“What’s your ETA?”
“Now!”
Anyone should know, you never leave a lady friend to be waiting hungry…
A cancellation opens up a free seat at a new restaurant called Nomad. It’s the same glass front that I have been peering into while watching in my peripheral vision, the young folk queuing to get into Tio’s, a strange phenomenon indeed. Restaurants seem to come and go at a rate faster than the fashionable fads or favour of fickle diners. Nomad seems apt.
Currently digesting…
Woodfired sourdough with black salt butter; Nomad charcuterie (Featuring Mortadella! The ironic comeback coldcut of Spring?) all sliced to the thickness of bond paper; Morcilla de burgos with apple butter; Snapper Tartare with lemon myrtle zhoug, saffron crackers; Nomad Jersey Milk Haloumi with BBQ zucchini, mint; half a dead duck’s cadaver preserved for 4 days in salt, the result being tender meat, crispy skin without a thick gelatinous fatty layer and greasy flesh served with some sort of radish and vegetables which I eschew to preserve stomach space and finally, the very late appearance of Baccalau croquettes and someone else’s scampi (which we wave away but in watching it leave, I decide it looks like the better dish).
And in compensation for the mistimed entrée, pre-ordered postres of:
Sugary bunuelos with cardamon custard; shortbread biscuits (not Arnott’s Arrowroots) topped with meringue & layered with dulce de leche and berries and sorbet with sheets of meringue.
In the absence of chocolate cake (sold-out).
With: Angullong Fossil Hill 2011 Sangiovese, Orange NSW; Coriole 2012 Barbera, McLaren Vale SA
Gender specific toilets!
Non-unisex toilets to reapply lipstick and lather hands with nice-smelling soap (not that pearlescent pink stuff with the consistency of cough-syrup, refilled in clearly mismatched plastic-soap dispensers labelled with fragrances like “Aloe Vera”, “Ocean Breeze” or “Antibacterial”, a common practice in my usual eating spots).
Low decibel count!
Despite the cavernous space, hard surfaces and an incongruous soundtrack of hip-hop (Beastie Boys Sure Shot while on my toilet break), I can hear my dinner companions from across the wide table. But we have 2 discussions in parallel instead. Sugar Hill Gang’s Rapper’s Delight brings on a pop-song contest which ends up being more of a struggle to recall lyrics rather than recognise the title and artist.
Gratis with gratitude?
To pay back the complimentary with a compliment? The moral quandary of tipping and how much, complicated by the free sweets initiates a debate between the thrifty, the ideologically opposed (read: stingy), one who errs on the side of excess and an appreciative patron lacking arithmetic. A flurry of 10, 20 and 50 dollar bills are thrown down, exchanged, snatched up and snuck back into pockets like a game of poker on an egg-timer.
Auto-sensory meridian response of imitative parrots
Up the Hills and down to the Hurst in the cold air. The main drag of Oxford street is rather restrained as I listen closely to a drinking story from a red-head unperturbed by the drop in temperature. The Irish lilt is muffled by a beard and shy speech. Tilting my head makes no perceptible difference. A wolf-whistle from a man on a terrace balcony. I remember I have to walk Yoko and that the Oswald lane garbage bin is out dog-poo bags.
Nota bene
And in doing so, a conscious effort to recall declarative memories – Lark; Yamazaki 18-year old Single Malt; Bushmills Irish Whiskey; the corner of Forbes and Burton; David Stratton’s classes on each decade of cinema. Who needs a smartphone when you’re a smart phoney?