Food talk - hard to digest

We were sitting at a Chinese restaurant. My seating wasn't central; the oversized table had left an awkward expanse of space between us, requiring me to crane my head over to catch bits of the conversation over the din of the restaurant.

They were talking about food.

For some strange reason, I perceive people whose conversational repetoire revolve around food as irksome. You'll find me very agreeable in general. There's some weird ingrained mummy-instinct that has me feigning being patient and generally supportive of most ventures. Yet there are certain comparative trivialities that completely put me off. I'm not talking about the common crimes against humanities or the seven deadly sins - just minor things like faux Western accents, relatives who make unnecessary comments on your appearance and well, talk about food (not to be mistaken for recommendations for dining out).

There's just something I find incredibly boring about talking about food. I mean, eating it is great! I have 24 entries on food on this blog and like an annoying Japanese tourist, tend to insist on photographing dishes before my fellow diners are permitted to dig in. Yet when people sit around talking about what they had for breakfast, lunch, tea, dinner, supper and what they're going to have next whilst still masticating their current meal, my mind drifts off.

Perhaps due to the Gold Coast's limited culinary delights, I find it almost an exclusively Malaysian thing to keep talking about food. I still remember those boring audit days, when I would be stuck in large food-inclined teams. Apart from gossiping about everyone else in the office, Food was the topic du jour. Like every-jour. Every friggin' jour.

During these lengthy discussions on whether we were to have mamak or chicken hor fun or chap fan for lunch and if we should head back to office so we can have nasi lemak for dinner, I would hold my silence and quietly count the days down on my Excel spreadsheet as to when the assignment would finally be over. And pray that the next team would be less food-sy.

And then there are the dieters. My mother once had a friend who was kind, friendly, helpful and a genuinely good friend to her. Unfortunately, she also harboured two extremely grating habits - her penchant for mundane monologues and the fact that the monologues often centred on what she and all her fellow diners had for every single meal, how they felt about it and she felt they felt about it. Listening to her, you would have expected her to weigh 300lbs, but no, Aunty W was as slim as a toothpick and rarely ever finished a meal, preferring instead to pick at her salads whilst eyeing everyone else's dishes (with of course, a running commentary).

Let's not even get started on people who talk about sleep.


Photo credits

Clear Mountain

KG and I spent last weekend at the Mercure Clear Mountain Lodge. I'd never heard of the place before, the sentiments echoed by Brisbane friends. "Clear Mountain? Where's that?"

Heck, even the trusty old Wikipedia page lacked information.

Our room. True to the Trip Advisor reviews, the room was extremely basic (considering how the RRP is AUD500+ per night - we got it for much less though). I was freezing, having left my jacket in the car and set the room tenperature to a tropical 31C.

It had an ensuite spa. Sadly, the water was pretty mucky and the foamy scud marred the experience.




Dinner was at the inhouse restaurant, Mandy's on the Mountain. The chef's name is Shannon, so I wonder how the Mandy bit came about. We were given the last booking for dinner for the night, which was quite strange, considering how the dining area was about 2/3 empty.

The food was excellent, though fairly pricy. The waitstaff were attentive, in fact, overly so. After our conversations got interrupted the nth time by the waitresses' flirting (yes, KG was very popular that night), the green-eyed monster in me was tempted to sit in his lap/ stab them in the thigh to make a point.

This is our generously portioned entree. Salmon something-or-rather, with crayfish salad.

KG's snapper. I think it had champagne cream sauce.

My very excellent beef fillet with truffled mash, creamed mushrooms and some sort of red wine and beef jus reduction. It was beautiful.

Apparently, our room should have had, and I quote, "breathtaking panoramic views of the Glasshouse Mountains and Moreton Bay islands", but this is all we could see from the balcony. KG was pretty annoyed but the other suites with spas had been booked out.

The pergola thingie. This place is apparently a hotspot for weddings. There was one going on during our stay.

The improved views from the alfresco dining area.

KG and I then headed off. Upon running out of Twisties (alas, the BBQ flavour is not to be found down under), we drove to Samford in search of food. We also bumped into an ex-colleague and good friend of mine, JL whom I hadn't seen for ages and ages. Noting the size of Australia in proportion to the number of people I know, this event bears mentioning. It felt almost like a rite of passage to my sense of belonging here. I mean, holy cow, I actually bumped into someone. Met a friend, unplanned, more than 100km away from home, in a foreign land (though really, I already feel very much at home here). Whoo-hoo!

View from one of the many Brisbane National Parks lookouts.

