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.
