#I know some people object to putting salt in dessert bakes but it *is* important here

[threewaysdivided]

Chocolate Sapote Pie

Hey 3WD, why are you making a vegan, gluten-free, no-processed-sugar dessert?  Well, you see, I have friends with many, many allergies and felt like a challenge.

This recipe is an experiment with Black Sapote (also called Chocolate Pudding Fruit) – a seasonal persimmon relative that’s high in Vitamin C and has a pudding-like flesh with mild chocolate and caramel notes.  While limited availability of Sapotes means it’s not as accessible as something like Chocolate Avocado Pie, it’s a fun thing to play with if you like poking around with the weird fruit section of produce markets (as a bonus, Black Sapotes were selling for $1-2 per fruit both times I visited).

Let's get cooking:

Kitchen equipment

Blender/food processor

Beaters (hand-crank or electric)

20cm (8 inch) springform cake tin

Baking/ Greaseproof paper

Fridge & Oven

Fine mesh sieve (or tea strainer)

Mixing bowls, spatula, knives, spoons etc.

Prep-time

Bench work: approx. 40 minutes

Oven time: approx. 30 minutes

Cooling time: approx. 2-3 hours (minimum)

Coconut cream chill time:  12 hours (minimum)*

*Coconut cream needs to be refrigerated for 12 hours in order to separate properly before whipping.  Put your cream in the fridge the night before.

Ingredients

Pie crust

300g (10.5 Oz) pecans

4 large medjool dates (seeds removed, roughly chopped)

1 tsp salt

4 tbsp (approx. 60g/ 2 Oz) margarine, melted

Filling

2 large, ripe Black Sapotes*

1/2 cup (125mL) cocoa powder

4 large medjool dates (seeds removed, roughly chopped)

1/2 tsp salt

1 tsp espresso powder

1 tsp vanilla extract

*Black Sapotes are ripe when the skin has darkened to a dull green-brown and the fruit is very soft to the touch (it will look and feel over-ripe).

Topping

One 400mL (13.5 Fl Oz) can high-quality full-fat coconut cream*

1/2 tsp salt

1 tsp vanilla extract

Approx. 80g (3 Oz) pecans, toasted** and crumbled

Cocoa powder for dusting

*Use a premium quality coconut cream – the difference in price is very small and cheaper creams may not separate properly, which will stop them from whipping up. **Toast pecans by baking in a preheated 140°C/248°F (fan forced) oven for 15-30 minutes until done to your liking. 

Instructions

Pie crust (Inspiration recipe)

Preheat oven to 180°C/350°F (fan forced).

Line the base and sides of the spring form pan with baking paper.  (Try to minimise wrinkles/folds in the paper lining – this will make it easier to remove the crust later.)

Place chopped dates, pecans and salt into a blender.  Blend until the mixture has the texture of breadcrumbs/ almond meal.

Stream in melted margarine and blend until completely combined (crumbs should stick together when pressed)

Press mixture into a firm, even layer across the base and up the sides of the spring form tin, using clean hands or the back of a spoon to smooth down.

Bake for 10-12 minutes or until the crust begins to brown.  (Watch closely after the 8-minute mark to prevent burning).

Remove from oven. If the crust has puffed up, press back down using the back of a spoon. (Tip: use a toothpick or fork to gently pop any large air-pockets in the base.)

Cool on a wire rack or heat-safe cutting board until the crust reaches room temperature.

Filling (Inspiration recipe)

Preheat oven to 180°C/350°F (fan forced).

Cut open the Black Sapotes.  Remove the seeds and scoop/scrape the flesh out with a spoon. (Note: because Black Sapote skin is very thin and soft when ripe, it cannot be traditionally peeled.)

Transfer one quarter of the fruit flesh to a blender, along with the chopped dates.  Process until completely smooth.

Transfer the sweetened sapote mixture into a bowl alongside the remaining sapote flesh.  Mix until completely combined (use your spoon or spatula to break down any lumps or fibers in the fruit flesh).

