The Ahab of Margs

Trolley borne Captain Ahab, Margaret River. By Benji.

About The Lazy Aussie

Commended Haiku writer. A lover of The West's Worst. Perth stand-up comedian, photographer and writer.
This entry was posted in Uncategorisable Worsts and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

45 Responses to The Ahab of Margs

  1. The Legend 101 says:

    Thats a bit stupid and he put a price tag on himself what the hell.

    Like

  2. Lucky Star says:

    The quote The Simpsons, “Call me Ishmail dummy.”

    Like

  3. Paracleet says:

    If his boardies had been cannon, he would have fired his fashion sense upon it…

    Like

  4. orbea says:

    apparently Tim Winton’s facebook page has a trailer of Cloudstreet, which will be shown on Rupert’s network on May22.
    apparently

    Like

  5. Bento says:

    I’m trying to read Moby Dick at the moment. Thanks for the spoiler TLA.

    I’m finding it to be a thoroughly unpleasant read, so far (about 1/4 of the way in). Should I persevere?

    Like

  6. orbea says:

    Rob Broadfield – Indiana Tearooms 6/20

    BRING ON GLOBAL WARMING. The seas will rise and Indiana at Cottesloe will become a jetty. As a jetty it will deliver a superior community service than it does as a restaurant. With the added advantage that old men will be able to fish for herring from the top floor.

    No single word adequately expresses the awfulness of the food at this prominent ocean-side restaurant. Regurgitant comes close.

    The staff are nice though, which hasn’t always been the case. I’ve been three times recently. The first time we were simply forgotten. After half an hour of invisibleness, we got up and walked over the road to Il Lido.

    The second time, the food was the criminal.

    The third time was to check that the horribleness of the food wasn’t an anomaly. It wasn’t. In fact the entire meal was punctuated with mouth-open-in-disbelief, shoulder-shrugging, can-you-believe-this-food looks between us. The meal could best be summed up as repulsion bordering on bewilderment.

    The views are spellbinding. On the occasion of this review it was one of those hot, hot summer afternoons — no sea breeze, just wafting, oven-temperature easterlies: a perfect Rotto day. The beach was full of the leisure classes flopping in and out of a languid surf.

    Inside the restaurant, a long table of elderly tourists was cheerfully ordering from the extensive menu and knocking back their drinks with such abandon, one could only be awestruck by their robust renal health.

    Then it was our turn.

    The best thing about the $22 fig, bresaola, Persian feta and frisee salad were the voluptuous, over-ripe figs. The sliced bresaola was ice-cold from the fridge, which ensured it was virtually flavourless, and it was cut too thick. The frisee was one floret of undressed leaf tossed on the side of the plate. The vincotto was more a skid mark than a useable condiment.

    Pan-fried sardines, caponata, ciabatta, lemon and capers, $18, was a masterclass in overcooked fish. The deliciously oily fillets had been ruined. They were stiff and dry. The caponata was so ice-cold it set the teeth chattering. What’s wrong with taking a small amount of prepped food out of the cool room before service so that it comes up to room temperature? Were they expecting no customers? (Don’t answer that!) The bread was nice.

    When the wine arrived — a West Cape Howe sauvignon blanc — it was warm. The helpful waiter explained that they were having “problems with the fridge”. Oh puh-leeze! Between the bar and the kitchen, restaurants have more fridges than you can poke a stick at. Had someone just forgotten to do their daily stock check and fill the fridge? Who knows. We were cheerily informed that if we waited five minutes the ice bucket would chill it down. We waited 10. It was still warm (the ambient temperature was 36C on the day). Not pleasant.

    Then it got bad.

    Pistachio-crusted lamb, couscous, cherry labneh, $40, was a new low in culinary bizarreness. Labneh is a Middle Eastern version of cheese. It’s yoghurt, strained of its whey so that it becomes thick and cheesy. It’s very nice. Its combination with mashed cherries was an alchemist’s nightmare: a lurid pink paste which was head-scratchingly obtuse. Why? Who could possibly have thought this would work? More to the point, what could it possibly add to roast lamb? Perhaps they’re doing acid in the kitchen?

    The lamb was overcooked, dark grey and rubbery. With a hole drilled through the middle to take a halfinch bolt, the thick slices of loin meat would have made perfect engine mounts.

    Then it got really bad.

    The couscous was truly foul. It had been put in a dariole mould and then inverted on to the plate. If you remember your Year 12 geology, you know that sand, when compressed over many millennia, becomes sedimentary rock, like sandstone. A not dissimilar transformation had taken place with the couscous. It was so rock hard, I thought the chef had caringly put something solid in the middle as a surprise, like a bone or something. He didn’t. It was simply sedimentary couscous. I think the dariole mould had been filled, compressed, left in the cool room for an aeon, then placed in the oven to re-heat (not a standard technique, I can assure you): it’s the only explanation for the dried, rock-solid, flavourless lump before me.

    I have never before gurned with such elastic-faced flamboyance as I did over that couscous.

    The pork rack, $38, was burnt black. The kitchen had thoughtfully sought to conceal this by placing the burnt chop at the bottom of the dish with the unburnt side facing up. Nasty.

    Enough.

    We popped over to Il Lido for an ice-cold drink and five minutes of companionable silence as we worked through our post-traumatic stress.

    Like

  7. orbea says:

    “I have never before gurned with such elastic-faced flamboyance as I did over that couscous.”

    qualified for the job I reckon, any one need some flamboyant gurning?

    Like

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