Ultracontrary Veganitiulismist

- in praise of the other white meat-

Dark alleyways and local sewer outlets are rarely the ideal setting for an elegant dining experience, the slime underfoot, the whelps of injured rats falling from the peeling masonry, the ever-present odour of dank green decay, and yet Simone de Pleat, the maitre'd at Hungry Hungry H.Erectus Bar and Restaurant, greets each guest with cheerful wave of his scented handkerchief.

"Word up muthaf%%%'s, they selling garbage down the way, you looking for something sweet to send you spinning into the pure molten rock", his Delacroix scarf and sidearm breath an authenticity into this, Melbourne's first ultracontrary veganitiulismist restaurant.

In city crowded with taste sensations, where each nationality is represented at some level, from the mundane Braised Mud at Ye Olde English Dinner and Irish Pub, to the sensations of Pickled Whole Yak at Supression, the freshest look at Tibetan/Chinese cuisine, where a yak is drowned in a vat of brine at your table. We now have the newest craze in cooking, Ultracontrary Veganitiulismist, although the owner of the Hungry Hungry H.Erectus would hate me for even thinking that he was simply filling a niche in the fad market.

"No, your talking through your arse, completely, and if you print that, I will come after your family and slaughter them like the flotsam that they appear to be", John Dolmades, the resturant/bars owner said later while sipping on a yard glass of tuna schnapps.

Joh is probably best remembered for opening The, a minimalist establishment, which appeared to be neither a bar, as it served no drinks, nor a restaurant, as it served no food, nor an inhabitable building, as it had neither doors not windows.

"I learnt a lot from that experience, how to, you no, keep up the buzz, how to maintain a high standard of service and produce, but as you would know my partners and I ultimately lost a great deal of money, and time. We recruited the best staff possible at the time and then bricked them into the building for all eternity, well you can imagine our shock to discover that this was not covered under workcare, or the declaration of human rights. We were just so committed to our ideal of excellence, that we were accused of fanaticism, but as I say you live, you learn."

"Unlike your staff", I playfully venture.

"Yes", Joh reply's, "But they were professionals to the end. Even when we realised our biggest mistake in having no way for the customers to enter, and that did seem the most pressing of our faults, and we were forced to close the ummm, mmmm doors, so's to speak, we could still hear a few of them calling out the specials of the day."

I had just recounted to Joh my first impressions of visiting The, of my savage write up the next day, pinpointing what I saw as the inevitable teething problems associated with opening such a minimalist establishment in the harsh world of Melbourne fine dinning.

"O'god I can remember picking up the epicure that morning an despatching Tui, my islander minder to break you legs, he just shattered your hip with an iron bar, didn't he?"

We both had a good laugh over those strained memories, for I am here to declare that while Hungry Hungry H.Erectus, may be the first and only Ultracontrary Veganitiulismist restaurant, it will go a long way to convince people that the other white meat is indeed a unique and pleasurable one. My partner and I started with Moreton bay hippy consume, a rich steaming broth flecked with rivulets of pure mercury which darted about on the end of our spoons, a visual treat and the aroma of the broth bespoke the care and freshness of the hippy.

Seven other entrees are on the list, from a gratin of indigent to an almost vegetarian version of the classic Italian dish vermotti, a complex custard whose base ingredient is postage stamps.

Our soup was served in a tureen of pure nickel oxide and magnesium, stunning visually, and yet its white hot glowing surface gave my partner second degree burns over a moderate proportion on his upper body, for which I deducted a mark from the final score.

While my partner was having an emergency skin graft, I perused the wine list, smallish and yet all the wines were well chosen for their interest and compatibility with the food. Ranging in price from $22.50 for a bottle of 1998 Stalks, a white made entirely from the discards of the initial fermentation, a little to woody for my taste, certainly, to $798.50 for a 1923 magnum of Tattingers infamous Moulin Goatspit, an wine made to honour the late Madame Tattingers passing. An interesting choice as the winemaker at Tattinger had despised M.Tattinger so much that he drowned her prize angoras in a vat of rotting pressings and served it at her funeral, needless to say my budget didn't stretch to that little luxury tonight, maybe for that special occasion, who knows.

Our mains arrived just as my partner passed out from shock, my Dewberry Missingperson, was a treat, a large haunch baked to perfection, just slightly charred on the outside, whilst being perfectly pink and moist on the inside, sitting on a bed of tuna wasabi mash and a pool of kiwi jus. Nothing prepared me for my first taste of human flesh, tender, moist, baked to perfection, the scent of cardamom, the hint of Vietnamese mint, while I was expecting a gamey flavour, I was pleasantly surprised by just how mild the meat was, it seemed well able to absorb and integrate the heady house marinade. I must say the dish was a triumph for the kitchen, my partner who had ordered one of the three specials available on the board, a confit of duck in sphagnum moss, was less complimentary, but felt that with more feeling in his face, and less gauze, he may well have enjoyed the limp grey moss, but just felt that a touch more care in the kitchen to clean some of the dirt and grit, would have seen a bit more praise on his part.

I laughed a little at his pedantic foolish ways and declared that he never ordered a decent dish and probably wouldn't know what food was if it were on the end of a fork and stuck into his eye.
Our choice of wine, recommended by Joh himself, complimented the haunch beautifully, a cheeky rose' from one of the yara valleys more reclusive winereries, Goawayndie Vineyards, slightly spritzig, its nose an riot of earthy gamey, almost rancid, camel fat aromas with just the hint of strawberries, its crisp acidic backbone and ph of 11, made for some interesting murmuring from my partner, no doubt surprised by the ease with which the wine ate away much of his tongue and throat.

We skipped desert in favour of a biscuit and juice at the emergency ward, but having seen pass by a magnificent looking chocolate echidna parfait and an equally as mouth-watering bowl of candied sheep's eyelids in a rosehip syrup, I can only say if the visual appeal is any indication of the flavours, then really, do save some room by not filling up on the house baked bread.

While much could be made of my taking two points of for the incredibly shoddy, seedy interior, with its cracked walls, peeling wallpaper and occasional stray dog sniffing around your feet, I can heartily recommend hungry Hungry H.Erectus for its innovation and the skill of the chef in bringing to Melbourne's fine diners, Ultracontrary Veganitiulismist, and doing it in style, the other white meat truly does deserve its place in our lexicon of dining experiences, its not just a another flash in the pan fad (does anyone remember ovenroasted turtles, on everyone's menu last year, but now where is it?).

score: 16.5 / 20

decor: ambient trash with a hint of dayglo

staff: professional but extremely defensive when confronted with a knife

style: modern Turkish with Armenian genocide undertones, but with its eye firmly on the hopelessness of a future introduction to the European union

cost: around $70 for three courses plus bail

Roundup: don't go for the decore, its truly awful, rarely has an abandoned cadmium processing plant look quite this bad, but you must go for the experience of finally trying the other white meat, beautifully prepared by a very professional kitchen.