Fold in the cocoa powder, expresso powder, vanilla and salt until completely combined.  Taste for flavouring and adjust with more cocoa/vanilla/espresso/salt as desired.  (Note:  adding cocoa will increase the bitterness of the filling alongside the chocolate-y flavour.  This can be hard to counteract without adding sugar or blending in more dates so be careful how much you add at once.)

Transfer filling into your pre-prepared pecan crust.  Smooth the top with a spoon or spatula.

Bake for 20 minutes or until the filling is lightly firm to the touch.

Cool completely on a wire rack or heat-safe cutting board, then cover and transfer to the fridge until chilled through.

Cream Topping (Inspiration recipe)

Chill coconut cream for at least 12 hours.

Remove coconut cream from the fridge (Note:  DO NOT Shake).

Use a spoon to scoop out the thick cream that has risen to the top, leaving the watery parts behind.  (The more water is in your cream, the less firmly it will whip).  Transfer the thick cream to a bowl.  (Tip: have an extra jar of chilled cream on hand in case the cream yield from the first tin is low)

Add the vanilla and salt to the cream. Stir through, then taste test and adjust the vanilla/salt as needed. (Note: Like with plain dairy cream, this should taste more neutral than sweet).

Beat your cream, starting on a slow speed.  Gradually increase speed until whipped to thick, semi-stiff peaks. (Tip: if your cream is very soft to start with, try covering and chilling in the refrigerator to help it firm up.)

Remove the chilled sapote tart from the spring form pan. (Optional:  If the sides of your pecan crust are much taller than your filling, you can use a pair of clean, sharp kitchen scissors to trim it down.  Use a clean hand to shield the pie filling from any falling crust-crumbs).

Spoon the whipped cream onto the sapote filling, using the back of the spoon to make decorative swirls.  (Optional: use a piping bag with a decorative nozzle for a fancier top).

Sprinkle the cream with crumbled pecans.  Dust with cocoa powder using a fine sieve or tea-strainer.  (Note: Add the nuts first - otherwise the cocoa powder will prevent them from sticking to the cream, causing them to roll everywhere when the pie is cut).

Return to the fridge until the coconut cream is completely chilled.

Serve.

[phrynewrites]

hi me again with yet another prompt ! how about scyvie + sharing a dessert ? 💖

It’s a lovely day for some scyvie, isn’t it? Sorry for the delay; I took a little vacation but I’m (hopefully on my way) back and ready to put out some more drabbles! Here’s a little non-au piece for ya nerves.

 “Now I got a new segment called Teach the Children, Honey.” Shuga gestured to the camera, eyes wide and bright. “Where I hand a new baker a recipe and don’t teach them shit.” She broke into laughs before calling Scarlet and Yvie onto the set, walking off as they entered and took her place behind the counter.

 Shuga let out a low laugh and a child at the sight of Yvie in her chef outfit, complete with a curled mustache and an oversized spatula stuck in her apron, followed by Scarlet, who clearly only got the brief five minutes ago, as she showed up in a red sequined gown topped with a wrinkled, simple floral apron, which was most likely provided for her.

The two bounced about on the set, whispering between one another, poking fun, obviously excited by the idea of baking, though they both expressed little to no actual knowledge of baking beyond the time they made box-mix brownies for Nina’s birthday and tried to make pot-brownies using a wikihow tutorial, ending up with Nina stoned on her birthday, crying about how much she loved all her friends.

Still, they were finally together on a show and close enough to new bakers, and the excitement ran through the air like an electric current, threatening to spark at any moment. 

“Okay, so the deal is y’all just read out the contents of the card on the counter,” Shuga explained, pointing vaguely in front of her, watching Scarlet and Yvie wander around the kitchen set before finding the card, which was sat on the countertop all along. “And then you try to follow it.”

“Okay…” Yvie said, stare fixed on the card, but Scarlet was faster, holding Yvie back with a stiletto-nailed hand against her chest, snatching the card.

