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.
Monday, February 25, 2008
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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