Katoomba - freezing one day... Arctic the next

You've got to love Katoomba. Like the rest of NSW, we sweltered in the high thirties (Celsius) on sunday, even with our usual strong westerly blowing in. But on monday, while Sydney welcomes the change, recording temperatures between fifteen and twenty, up here the mercury plunges to eight overnight and doesn't go up much during the day. It's mid-morning in late November and the temperature outside is eleven degrees. I ring my son in Sydney and he's off to the beach. I'm in my study with the heater on. Something about living at one thousand metres, I guess. Outside my study window, the mist starts rolling up the hill. In a few minutes, I won't be able to see the back fence. Oh well, back to my next book, called black painted fingernails about a couple driving across the western plains... in thirty-five degree heat.

Now, how to get in the mood...

A rant about coffee

Okay, I'm a coffee wanker. I like my espresso machine and I appreciate a good strong coffee. But I'm away from my Gaggia at present, on tour in Qld. So I'm at the mercy of overly sun-tanned, multi-tattooed, self-important wankers otherwise called baristas.

I hate the foibles of asking for a coffee nowadays.

Years ago you simply asked for a strong latte... or flat-white... and that's what you got. Now, I have to ask for a "double-shot, extra-hot latte, please?" If you don't do this, you receive a tepid weak coffee from a waitress in a black t-shirt two sizes too small. You return the coffee to the barista and smile, saying "Sorry, it's weak and cold." The wanker looks at you like you're ignorant scum and says, and I quote, "That's how they make it in Italy." He shrugs and then makes you a coffee designed to bring on a heart attack, burning the milk in the process.

Now, I've been to Italy but I don't really want to debate my travels with anyone who spends that long under a sun-lamp, but asking for a hot coffee just doesn't make sense. Coffee is meant to be hot. And strong.

Soon, I'll have to say "Can I have a double-shot, hot, coffee espressed through coffee beans in a implement that I can drink out of, please?". I repeat, coffee is meant to be hot... not burnt, not tepid, not "double-shot" - what is that? I'm ordering a coffee not a whiskey?

I blame Starbucks. And Gloria Jeans. And baristas with brains and senses addled by too much sun.

the best pizza I've ever eaten

Five years ago, Cathie, me and the boys drove to the Queensland country town of Kenilworth, fifty kilometres inland from Noosa (popular holiday destination of down and out poets). It was lunchtime and we vainly searched the main street of town for somewhere to go. We found a rundown timber house/cafe that looked worse for wear. The verandah had plain floorboards and a few mismatched tables and chairs. There were no customers. Jack and Joe decided not to stay and took themselves off to the pie-shop up the road (typical Qld boys!!!).

Cathie and I sat down and were waited on by a very nervous teenage boy. Hovering in the background was a short, bearded man with dirty hands and unkept hair. He looked like an ageing bikie. The menu listed a few pizzas and salads. We ordered one of each. We waited for a very long time. The dishevelled vertically-challenged bikie kept coming out and prowling around the garden. We both noted he hadn't washed his hands. Thoughts of late-night visits to the emergency department of the rural hospital with food-poisoning filled in the time waiting for our pizza.

The boy finally brought our lunch. One pizza with tomato, pine nuts, bocconcini and herbs. It was thick and juicy and tasted like heaven - no, cancel that - it was thick and juicy and tasted like ripe tomatoes, delicious bocconcini, crunchy roasted pine nuts and garden-fresh herbs (now we know why he kept coming out to the garden... and getting his hands dirty!). The crust was light and crunchy and crispy and nothing like a pizza crust - more like French pastry (but not sweet!). We looked at each other with full mouthfuls and felt instantly sorry for the boys who were missing out on this. The salad was tomato, fetta, herbs, cucumber, olives, lettuce and dressing. Fresh and much too big a serving for two people.

Jack and Joe arrived back complaining about cold pies full of gristle. We gave them a taste and they swore profusely at missing out on this. We promised we'd bring them back in a few days.

Eventually the bikie came out (there were still no other customers) and started talking to us. He was French (of course!). And here's the kicker... he didn't make the best pizza I've ever eaten - the boy did! Daniel, the french bikie, just told him what to do. His (dirty) hands hadn't touched one piece of pizza. We asked if we could come back in a few days for dinner. He shrugged and said yes. We got his phone number, just in case he wasn't open. He'd already given us the impression of disorganized genius.

A few days later, the four of us were back. We ordered the same thing only double. The boy wasn't there. Daniel would be cooking. It took even longer to prepare. There were still no customers. It tasted even better. Jack and Joe agreed. Daniel came out afterwards and talked about his plans of setting up a take-away; of making ice-cream; of baking cakes (his mother had taught him the art of pastry back in France); of awakening this town to the culinary delights of his homeland.

That was five years ago.

We've visited every year since, generally squeezing in three dinners in a week. Always the same meal. Only twice have there been other customers. Mostly, we ring ahead and Daniel opens just for us. We wait (ages!) drinking his french wine and chatting. We went last night and he showed us the back of the restaurant where he has plans to cater for big dinner parties. The place could easily hold over one hundred people.

We were the only customers.

Daniel got so involved in talking to us, he burnt the pizza and made us another. He sat down with us and ate the burnt one. The salad was even larger and tastier. The pizza... perfect.

How much?

Thirteen dollars for pizza. Fifteen for salad.

Every time we've left feeling full and satisfied and eager to tell everyone about his genius.

And now we have.

La Escapade in Kenilworth. It won't be open. Just wander the verandah until Daniel comes out and plead for a pizza and salad. You just might get lucky.

Masters Games - Gold Medal Final

I tried everything - even making the three men marking me smell my underarms, but, unfortunately very little worked. We finally met a team who didn't play boring English-style cross-the-ball-at-every-opportunity football. We played a bunch of Greeks who wanted to pass it! They outclassed us from the first minute. Despite going two goals behind inside ten minutes, we managed to fight back near the end of the half and I scored a long-range header that sailed over the keeper from eighteen metres out (which shows just how hard my head really is). It stayed 2-1 until the last few minutes when they tucked away two more for good measure.

So we settled for the silver medal. A fantastic effort from a bunch of blokes who'd never played together until eight days ago. We won five games, drew one and lost one. I top-scored with five goals, followed by "own-goal" with two. Congratualtions to the South Coast Masters on winning gold and us blokes for winning silver!