did want some books. Rachael is as big a bibliophile as they come, and with whole boxes of Goethe, Shakespeare and Dante for sale for $10, she had some conniptions to contend with (incidentally, the best place for cheap books we have found so far is at the Fyshwick Fresh Food Markets charity stall every Saturday and Sunday. 50c for any paperback and $1 for hardcovers is pretty unbeatable!)
She also wanted to scope out the potential of this Canberra Cheapside for flogging her own household 'goods' and clothes and shoes (she will never, never part with any books, no matter how many boxes threaten to avalanche upon her foolish bookish head, and no matter how many cold sweats James lurches awake in after nightmares involving same). For $15 a space, it looks very probably worthwhile. If we take the plunge (which means getting on site before 6am to set up) we will be sure to let you know.
Overall, trash fantasy. Highly recommended for book lovers and/or people seeking meaning in their lives by amassing rubbishy acrylic paintings of dogs.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Culture Clash
We have different tastes. Significantly different. Which is how we can go out and experience, in one evening, Improvisational Theatre, MacDonalds, coffee at a French restaurant, a comedy gig, a trashy, trashy nightclub and a cocktail lounge.
We have discovered that when we deign to do the things each other suggest, we actually both appreciate them, but in different ways. And we do so like to dissect all our opinions and interpretations as to why something was awesome, or why it was shit. And the funny thing is, we almost always agree on the overall outcome.
The outcome of Impro ACT was: 'no so great, actually'. Sorry dudes. Granted, we only saw a bit, and granted, we were just warming up for the night, but we were both in pretty good moods (to begin with, at least). We were open minded.
We realise that in committing such abrupt criticisms to paper (so to speak) we may be making you closed minded about Improv ACT. So be it. We reckon we are justified. The actors were enthusiastic, confident and charismatic, but were working so hard to keep the scenarios actually functioning that they didn't have any thespian energy left to make them funny. They should have had some actor-vite before the show (a caveat here--James makes bad jokes. A lot. he is the prince of paranomasia). IN retrospect, their website does not really inspire confidence. They write: "You'd have to be really clever to do this kind of stuff, wouldn't you? No way!"
Well, Improv was a Rachael thing. It was time then for a James thing. MacDonalds is quintessentially Jamesy. Having indulged in a large 'meal' (to use the term loosely) he proceeded to photograph his belly. We will not be posting those photos. MacDonalds was uneventful as always, except we noticed that the Braddon franchise chooses to distribute their 'flakes' (when sold sans-sundae) in a sundae cup. With lid. This is the first incarnation of this method of delivery we had seen--usually the vessel is a napkin or, if you're lucky, a small fries sachet. This left us deeply philosphical.
Ha.
Anyway, on then to Ardeche, Canberra City's most Honourabl[y] Mention[ed] French restaurant. According to a framed plate on the wall, anyway. Cappucino time. Now, if you're anticipating with bated breath and tingling loins a deep and broad analysis of Canberra's coffe culture we have to say at this point--we don't stray far from the sidewalk. James ALWAYS has a mocha. And Rachael almost always has a Chai Latte, and if she does have a coffee it's a decaf. And she has skim milk. We can't expound on anything more civilised than that, I'm afraid. Anyway, this time it was a mocha and a cappucino (non-decaf, for once, but with skim milk) and it was comme ci comme ca. The highlight of the experience was the setting--twilight sunshine filtered through umbrageous leaves, sounds of the city clinking and pattering and cooing (the pigeons, not the people). Tres romantique. Hit it up of an evening for the best outdoor cafe experience we have found on that side of the city. And expect to be treated brusquely by the manager. He's French. Tres authenique.
On to the Canberra Theatre for the Show Us Your Roots gig. Which was awesome. Catch it if you can. Sorry, you can't in Canberra for another year... but you should have a night out there anyway. The waiters at the bar are all out-of-work actors, and seem to be Method Acting up a storm. I have never had a more bartendy bartender. Don't dream it, dude. Be it. Take layers of clothing, though--the theatre is hothothot. Poor air circulation plus press of people = toasty shows. They sell mini ice-creams to try to ameliorate the torridity but charging $3 each for them probably makes most people even hotter under the collar. It was fitting with the theme of farce, though.