Scarlet turned the card about, surely not reading it properly. “Ooh, a card, I wonder what it could be?” she drawled out, eyes wide, playing it up for the camera.

“Is it a clue or something? Do we have to solve it?” Yvie played along.

Scarlet handed the card to Yvie. “I don’t know. Maybe—”

“It’s just a recipe. The audience isn’t involved,” Shuga turned back in her chair, shouting at the production crew behind her. “Did no one tell them what they were doing?”

Scarlet formed a little “o” with her mouth, nodding along as though this were new information.

“I think they did, but we kinda just—”

“Stopped paying attention.” Scarlet completed the line, flashing a glance up at Yvie, who met her with a slick smirk.

“Yeah.”

“Jesus, you two kids.” Shuga rolled her eyes. “Just follow the recipe as best you can. You don’t got to explain the whole premise, the audience knows what it’s all about, so just go through the steps.”

“Okay so we should switch spots. I wanna work with my left hand,” Scarlet explained, moving around Yvie and taking her other hand.

“Right, so now we can begin.” Yvie agreed, intertwining their fingers, holding up the recipe card, allowing Scarlet to read along with her. “I think we should get all the ingredients first.”

“You’re so good at this.” Scarlet couldn’t help but grin, using her free hand to pull her apron up over the low cut of her dress. “Gotta cover my boobs. Keep it PG for the children,” Scarlet imitated Shuga, wiggling her brows as she spoke.

This was, of course, met with a throaty cackle from Yvie, and when her laughter died down, she let out a final chuckle and an endeared you’re stupid 

Scarlet stuck her tongue out at Yvie, pulling her toward the pantry to gather the dry ingredients, then over to the refrigerator to gather the wet ingredients.

Shuga, seeing their joined hands and reading Scarlet’s assumption that this was somehow a partner baking challenge, which wouldn’t seem off the mark because the two were clearly paying more attention to each other than the briefing, decided to hold her tongue, letting them believe this was a partner challenge and not just two people baking brownies from scratch.

With the ingredients in place and Scarlet’s reassuring announcement that “baking is like chemistry and Yvie’s my chemistry lady so we’re gonna win this,” before revealing that neither of them were ever any good at actual chemistry, they began the baking process.

The baking process included Shuga’s objection to the following:

Yvie beginning by dumping flour straight from the bag into the mixing bowl after Scarlet said she was getting bored of measuring. The flour splashed up, coating both of them in the white powder, the two in turn coating the room in giggles while trying to brush the flour off of one another and getting a tad too touchy.

Scarlet breaking an egg with one hand, resulting in little pieces of shell falling into the mix, which then resulted in her using her nails to try and scoop them out before resigning, allowing the shells to remain in the batter. They tried to break the next egg together, with both their free hands, but it still ended with Scarlet sticking her nail through the egg and more shell in the batter.

Yvie reassuring Scarlet that the shell added an extra crunch.

Yvie adding milk to the brownie batter until it was, as Scarlet put it, soup wet, followed by Yvie nodding and adding the rest of the jug of milk to the mixture, as though soup wet were a term that made sense.

Scarlet seeing that they now had too much batter, going back to the pantry, grabbing the corn starch, and pouring some in to make it more of a thick soup wet, like, chowder wet, which again, Yvie somehow understood perfectly.  

Yvie adding a third of a cup of salt to the brownie batter, because two tablespoons didn’t feel sufficient now that they had all this batter.

A quick break to make out against the flour and milk covered countertop while the oven was preheating, and the cameras were resetting around the oven.

Yvie’s now askew mustache, which Scarlet had to reach up to fix, along with removing some of her red lipstick transfer from Yvie’s face, unable to repress the burning hot flush that came to her cheeks.

And of course, the brownies they managed to produce, or whatever this underbaked, gray-brown dessert was.

“Behold!” Yvie raised the tray, the brownies threatening to spill over the edge.