KG and I settled in a quiet spot for a picnic of random items from the local IGA. Unfortunately, he failed to appreciate my choice, which had me eating more than 500g of roast chicken wings.

I am avoiding chicken wings for the foreseeable future.

A curious and clumsy kookaburra

I don't know how the residents here relay their addresses with straight faces.

The breathtaking view from Jollys Lookout

Possibly one of the less vulgar quainter street names I've come across

another bloody water

Stolen Recipe Ice Tea (not bad but too chamomile-y for my liking) and Charlie's Honest Smoothie (the colour and texture of Malaysian drain sludge but hey, KG liked it)

Upon my insistence, we headed to Mount Coo-tha. It was almost impossible to find parking, but the view (poorly captured below) was worth it.

Unfortunately in the excitement, we forgot to check out the Japanese Botanical Gardens, which are apparently well worth a visit. Until the next time then.

Coombabah Lakelands

Our Meet Up group had yet another successful outing last weekend. The Lakelands are remarkably conducive to taking postcard-worthy pictures.

The roos actually do move along with the shade of the tree.


Solid algae

"Venice", sans gondolas

The floating "ball" is actually a crayfish pot.

Doug: It's true what they say about the centre of the universe!

Lunch

An egret

My favourite picture of the lot. I'm a sucker for all things ombre.

Roo poo, a cousin of bait poo.

All kinds of yum

KG and I are currently having a rat problem. He'd been away to Melbourne for a week, during which I noticed a large bite had been taken out of a rotting apple in the bin. I brought this up during a conversation with RD on paranormal activity, which led to a discussion not conducive to my sleeping behaviour that night. Anyway, KG picked up on all the signs and we're now feeding the poor critter with poison. Oh well.

Apparently authentic Italian pizza is made with few ingredients. Thus I decided not to serve RD my honey-soy-kebab-lamb-sausages-pineapple-mushroom-capsicum-tomatoes-onion-garlic creation.

RD's risotto, ossobuco, salad and rye bread feast. Then there was apple strudel too.

Party at Paul's. We huddled around the fire like hobos, munching on Violet Crumble cake.

Live band at Beergarden. I bopped along to Nirvana's Lithium.

Lemon cheesecake. My first attempt with the new mixer (I actually went out to buy a mixer for this) had the kitchen walls, floor and I splattered with Philadelphia Cream Cheese. Whilst the actual cake turned out ugly as sin, it was fairly tasty.

HAHAHAHAHA.

KG and I had date night at Shogun, a well-received Japanese establishment in Bundall. The restaurant has the most unassuming facade ever, tucked discreetly between furniture outlets.

We had Mixed Sushi (AUD13.90) for entree and Tori Karaage (AUD12.90), Maguro Steak (AUD18.90) and Chahan (AUD6.90) . The food was pretty decent for Gold Coast standards and the service absolutely excellent. The waitresses were extremely attentive. I mean, they actually asked us which order the dished were to come in, and if it was okay to cook the steak now?

The cutesy Japanese garden outside.

JQ418

A year since a stranger leaned over to read the cover of my library-loaned Midnight's Children, offered to switch on the overhead lights and then, proceeded become a huge part of my life.

On beauty

Thandie Newton - the first time I realised that one did not need to possess blue eyes, blonde hair and pale skin to be considered physically lovely

I still remember the silly things I did in my quest for beauty, as prescribed by Cleo or Womans Weekly - mayonnaise in the hair for shine (stench, mess, Mother yelling Stop wasting my mayo), sunbathing on the balcony (severe sunburn), egg white on the face (stench). Pre-beauty magazines, I'd greatly envied Michelle Oh's toothy smile and her dimples and spent many afternoons with my pinky nails dug deep into my 8 year old cheeks (pain, futility). At 15, greatly despaired by my uncomplementary nose, I almost agreed to a friend selling his violin to fund a new one. I plastered my face with a variety of masks and creams, certain that someday I would find one which would peel off to reveal large, deep set eyes, a tiny nose and clear, rosy complexion. I got around the make up ban at school with tinted lip balm and cheek pinching. At some point, I counted 8 different types of shampoos on the edge of the bathtub, each only partially used, soon to be thrown away. I fantasised about growing another 7 inches taller, losing another few kilos and perfect shiny, waist length hair. I imagined a day when the pores on my pimple prone skin would vanish, as would the greasy shine.

My self esteem was not helped by the fact that I had impossibly good looking friends; our adolescent conversations involved reassuring each other that we were not fat, pretty and that of course, our crushes would eventually realise we were The One(s), a la He's Just Not That Into You. Alas, I now live with a man who dutifully calls it as it is. On the bright side, I know the bi-annual compliments offered are sincere.

