Risotto and Rockets

That is not a misspelling or error in my typing (although I am well capable of both). This post is as much about the evening as it is about the food. Sunday night gourmet was shown at the special time of Saturday this week on account of a Sunday wedding Carla was attending. It may be a little unconventional but, hey, that's how we roll here at Sunday Night Gourmet (I think I have just elevated dinner between two people to a production . . . which is something worth investigating. I'm going to get my agent on to this).

The plan was a simple risotto with just what was in the fridge. Technically Carla was cooking this week but being off a day had everything out of kilter. So it was chicken, mushroom and rosemary risotto, made with the freshest rosemary I have ever seen (bought from the bad coast while I was there on some client work- the bad coast being the Sunshine Coast which is compared to the good coast, being the Gold Coast). Carla sent off the obligatory "I'm leaving home now" message which means she is about 3 hours away (I think that is how far she lives). She added in a follow up message "I'm on dessert, just out of the oven", adding that bit of extra spice to the evening.

The draw card of the evening (excluding the company of course) was Riverfire.

So, the aim was to cook, serve and eat in time to walk from my place to the river by 7pm. My keen sense of planning and time management did not kick in as one would expect in these circumstances and it was a little rush near the end. With this in mind, you would think I would be well into to preparations before Carla arrived but, alas, I was barely aware of the recipe (and I know it off by heart). And how was I to concentrate when she shows up with home made (including pastry) caramel tart, with meringue topping? Carla tells me she was baking for hours, with some assistance from Mrs Peters. We the readers are a little sceptical of this. I don't think licking the spoon counts as making the dessert :P (although we did decide that Masterchef has taught us that tasting is the most important part of cooking so . . . )

As you can guess, the risotto was ready a little later than expected. We enjoyed it, quickly, with a nice glass of West Australian white and some live John Mayer. Although fleeting, it was good. We rushed out the door after I threw on some thongs (this will be relevant later). It was a good 15 minutes walk, and we had 10 before the fireworks so I was nearly pulling Carla by the collar. As we were on the last block, we commented on the particularly "interesting" clientèle of the Brunswick Hotel who were hanging out the front for a quick smoke break between $5 pints.

We picked up the pace when the F111 showed up. We ran the last block like kids chasing Santa, or escaping from a plate of peas (and I now know where peas come from thanks to the Peters). We found a spot behind the crowd that had the least tree obscured view. The fireworks were spectacular. We were watching the fireworks on the story bridge mostly and they were just amazing. We did talk about how fireworks have really not changed since we were kids and we are still enchanted by them as adults (as apparently we are).

There was of course the obligatory inconsiderate couple that decided the best view of the fireworks they could get was one directly in front of us. We used our best powers of glare to bore into the backs of their heads until they "realised" they were being so uncivilised.

There were many highlights, including the spray of fireworks above the bridge that were launched in machine gun like succession (including sounding like a rapid fire gun). There were the red and green ones that reminded me of Christmas and also, just the look of the fireworks glittering of the glass covered buildings of the city. But best of all were the F111 fly overs - three in all. For the second fly over, the combination of the music, the long advance along the skyline and the glow of the tail make it look just like Superman was flying in to save the day. My inner-child was already excruciatingly excited and this was the equivalent of it downing a bottle of red cordial on top of that.

On a high, we made our way back home, past the Brunswick Hotel. As we were passing it, I noticed through the window there was a round pool table. It was a weird sight, nearly as weird as Carla sticking her head through the window to check it out and starting a conversation with one on the patrons.

I am not sure if it was the high from the F111s, it was the need to wash down the risotto or just curiosity, but Carla suggested we stop into the Brunswick hotel for a drink. We found a spot near the pool table, ordered a couple of Tooheys New and sat back to watch the microcosm of Brisbane's society. This included the karaoke lady (oh yes, the night was just getting started), the out of place wealthy family, the homeless guy (we decided his shoes were too good for him to be homeless but for damn sure he looked it), the really, really, REALLY, bad karaoke that tragic who obviously has no friends because for sure they would have mentioned to her that sing talking is only acceptable at the end of your career. We were loving it. Initially I was worried that I was only in thongs and shorts but this turned out to not a problem here.

Then the newest contender for the Brunswick Hotel Karaoke champion, Pav Erotica, took the mic to show us her moves. She was not a bad singer, but she was no Pav Erotica (whatever that actually means).

Hands down the performer of the night was Homeless Guy. He has been entertaining himself (and us) on the dance floor with his smooth moves. He was loving it and we were really enjoying his energy . . . and then he took the mic. I am not sure that he knows what Karaoke is because he spend the entire song (which was well chosen by him- Gnarls Barkley's Crazy) dancing, interspersed with a few howls which teen wolf would have been proud of. It was a sight to behold, especially when he would not hand over the mic when he was "finished" singing and the karaoke mistress said "you do not want to see what will happen if I have to come over there and take that from you". This is not a great video, but you should be able to make out the words on the screen, the music in the background and the notable lack of singing.

It was around this time when the wealthy Mum leaned over to us and said "that is what my hair looks like in the morning" in reference to the Young Einstein style hair of the homeless guy. You could tell how chuffed she was mixing it with the common folk (and that she had a couple of champagnes under he belt). The wealthy family did not last much longer, having spent enough time here to be able to claim to the book club crowd that they have personally connected with typical constituents of the latest heart wrenching book on the life of the poor.

So while PavErotica and the sing talker were taking turns trying to make our ears bleed, Carla takes hold of the song book and looks for some inspiration. After 15 minutes of careful consideration, she chickens out. The crown was disappointed - they really were deserving of some talent before the night was through, but not this evening.

After a game of round-table pool (which proved that I could get worse on the pool table. Seriously, if it is not a straight shot, it is in the hands of the gods), we set off home for a bit of caramel tart with the meringue topping (which Carla referred to from then on as the PavErotica topping and disturbingly closed her eyes as she did). It was excellent, and we enjoyed over an episode of Glee. Thanks for dessert Mrs Peters, it was excellent (and of course Carla for her the spoon licking prowess).

So what started out as an evening of risotto and rockets turned into much, much more. Best night in Brisbane ever.

The times, they are a changing

This blog started out as portrayal of my adventure into cooking as a pass time.  Cooking was something to do, but also, it was a way of finding ways to spend time with a little someone I may have had my eye on. It then moved on to tracking the exploits of Carla and I as we explored the restaurants of Brisbane.  Soon enough, I had taken her to enough places of repute to convince her to spend her life with me.

So times change and along with my jump into a new level of adulthood, comes the nesting phase. Our life does revolve around cooking and food.  Carla has a love of cooking all things sweet, and basically anything that tickles her fancy and I have a love of cooking bread and basically anything that tickles my fancy.  The recent step we have made is home gardening. We have a little courtyard in the apartment  and progressively we have build upon this, with help along the way from the parents in law (we had no idea what we were doing).

We are now weekend warriors at Bunnings (much to Pop's disgust) and we decide on the newest herb, fruit or vegie that tickles our fancy. Now watch as our little courtyard takes on a life of its own.