“It’s beautiful,” Scarlet mused, resting her chin in her hands, barely even paying the brownies a passing glance.

The brownies were not beautiful. In fact, it more of a wet slop inside a metal tray than anything close to brownies.

“I kind of feel like I’m in the lion king, ya know?”

“Put it down, Yvie,” Shuga called from her chair on set, throwing her head back in exhaustion. She hadn’t anticipated that it would take two hours to make a poor excuse for brownies, or that she would have to keep them from burning themselves with hot, under-baked, sopping wet brownies, and frankly, she was growing tired.

“Here, try it.” Scarlet scooped a bit out with a spoon, blew on it in vain, trying to cool it down, and offered the dessert to Yvie, who took it gladly before spitting it out seconds after it touched her mouth.

Shuga couldn’t hold back a laugh.

“Was it too hot?” Scarlet dropped the spoon in concern.

“No.” Yvie turned to grab a glass and fill it with water, gulping it down rapidly. “They were…just try it.” She offered a spoonful to Scarlet.

Scarlet swallowed the brownie, as though it were heavy and offending, like she was being asked to stomach lead. “Oh God, what was that?”

Yvie held the water cup out to her. “Fuck if I know, we followed the recipe, right? At least, you know, the important parts.”

“Maybe if Shuga tries it, she can tell us what went wrong.” Scarlet shrugged, turning around to look for the older queen, only to find that her chair was empty and her dressing room door clicking shut, Shuga’s laugh still hanging in the air and a faint, drawled out girl trailing behind her.

Scarlet held her hands out in surrender, leaning against Yvie, her head resting on her chest “Well, we gave it a try, right?” She pulled her focus away from the brownies and up toward Yvie.

“Of course.” Yvie leaned down, placing a kiss on Scarlet’s forehead. “It was a great try.”

“I guess third time’s not the charm, though.”

[merzelifestyle]

Keep It Simple: An EASY Menu For Your Open House

Who has the time to make a great meal and entertain a large group of people at an event in your home? I know I don’t!

I love hosting parties but to be completely honest, in the past, I often made more work for myself than needed. I always stress over my dinner because I thought that cooking an amazing meal for my guests would require much added effort. It has always been just that important to me, but these days, my meals must be both quick to make and delicious when entertaining.

""Simplicity is the keynote of all true elegance.""  -- Coco Chanel

OK, so let’s talk food first!

After many years of entertaining, I have come up with a few easy tips on what to serve. I have found that it isn’t quantity that matters but quality of the dish. I now serve one or two meats or a combination of meat and fish, one or two vegetables, a starch and lastly a green salad. That’s all!

the meal you serve should always depend on who your guests are. If you have children coming to your home, it may be wise to serve them some mac n cheese or simple pasta with a butter sauce. But, if you have all adults and you are having an open house with chafing dishes, food such as a roast beef tenderloin would be a great option. It is easy to make and quick. Really!

Of course, if you have vegetarians or vegan guests, you should always try to accommodate them as well. There is nothing worst then having a guest leave your home hungry because what you served isn’t on their diet. Believe me, it happens!

Tip: It is always so important to know what the diet restrictions are for those who are coming to your home for dinner. As an example, I have friends who have severe Celiac Disease, are lactose intolerant and who are allergic to nuts. Yes, at times they all come to my house at once and I must take all their dietary restrictions into consideration when planning my meal.

I rarely serve a dish with cream sauce. Why? Although many people love them, so many more either can’t eat it or prefer a healthier option. I can’t eat cream anything and so, in my house we omit those dishes.

So, how do I combat the need for a richer dish? I add a deeply rich and flavorful sauce like a yummy bordelaise or bearnaise sauce. I will add some on top of my roast when I serve it and have some additional sauce on the side for those who want more. This year I added a bordelaise sauce to my beef tenderloin that was super delicious and made from a deeply full-bodied red wine.