ICBM. Wow. Tackoir (it's French for tacky). If you feel like being hemmed in on all sides by wasted seventeen year olds you could go to ICBM or any suburban swingset on a Saturday night. But ICBM has a pool table, which is like totally waaay cooler than a slippery dip. The music is passable for a groove, however, and suits James' taste to a tee. Pussy Cat Dolls back-to-back with Will Smith. Sick as. Fully so.
Hot, though, and no cooling ice-cream, so we bailed after a little while. James has tonsils the size of Paraguay at the moment so we knew we were soon for bed. One more side-trip remained, however. Manuka. Refuge of the elite from Civic hoi poloi. Or so they like to think. As far as we can see one wanker is much the same as another, no matter where they decide to do their blockies, but Manuka is still a great atmosphere for all of that. We ascended the stairs to the fabulously decadent Julep Lounge. This place is opulent vintage atmosphere at its best. Rachael was very impressed. If she had a bigger flat, and that flat was actually a cocktail lounge, it's decor would be just the same. But she doesn't, so the Julep Lounge will do. 12 pages of drinks in the menu versus one page of food--that kind of place has our vote. And the DJ was exemplary--mixing 'Take a Walk on the Wild Side' with 'Jumbo Jumbo' was just genius, in our opinion. Word-up to Julep.
Overall, a most excellent evening. We are off to Trash and Treasure, Chinese New Year and Tropfest tomorrow, so til then,
Ta ta from James and Rachael.
We have discovered that when we deign to do the things each other suggest, we actually both appreciate them, but in different ways. And we do so like to dissect all our opinions and interpretations as to why something was awesome, or why it was shit. And the funny thing is, we almost always agree on the overall outcome.
The outcome of Impro ACT was: 'no so great, actually'. Sorry dudes. Granted, we only saw a bit, and granted, we were just warming up for the night, but we were both in pretty good moods (to begin with, at least). We were open minded.
We realise that in committing such abrupt criticisms to paper (so to speak) we may be making you closed minded about Improv ACT. So be it. We reckon we are justified. The actors were enthusiastic, confident and charismatic, but were working so hard to keep the scenarios actually functioning that they didn't have any thespian energy left to make them funny. They should have had some actor-vite before the show (a caveat here--James makes bad jokes. A lot. he is the prince of paranomasia). IN retrospect, their website does not really inspire confidence. They write: "You'd have to be really clever to do this kind of stuff, wouldn't you? No way!"
Well, Improv was a Rachael thing. It was time then for a James thing. MacDonalds is quintessentially Jamesy. Having indulged in a large 'meal' (to use the term loosely) he proceeded to photograph his belly. We will not be posting those photos. MacDonalds was uneventful as always, except we noticed that the Braddon franchise chooses to distribute their 'flakes' (when sold sans-sundae) in a sundae cup. With lid. This is the first incarnation of this method of delivery we had seen--usually the vessel is a napkin or, if you're lucky, a small fries sachet. This left us deeply philosphical.
Ha.
Anyway, on then to Ardeche, Canberra City's most Honourabl[y] Mention[ed] French restaurant. According to a framed plate on the wall, anyway. Cappucino time. Now, if you're anticipating with bated breath and tingling loins a deep and broad analysis of Canberra's coffe culture we have to say at this point--we don't stray far from the sidewalk. James ALWAYS has a mocha. And Rachael almost always has a Chai Latte, and if she does have a coffee it's a decaf. And she has skim milk. We can't expound on anything more civilised than that, I'm afraid. Anyway, this time it was a mocha and a cappucino (non-decaf, for once, but with skim milk) and it was comme ci comme ca. The highlight of the experience was the setting--twilight sunshine filtered through umbrageous leaves, sounds of the city clinking and pattering and cooing (the pigeons, not the people). Tres romantique. Hit it up of an evening for the best outdoor cafe experience we have found on that side of the city. And expect to be treated brusquely by the manager. He's French. Tres authenique.
On to the Canberra Theatre for the Show Us Your Roots gig. Which was awesome. Catch it if you can. Sorry, you can't in Canberra for another year... but you should have a night out there anyway. The waiters at the bar are all out-of-work actors, and seem to be Method Acting up a storm. I have never had a more bartendy bartender. Don't dream it, dude. Be it. Take layers of clothing, though--the theatre is hothothot. Poor air circulation plus press of people = toasty shows. They sell mini ice-creams to try to ameliorate the torridity but charging $3 each for them probably makes most people even hotter under the collar. It was fitting with the theme of farce, though.