Last weekend, I went to the Beergarden with YM and some friends. Having never really gotten into the whole clubbing scene, I enjoy these annual outings which often do nothing but reassure me of what I'm not missing. Since YM had gotten us free Nandos (a woeful reminder of my declining tolerance for spicy food) for dinner, I felt obliged to buy the drinks. The club was packed full of drunken, hormonal youth moving to the thumping beat.

As I patiently awaited the bar tender's ministrations, I observed a chubby man trying to get my attention.

"I'm sorry?" I yelled across the counter.

"...!" The (surprisingly decent) live band drowned out his words.

"What?"

"I said, you're f-ing hot!"

"Oh, thank you!" I looked at his much better-looking friend, who stood between us.

"You're gorgeous!" He seconded, either for moral support, or out of inebriation.

Maybe the mayonnaise helped after all.

Just pretend the bloodstains are salad dressing

Jan: Ow!

KG: Did you cut yourself again?

Jan: It's only the third time in 3.5 weeks!

KG: And that's not a lot?

Jan: Well I still have 7 other fingers not cut.

KG: ...

Jan: My accident rate is 30%.

KG: *drags me upstairs for tea-tree-oil-and-band-aid treatment*

South Stradbroke Island

I'd recently joined a Meet Up group, whose maiden voyage was bound for South Straddie, as the island is known locally. Meet Up is basically a platform for like-minded strangers to gather periodically. It's a great way to make friends. I'd been to 2 group meetings on Chapel St in Melbourne, in a bid to widen my social circle. Whilst I found the host rather rude and intrusive, I liked some of the other members and subsequently am now friends with one.

There are a fair few Gold Coast groups but many of them were business networking/ New Age/ had age criteria types. Naturally, I was relieved to find a group without an agenda/ dogma and a diverse mix of people. Not to mention the outing didn't cost too much, as most of the other groups' are apt to.

I'd been given the wrong instructions as to which pontoon we were departing from. A panicked call, a lot of swearing and a parking spot later, I was greeted by Desley, our hostess and Brian, the captain of the Rum Runner.

The day was sunny, much to my relief. I settled in with 2 men and a Kiwi lady. Everyone was very congenial in spite of my impunctuality and soon off we were.

Farewell, Paradise Point!

During the hour long cruise, Henk our affable host offered all sorts of interesting titbits on the history of the islands. Geographically and historically-challenged, I am always impressed with people capable of carrying tons of seemingly random facts in their head. KG is a stellar example.

We arrived at Tippler's Kiosk, where I stopped by the convenience shop to buy lunch (steak and mushroom pie, which turned out to be congealed in starch and fat - I highly recommend bringing your own meals).

Angela and I squinted away whilst rushing Robert to click the shutter.

The families stayed behind whilst 8 of us sprightly ones set off for the trekking route. South Stradbroke is a long, thin sand island. For the first half of the journey, we were walking through the bush. Note: Bring loads of mosquito repellent if you expect to survive in shorts. Thankfully, Henk came prepared and we frantically covered ourselves in the stuff. I have roughly 10 lumpy souvenirs all over my limbs.

We stopped at about 1pm and settled down in a little clearing to have lunch.

A freshly shed snaked skin nearby the toilets.

We soldiered on and climbed over a sand dune, post toilet break. It was amazing. From a lush, sub tropical setting, we were instantly transported to miles of white sandy, seemingly untouched beach.

From here, we walked through 5km of fine, loose sand whilst chatting away. The beach was scattered with medium-sized unbroken shells, mostly scallops and mussels. It was all very pleasant, though by 3pm or so, my knees and calf muscles were aching. I'd discovered one of the group lives only 10 houses away on the same street and shares a common language with KG, so that was nice. We plan to meet again soon.

We then climbed over the dune again to head back. In a faux-ranger tone, Henk suggested I "stop feeding the animals" with my blood. I groaned my amusement whilst his wife admonished me every now and then for my more or less continuous scratching.

The landscape changed once more. I forget the name of these trees - ghost pines? Ghost firs?

The band Kulaz performs every first Sunday of the month. Mostly top 40 hits fare, but decently covered. That's our captain and his lady sitting in the foreground.

Angela trying to get the best angle for her shot.

This is possibly the dearest house on the Coast. Sovereign Islands is a man made patch of exclusivity - only houses costing a minimum of $1million need apply. This $33million monster is built on $12million worth of land.

9km of exercise did me good. I'm really looking forward to the next one.