Hint: Did you know that you can often find these sauces already made and ready to serve especially during the holidays? Some are so good that you really shouldn’t make it yourself. This expedites your meal plan and you are no worst for buying it. Just a thought! I have done that a few times myself and it saved me so much time.

Here’s the menu I created for my last open house

Looks easy doesn’t it?

Beef Tenderloin with Bordelaise Sauce

Baked Ham with PINEAPPLE and Maraschino Cherry’s

Roasted Red, Yellow and Purple potatoes cooked in olive oil, garlic and rosemary

Green Beans with Almonds and Lemon Butter Sauce

Bow-tie Pasta with Home Made Wine Infused Pomodoro Sauce

Arugula Salad with Strawberry’s, Pistachios and Roughly Graded Parmesan Cheese. (strawberry dressing on the side)

Rolls and butter

Each dish was amazingly easy to make and quick! Together, the meal looks appealing and was perfect for addressing all the food groups,

Hint: When planning your meal, look for a combination of colorful vegetables that you can serve together. Here, I used multiple colored potatoes as well as vibrant green’s and reds in the other dishes. It looks visually appetizing to the eye. Use herbs such as rosemary or parsley to garnish your dishes. It’s just one more layer that is so important in the presentation of a meal. It’s really designing for the senses.

DID YOU KNOW THAT A BEEF TENDERLOIN IS THE NAME OF THE LARGE CUT OF BEEF BEFORE IT IS SLICED INTO STEAK? ONCE IT IS CUT INTO STEAKS, THOSE STEAKS ARE KNOWN BY THE FRENCH NAME,"FILET MIGNON. IN FRENCH, THIS CUT IS ALWAYS CALLED FILET DE BŒUF.  

How to make Beef Tenderloin for your Holiday party?

Beef Tenderloin Roast and Bordelaise Sauce

This recipe is from the William and Sonoma Website.

Click Here> Beef Tenderloin and Bordelaise Sauce

Prepping the tenderloin is really very easy. I purchased a tenderloin that already was prepared for the oven and so it was a breeze. I also added sprigs of rosemary, thyme, sea salt and pepper.

I used a Stainless-Steel Roasting Pan with a rack so that the roast could cook evenly, and the dripping could be captured at the bottom.

How Long to Cook Beef Tenderloin Roasts?

Follow your recipe for roasting methods however, this is generalized for temperature, weight and time.

For roasts that are 2 to 3 pounds, roast at 425°F for 35 to 40 minutes for medium rare, and 45 to 50 minutes for medium done.

For tenderloin roasts weighing 4 to 5 pounds, roast at 425°F for 50 to 60 minutes for medium rare, and 60 to 70 minutes for medium.

The best way to know you’re cooking beef tenderloin to the desired doneness is to use a meat thermometer. Insert an oven-going meat thermometer into the thickest part of the roast. When the thermometer reads 135°F, your roast will be medium rare; when it reads 150°F, your tenderloin will be medium.

Now, A little on design!

When setting up an open house, be sure that the flow from one room to another is not obstructed. Place your buffet, open bar, and desserts in places where they are easily ACCESSIBLE to your guests but not in the way of traffic.

Place flowers where you know guests will venture such as the living room, dining room, kitchen and even a small bouquet in the bathroom.

I love scattering small candles of all kinds around as well because it sets the mood for a dreamy environment but, be careful of little ones. If you have children at your open house, you are better off not having them at all or putting battery operated ones in place of the real candles.

Tip: As with everything, children should always be considered when you have them at your home. Open flames, alcohol, sharp objects, flowers…all should be considered. I once catered an event where a child was walking around eating the flowers, we used for decorating our cheese patters. Thank goodness they were edible. By the time anyone noticed, she had eaten at least a few orchids. This same child had her hands in the chocolate fondue all day long….I mean both hands…oh she loved chocolate! I was thankful that the chocolate wasn’t hot enough where she would have burnt herself. All lessons learned!