ICBM. Wow. Tackoir (it's French for tacky). If you feel like being hemmed in on all sides by wasted seventeen year olds you could go to ICBM or any suburban swingset on a Saturday night. But ICBM has a pool table, which is like totally waaay cooler than a slippery dip. The music is passable for a groove, however, and suits James' taste to a tee. Pussy Cat Dolls back-to-back with Will Smith. Sick as. Fully so.
Hot, though, and no cooling ice-cream, so we bailed after a little while. James has tonsils the size of Paraguay at the moment so we knew we were soon for bed. One more side-trip remained, however. Manuka. Refuge of the elite from Civic hoi poloi. Or so they like to think. As far as we can see one wanker is much the same as another, no matter where they decide to do their blockies, but Manuka is still a great atmosphere for all of that. We ascended the stairs to the fabulously decadent Julep Lounge. This place is opulent vintage atmosphere at its best. Rachael was very impressed. If she had a bigger flat, and that flat was actually a cocktail lounge, it's decor would be just the same. But she doesn't, so the Julep Lounge will do. 12 pages of drinks in the menu versus one page of food--that kind of place has our vote. And the DJ was exemplary--mixing 'Take a Walk on the Wild Side' with 'Jumbo Jumbo' was just genius, in our opinion. Word-up to Julep.
Overall, a most excellent evening. We are off to Trash and Treasure, Chinese New Year and Tropfest tomorrow, so til then,
Ta ta from James and Rachael.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
What's the problem, anyway?
Canberra sucks. Apparently. Like, it's soooooo booooring. And has roundabouts.
And roundabouts suck. Obviously.
Well, James and I think all the 'haters' are just doing it wrong. We think, if you're not having fun, you're either doing the bad things or not doing the good things. Or both, which is just embarrassing for you. We do a lot of things in and around Canberra, and we are starting to get a reasonably good handle on what the Good Things are. We are accumulating a trove of knowledge (that's right, a trove) about which places make the best Chai Latte, which ones will actually give you a HOT coffee if you request one thus, which bike paths have the least potholes for your eco-transport pleasure and which cinemas have two sources of surround sound--the one from the movie you are actually watching and the one from the session next door.
Some people are movie buffs. Some are cuisine connoisseurs. Some are art gallery aesthetes.
We are bon vivants of busy, buffs of stuff. We hit up Canberra hard for our amusement and avocation. We do so many things every week we are just about bound do do something you would like to do. And when we have done it, we would like to tell you about our experiences. That means, if you have a hankering to eat out, go clubbing, do some exercise, see a flick, check out some 'culture', go to a gig, indulge in a coffee, hit up some tourist traps or do some blockies in your fully sick car, you can get the good word on how to do it right. In our opinion anyway.
And if you just have that feeling, deep inside, that you should suck it up and shake off the mantle of Canberra Despair, stop wallowing in the doldrums, resist the peer pressure and actually try to enjoy the Bush Capital (despite its various tragic monikers), well, we can help. We can give you a good idea for something to do. And some advice on how not to do it wrong.
And roundabouts suck. Obviously.
Well, James and I think all the 'haters' are just doing it wrong. We think, if you're not having fun, you're either doing the bad things or not doing the good things. Or both, which is just embarrassing for you. We do a lot of things in and around Canberra, and we are starting to get a reasonably good handle on what the Good Things are. We are accumulating a trove of knowledge (that's right, a trove) about which places make the best Chai Latte, which ones will actually give you a HOT coffee if you request one thus, which bike paths have the least potholes for your eco-transport pleasure and which cinemas have two sources of surround sound--the one from the movie you are actually watching and the one from the session next door.
Some people are movie buffs. Some are cuisine connoisseurs. Some are art gallery aesthetes.
We are bon vivants of busy, buffs of stuff. We hit up Canberra hard for our amusement and avocation. We do so many things every week we are just about bound do do something you would like to do. And when we have done it, we would like to tell you about our experiences. That means, if you have a hankering to eat out, go clubbing, do some exercise, see a flick, check out some 'culture', go to a gig, indulge in a coffee, hit up some tourist traps or do some blockies in your fully sick car, you can get the good word on how to do it right. In our opinion anyway.
And if you just have that feeling, deep inside, that you should suck it up and shake off the mantle of Canberra Despair, stop wallowing in the doldrums, resist the peer pressure and actually try to enjoy the Bush Capital (despite its various tragic monikers), well, we can help. We can give you a good idea for something to do. And some advice on how not to do it wrong.
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