A picture of Bill Clinton adorns the wall of Fagan’s pub in Dublin. Tucked between a GAA jersey and the results of the pub’s golf society, Bill’s cheesy Indiana smile sits atop a creamy pint of Guinness. This holds his gaze as though he were a World War II ambulance driver who had just crossed the Sahara to Alexandria to be met by a pint of Carlsberg.
In Melbourne, there is a picture of Bill in the Meekong Vietnamese restaurant. Bill is tucking into his second bowl of Rice Noodle Soup. I mention second, because finishing one is a feat in itself. The noodles expand as they sit in the soup, so while eating it, the dish just seems to grow to the point where you give in and hand back something bigger than that which you received. It’s a bit like the Irish and the English language. It was forced upon us, but being the good-natured people we are, we gave it back to the English in a better state than we had received it.
If you want to know the heart and soul of a City and it’s appeal to foreigners, then look for a picture of Bill. You’ll find it everywhere. Drinking a glass of vodka in Moscow, nibbling cheese in Amsterdam and wearing tight leather shorts and a Tom Selleck moustache in San Francisco. Bill sums up a City better than Lonely Planet. Dublin is rightly known for it’s pubs, whose appeal increases the further away you get from them. Despite their surly staff and over priced produce, they are still the best in the world. And I should know, I’ve spent the last four months checking.
Melbourne, as Mr. Clinton testifies, is much more about Asian food. Chinatown here has a natural feel to it and services mainly the large local Asian community. All parts of Asia are represented with rice the common constituent. Chinese is the dominant cuisine, although even that splits between Cantonese and Hokkien and every other province that produces a curry. I am reminded of my mother’s comments that she wanted to stop after she had her second child, because she heard that every third child born in the world is Chinese. And Mam didn’t want a Chinese baby. When it was explained to her that this statistic applied to the world in general and not her specifically, she relented and let Dad back in the bedroom. This was a subject of great annoyance to me, because as the second child I had obtained a modicum of affection, which is reserved for the youngest in the family. Once the third child came along, I lost all that. And I’ve been jealous of my sister Lai Ling ever since.
Everybody has their favorite ethnic restaurants in Melbourne. I’ve only been here 4 months, but I already know where to go for the best Indonesian Nasi Goreng, the best Malay Satay and the best Indian Butter Chicken. I’m still assessing the Chinese places. My biggest problem is that the specialise in Dim Sum, a veritable lucky dip wrapped in a dumpling dough. Take a bite and you could be chewing down on Pork, Chicken, Beef or Prawns. Or pretty much anything else that Granny Tan found in the fridge that morning. As I have the fussy eating habits of a spoilt 5 year old, I normally avoid this type of food, less my delicate palate be disturbed by flavors richer than processed chicken. I have a similar problem with that great staple of Australian Food, the Meat Pie. These are tasty little buggers, but one is strongly advised to eat them with your eyes closed. The term “meat” in the description seems to cover a multitude.
As it’s cheaper to eat out than to cook in Melbourne, it’s not surprising that there are so many fantastic restaurants. When the locals do decide to cook, it will generally be a Barbie. Aussies have this down to a fine art and a ritual. Literally anything can be cooked on the Barbie from fried eggs to birthday cakes and the occasion itself is subject to more decorum than a ball in a Jane Austen novel. It is appropriate to bring as much beer as you intend to drink yourself. And among old Melbournians, this will be VB stubbies. You should also bring a bottle of something along for the host. Ladies should bring a desert or salad but no meat. That is the preserve of the host. The season begins on November 1st and invites start flooding in from September onwards. You will invariably end up with two or three on each Saturday and Sunday during summer. And that will involve eating an awful lot of meat, or seriously disappointing some of your friends.
Shorts are allowed, but Speedos are frowned upon, even if the hosts have a pool (which are more common than indoor toilets in Ireland). Flip flops or sandals are encouraged, but not the ones you wear to the beach. So locals will invest in a pair of Birkenstocks just for the BBQ season.
Being Irish, I’ve never quite gotten the Barbeque thing. Fair enough, our climate doesn’t really suit and Barbies at the beach or sports events are the only way of getting hot food. But 99% of Barbies are held in people’s back gardens, 3 meters or so from a perfectly working kitchen. Why people prefer smoky, half burned pork chops, to a nice piece of grilled chicken is beyond me. I guess standing around drinking beer and watching somebody cook on a stove in the kitchen is not as much fun. And I’m in Australia now and if I don’t go to Barbeques, I won’t be going out on Saturdays and Sundays during summer. Onwards and upwards, that’s what it’s all about. As somebody said to me last week, “Fish can only see to the side, flies can see all around, but humans can only look forward.” That’s my new motto and I’m sure Bill Clinton would agree. He comes from a town called Hope after all.
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