The taste of Melbourne

Melbourne, my city.  Cosmopolitan, modern, dynamic, cultured. But what is the flavour of Melbourne? I knew that the answer to this question is much more than just some salt and paper prawns.

The Taste of Melbourne with Albert Park Lake as its backdrop is where I finally found my answer.
I tried it all. Street style corn from Mamasita, tempura soft shell crab with jalapino, apple frangipane tart from Libertine, passionfruit and chilli gin cocktails, grapefruit and black tea beers, chocolate in all shapes and sizes, cupcakes of all colours. I kept on looking.

And then I saw Frank Camorra. Surrounded by his MoVida team, he was making grilled lamb skewers.
To watch a craftsman is a spectacle. Nothing excites me more, then talent and passion. It was in front of me, right there. His team felt it, the crowds did too. The passion for his work was on his face, in his food.

This was what I was looking for. The taste of Frank's passion is the flavour of Melbourne. Talent and passion for your craft, any craft, shared with others, is the taste of Melbourne.

Lake House

I had only heard of this place, few wooden huts by the lake, near the dark forest, and a famous restaurant. You must be an extravagant Arab prince, or a sultan of desert kingdom with castles and gold mines to afford a present like this.

Our dinner, was more like an art form, a non-existing genre, that made my senses fail, or maybe the wine was to blame? Warm home made bread, first spring flowers on the table, colours and flavours of the Earth in the first weeks of spring, still shivering in wintry cold.

We spend the night near the fireplace, extravagant you and I, watching the moon light make frozen air crystals shine. Pine trees tremble in the wind. Through sounds of rain I teach you all about the L'Art de Vivre.

Late morning, the sun flooded our room with spring colours. No traces of winter and freezing rain. The Lake House, a place to loose the sense of reality, and find the sense of life.

Confit ocean trout, compressed apple, apple cider vinaigrette, horseradish snow

Roast duck – pomegranate, dukkah crusted ‘bisteya’, carrot, citrus pickled eggplant, grains

Sweet and cheesy story

You kept on asking me why I want to go. You would say I always leave you, but I'd say, you do remember, I always come back. I will come back again. I just have to go and see where Champs-Élysées flows into the Arc de Triomphe, and sit under the chestnut tree.

When I come back, I will tell you all my stories and we will laugh together. You know I am such a tragic case, always getting into ridiculous situations, unprepared, naive, and yes, you are right, childlike. Maybe this is the reason for me to go, to travel and learn to be a grown up?

When I come back, I will bring you gifts from rolling lavendar fields and Côte d'Azur. My skin will keep the salty sea smell and taste of wine bath.

My stories will be sweet and cheesy. French stories are always sweet and cheesy, pastry stories, covered in butter and dipped in chocolate mousse. There will be a lot of wine too, in glasses, bottles and barrels. A bottle for you and I will go so well with sweet and cheesy.

Breakfast tones in adagio - Grindhouse

217 Carlisle St, Balaclava

Going out for breakfast is one of those luxurious things I can only afford when life is not spinning out of control, when Monday does not bump into Friday and a briefing session in March does not turn into the morning meeting in July.

I stretch my hand out to get the coffee. Slowly the aroma feels me with such happiness. Life is best lived in adagio.

Carlisle Street in recent years has managed to pick up the vibe from it's neighbors along St Kilda beach and produce a whole bunch of places where either breakfast, lunch or dinner is a treat. Where you will want to take your time and savor the food. We are at the Grindhouse. Small courtyard covered with grapevines. We had corn and herb pancakes, beetroot and lime cured salmon with avocado. Spanish scrambled eggs with chorizo. And coffee. Aroma still lingers in my mind.

Breakfast in adagio must smell like coffee.