My hope is that these little tidbits of event planning and styling are helpful in your next party. The menu is really very simple and can be done either the day of or before a party. It’s totally up to you.

As with everything I post on my blogs, please feel free to comment or if you have any questions, please email me through my contact page. I welcome it anytime!

Happy entertaining my friends!

Mary

[pleasedontbelame]

Medium Bloody Well

Published in · Talent Implied 2016 Author · Pablo Tognetti Editor · Aaron Chapman

Public holiday. Australia Day. I still don’t know what it means. Maybe they’re celebrating the day they gained independence from Great Britain. Maybe they’re celebrating being part of the Commonwealth or maybe they’re celebrating not having that ugly, foggy British weather. Something like that. A public holiday that doesn’t allow us to breathe properly. The heat making love to the humidity and vice versa. A second hand orgy. Every tiny movement makes me sweat. Not moving makes me sweat as well. The seven-minute walk from the tram to the restaurant becomes an agitating adventure.

        Today I have a big section to take care of. Two round tables of seven people, two standard tables of four people and two big tables of eight people each. An impossible section on a busy night for one human being but it’s lunchtime and we don’t expect so many guests. Maybe eating Italian isn’t the most patriotic way to spend Australia Day.

Slowly the guests start building an imaginary line next to the entrance. Punctual and here punctual means arriving before your booking. In my South American homeland punctuality is a word that tends to be more lax and senseless. Arriving late isn’t a sin.

I pretend I’m busy while waiting for our part-time model/hostess to seat guests at one of my tables. I check the stations where we keep side plates, wine glasses, entrée and main cutlery, dessert and minuscule teaspoons, Tabasco, share plates and everything else we need to reset tables in a wink. I know they’re in order. Checked them ten minutes ago but I do anyway because pretending you’re busy is always a wise strategy. Always.

        Before feeling useless I decide to help a friend with a demanding table. Not because I want employee of the month, just because a gorgeous brunette has caught my attention. Unexpectedly five Asians march to one of my round tables. Maybe a family. One of them acts and looks like the big brother and the other three are around fourteen years old. Undefined sexualities. I welcome them and they choose how and where they’re going to sit. Every table always has a leader. Mark my words. As a waiter, I need to identify that leader as soon as possible because they’ll be the key figure, the sensei. The big brother assumes the role quickly pointing at the menu. The family beside him absorbed by the Milky Way and its gravitational emptiness.

Usually Asian people tend to share plates. That means all the different dishes are displayed in the centre of the table. ‘As it comes,’ they say. And they don’t mind using those side plates for their meals. They grab a bit from here and a bit from there. Everything is going to end up on those unpleasant, tiny plates. A plate that will become art by the end of the meal. They tend to eat everything at the same time: pizza, pasta, salads, sides, desserts. They don’t divide the meal into sections or give a shit about the concepts of entrée, mains or desserts. It’s all part of the moment where they fight fiercely to put food on their tiny plates. I only need three moments of interaction with Asian tables. Tap their order into the system. Run the food. Print the bill. Ciao. All while smiling occasionally.

Cucina Vivo doesn’t want to be Hungry Jack’s. That’s why guests wait for their orders. To wait, such a lovely and charming concept but not everyone can embrace the idea. Waiting gives my Asian family time to connect with each other. Time to interact and feel alive. Time they use to check their phones, getting lost in those shallow screens. Five humans. Five phones. Each of them trapped in their own galaxy, for endless minutes. Makes me feel uncomfortable even though I’m not sitting there. At times they shyly stare because they want to know how long the food is going to take. They expect me to understand that silent look. Want me to approach the table and say the food is coming. And it’s always coming. I’ve learnt never to give any kind of specification about time. Never measure time unless you want to end up going wild and punching a guest. If you do, guests will constantly watch their watches. We don’t want that. Always guarantee the food is coming or being plated. No one is actually going to check if you’re lying or not. In this particular case I don’t approach the table to give them a meal status. Asians tend to be patient and in general don’t complain. I let them be.

