Wallaby is surprisingly good. I had one in Tasmania — to eat, I hasten to add.
You need to make that clear in Taz. They say it’s the furry-fiddling capital
of the world. They say it with a crooked grin, a wink, a stalactite of drool
and a pumping fist.
There’s more cross-species fraternisation than you could shake a shepherd’s
crook at down under. Back in the 1840s, the colonial office in Whitehall was
regularly enlivened with reports of what was referred to coyly as “nameless
unnatural practices”. Lieutenant Governor Sir John Eardley-Wilmot wrote
that, “namelessness happened on a scale not dreamt of by the readers of
Catullus”. And frankly, who could blame them, when every other critter is a
marsupial? So many more cosy pouchy options than in your average northern
petting zoo.
The wallaby was excellent: lean, cholesterol-free, a cross between lamb and
hare, seasoned with wild herbs that only grow in Tasmania. The island is
astonishingly beautiful and friendly to humans in a platonic, engaging,
outdoorsy, deep-breaths sort of way. If you’re ever passing, you should drop
in (frankly, if you’re ever passing and you don’t drop in, the next stop is
Antarctica). But do remember to take your worming pills.
I like Australia. It feels like a nation that’s lost a penny and found a
pound. The most famous description of the place is that it’s “a lucky
country”. But the quote comes with a caveat: “A lucky country run by
second-rate people.” It’s a stinging judgment that has marked Australian
culture and politics more than it should. As an aphorism, it’s not
particularly witty, fair or true. The narrow set of deferences, snobberies
and sub-clauses that constitute “first-rate” back in old Europe don’t apply
on the other side of the world. Australia is a continent that feels as if
it’s getting rid of things. It was colonised with so much second-hand, twee
English baggage, the mildewed conventions of some half-dead, distant place,
that they’re still emptying out the cupboards.
You can sit in a restaurant here and the table on one side will be wearing
shorts and flip-flops and, on the other, 1980s party frocks and big hair.
They’re still auditioning for what being an Australian means, and they’re
doing it with a raucous, excited appetite that is a pleasure to be around,
and that makes me envious. There was quite a lot of discussion about what to
replace the Union Jack in the corner of the flag with. Everyone likes the
stars of the Southern Cross, but on its own it looks like a drunk European
Union. There’s a lot of support for something Aboriginal. I thought they
could do worse than a Page 3 wombat.
Sydney continues to be one of the best and most varied cities to eat out in.
If, by any chance, you’re going, try Icebergs, with a ravishing view of
Bondi, and Sean’s Panorama, which has a blackboard menu of inspired,
southern-hemisphere bistro food made with a brimming confidence and panache.
The old jabberwocky fusion tucker that Australian chefs brought to London is
no longer spoken of, which is a relief, as it was both cringingly culturally
correct and a gastronomic dog. What they eat here is indigenous Australian.
It’s not welded to anybody else. It’s a cuisine that’s too young and fresh
for classics. What is good — and someone should bring over here — is the
modern Asian cooking at Billy Kwong.
As ever, the basis of the cooking is good-quality ingredients. Everyone talks
about the wonder of Australian seafood, and some of it is brilliant,
particularly the bivalves and crustaceans. But Southern Ocean fish are, as a
rule of fin, not as good as North Atlantic, and there are few indigenous
Australian ingredients that you would want to eat outside of I’m a
Celebrity... Most of it has been brought in on probation. Australia is a
parable of psycho strangers running amok: cane toads and rabbits, rats and
cats, and, oddly, sparrows and plovers. Often, they’ve been disastrous, but
sometimes, as with grapes and trout, they’ve been a terrific success.
The other thing Australians do well is serve table without side or smarm — and
generally, they are well informed, efficient and comfortably friendly. One
of the people I had lunch with at Icebergs was left-handed. The waiter laid
her cutlery sinisterly, without fuss or interruption. I’ve never seen this
done before, and I’d never have noticed if I wasn’t a professional.
This week’s restaurant isn’t in Australia. It isn’t run by Australians and it
doesn’t serve Australian food. I don’t even think it has an Australian
waiter, although, by a strange coincidence, it is in a street that begins
with A: 11 Abingdon Road used to be the Phoenicia, an ancient Lebanese that
had an all-you-can-eat-for-a-fiver buffet, and which was overcharging by
about £4.50. This is an expensive, residential corner of Kensington that is
spectacularly badly served by restaurants. There is the usual plague of
coffee-and-muffin chains and melamine pizza places on the high street, but
hardly any dining rooms that would tempt the locals out for an evening.
This modern Italian-French bistro, in a neat room, is a big step in the right
direction, but it’s not quite all there. The decor is sparse without being
welcoming, and the atmosphere is less than electric. It needs a chuckle, a
hum and a bit of cleavage.
There’s a rather awkward menu of dishes that imply the chef has pretensions to
be cooking in a slightly grander room or is handing plates down to the
customers. The Blonde and I found it difficult to find things we actually
wanted to eat. I admit this is our fault, an embarrassing symptom of spoilt
ennui. But restaurants need to tease appetite as much as fill empty vitals.
I started with brawn and onion relish, which was more potted meat or thick
pâté than it really should have been: too dense, too little simpering jelly.
Squid with chickpea, chorizo and sherry was better. A main course of veal
shin with risotto and gremolata — osso bucco to the rest of us — lacked the
central joy of a bone.
Overall, the food is perfectly well made. There was a nice lemon polenta cake.
The prices come in at about £6.50 for starters and £15 for mains. It’s a
nice enough place with nice enough food. But with another 10% of thought,
effort, energy and generosity, it could have been a local hero.
Before you write in, no animals were harmed in the making of this column.
11 Abingdon Road
11 Abingdon Road, W8; 020 7937 0120
Lunch: Mon-Sun, noon-3pm; Sat, 11am-2pm.
Dinner: 6.30pm-11pm daily