While pouring the red sparkling Moscato bottle I realise one of the underage kids is not actually underage. All the food starts to appear at the same time. One pizza margherita, one pizza cicca, two spaghetti carbonara, one gnocchi, one fettuccine bolognese, one cape grim, one Caesar salad and one arugula e pere salad. I glimpse arms moving from one place to another. Deep silences. Mystical concentration. No smiles. Side plates full of food suddenly empty and then full again. And again. Different aromas fighting to be the protagonist. Art. Louvre. Bill please. ‘Would you like a copy?’ Ciao and one final lesson, apparently the word tip doesn’t have a fucking translation.

Worst-case scenario working at an Italian restaurant is taking care of Italian guests. It doesn’t matter which city they come from, which latitude and longitude, they’re going to stab your patience to death. Maybe, as an Argentinian, I can identify with that sort of annoying attitude. Most of the time we don’t realise we’re tiring customers. Sometimes we’re rude and impolite, even when we’re asking for salt and pepper.

        The first thing I learnt from Italians is that the menu is an item without any sort of value. Or sense. Or utility. The menu’s existence is ephemeral simply because Italians are going to ask for something that hasn’t been printed on it. A printed menu means the executive chef went through infinite alternatives before having the final version in his hands. Endless hours of trial and error blending different ingredients, recipes and always keeping in mind the restaurant celebrates Mediterranean cuisine. All effort is put on hold with Italians.

‘Pablo, the chefs are Italian right?’ Roberto, the head of the table asks me while sipping his white pussy wine – this is why he abandoned Rome. Classic question. I pretend to pay attention. My eyes wander around my section. Busy night at the restaurant and Roberto is having dinner with a stunning sculptural blonde. I don’t dare ask if she’s his wife, lover or escort.

‘Of course they’re Italian my friend.’ The truth is not all of them have the same passport. Just a few are Italian. My answer aims to comfort him. Roberto and his sex worker are going to have the pizza of the day, the four smelliest cheeses I’m able to sell. It would be wonderful if Italians could comprehend that Cucina Vivo is a restaurant and not their grandma’s house. That house where you just open the cupboard and find whatever you’re looking for. If you need parmigiano from a small fishing town with a picturesque sea view, it’s going to be in that cupboard. If you need black olives which rested in a gloomy humid corner for nine years, they’re going to be in that cupboard too. And if you need more rainy-season Vietnamese chilli, you’re also going to find it in the bloody cupboard but you’re not going to find grandma’s cupboard in every single restaurant you decide to visit. The food offerings are limited. A concept Italians don’t understand. Or maybe they don’t care at all. Everything involves technical specifications with them.

I like when food becomes an important issue. I love food and consider myself a non-professional critic. Most of the time I just want Italians to understand they’re not architects. They’re not designing the next mansion for a Saudi Arabian sultan. They’re just having a meal, in a restaurant, on the Gold Coast. If the mozzarella is not buffalo mozzarella, I can assure you that you’ll survive. The planet will continue in its regular rotational and translational motion. You’re not taking a blind walk through a minefield. You’re just trying to eat a bloody pizza. Roberto seems to be loving his pizza but he complains about some burned spots and because it’s not as ‘foggy’ as it should be. Two objections is a humble victory.

        Italians are emotional and definitely cool. Certainly not all of them. But their loud voices and excessive body language make me feel at home. When they figure out I’m Argentinian we’re going to talk about football, Maradona, Messi and who the best football player in recent history is. Sometimes they just cross themselves, look up to the sky and thank me for Maradona, ‘the hand of God’ and the fact of his existence.

        By the way, there’s one similitude Italians and Asians share, they’re not familiar with the tip. Roberto thanks me for my service and gives me a friendly hug. I kiss the blonde girl in slow motion and walk them to the entrance. My manager gives me a wink and screams in Italian, ‘Gorgeous ass!’ I laugh. Roberto turns back. I pretend to look confused resetting the table.

One of the things I miss from my land, with all my heart, is what we call merienda. I still can’t find an exact translation. It could mean snack, night tea or picnic. But neither represents the real concept. Basically it’s a light meal between five and seven in the afternoon where we have coffee with croissants. If you’re brave enough you’ll have that croissant with ham and melted cheese. Or maybe fresh orange juice with some sort of recently baked pastry. Or a hot chocolate with churros con dulce de leche, similar to the Spanish churro but filled with extra sweet condensed milk.

That’s why we have dinner around ten. All of us familiar with the merienda lifestyle now feel as though something is missing in our existence. Now I understand why guests arrive so early to have dinner at Cucina Vivo. Simply because they’re starving by seven. Merienda doesn’t exist and dinner is the replacement. During the week our kitchen closes at nine and just the pizza oven remains open till ten. I always hear the chef complaining and cursing.

One night, the lady with the hat is the last guest to walk into the restaurant. I wouldn’t say the lady with the hat is actually wearing a hat. I would say she’s wearing a beret, Parisian style. The lady with the beret smiles and contemplates her surroundings. She grabs the menu with total confidence. Most of the time guests drown in the menu, holding it as they would a quantum mechanics book. Quite funny and stupid at the same time. But that’s not the case with the lady with the beret. She closes the menu and waits. I slowly walk to the table. Before opening my mouth, she glances at my name badge and asks, ‘Pablo, which red wine do you recommend?’

I feel like giving her a standing ovation. I remain silent and rush to the bartender Diego, asking him to pour me a sample of Peppoli. My favourite Italian red wine from the Chianti region. Viscous. Spicy. Opaque. Tastes like wet dirt. An excellent blend with pasta or steak. After the first sip the lady with the beret salutes me asking for a bottle. Now I own her trust and dinner and bill. I tap into the system. Antipasto and calamari fritti for entrée. Filetto di manzo and polpette di pollo for mains. Tiramisu to share for dessert.

       The lady is married. Both work in the development of new hotels around the world. In other words they’ve lived in France, Belgium, Peru, Vietnam and Kenya, among other countries I can’t remember. Sixteen years ago the lady with the beret adopted a baby in the Philippines. That grown up baby is now sitting next to her fighting with the calamari.

Listening to these kinds of life stories is music to my ears. Good music. I’m not talking about Taylor Swift or Beyoncé. I’m talking about a John Coltrane, an Albert King, a Jim Morrison.

        Sometimes I believe I have a good eye. Sounds raw but I really feel that way. Once I read Malcolm Gladwell’s book Blink, a wise American writer with an afro who invites us to trust more in our first impressions. Since childhood we’re told a completely different story. But after reading that book I felt more confident listening to my first impressions. To my feelings. Especially when I meet a person for the first time and maybe the last. I feel the woman with the beret is special. Actually she is. While pushing the last bite into her mouth, she moans and theatrically grabs her daughter’s shoulder pretending she needs medical attention.

The night slowly fades away and I’m hanging out at the bar. Just chilling next to a stunning vintage coffee machine. I make eye contact with the lady, her right hand giving me the international sign for an espresso.

‘Diego, a short black from the house please. Strong.’

The tiramisu appears from the kitchen and goes straight to the table. With a surprising timing the espresso is ready too. She gives me the scuba diving sign for ok.

‘What’re your plans after Australia?’ She has assumed I’m not staying. Accurate.

After a long pause, I fire back, ‘Japan is waiting for me.’

She steals my notepad and pen. ‘Come back in ten minutes,’ she both whispers and commands staring at the small canvas. She unleashes the ink.

      The lady with the beret and her daughter are one of the last tables in the restaurant. They seem to enjoy each other’s company. They enjoy food. They enjoy being there. They enjoy without end. When I clear their table I find a juicy tip inside my notepad and handwritten in the bottom “The only people for me are the mad ones. Be mad.”