My partially broken Blackberry rings. A victim of one too many accidental drops, answering it requires a delicate balancing act of holding it horizontally to my ear so that the trackball doesn’t fall out. This means my neck is bent to the right and my head is now lying pillow-like on my shoulder. Yes, it’s as uncomfortable as it sounds. Especially when you’re driving.
It’s dark, I’m not sure where I’m going, and I’m running late. And the Husband is calling.
“You on track to get here” he asks in his pleasant, easy-going, I’m-already-here-so-I’m-comfortable-and-relaxed voice, “I don’t think they’re here yet so I’m at the bar next door having a beer”. The lights turn green, I need to turn right, there is Friday night traffic backed up behind me. Irritably I snap that I’m not far away and (as the Husband keeps reminding me) rudely hang up, almost losing the trackball in the process. The Husband’s timing can, on occasion be atrocious.
Add to this my previous boo-boo of almost making a right-hand turn the wrong way down a busy one-way street. Not my fault. It was very dark and very hectic and might I add, poorly sign-posted. Got that, Clover Moore*? Better signage, please.
Miraculously I score a car park practically within a metre of the front door to the restaurant. Not that I realise my good fortune yet because at the time of parking the car I am still lost. I know the restaurant is somewhere in the vicinity (and had I thought to look up I might have even seen the sign) but other than that, I could’ve been anywhere really at the King’s Cross end of Darlinghurst’s busy Victoria Street.
Because my friends (who we’ll call The Randies**) are meticulous, careful, thoughtful, detailed individuals they have considerately, after much time and trouble, booked a restaurant called Spice I Am. I've spent a bit of time thinking about this name and I've come up with this: if you say it quickly in one breath - SpiceIam - it sounds a bit like Spy Siam and of course as everyone knows Siam was re-named Thailand in 1939 and it's a Thai restaurant. Voila!! Clearly a witty play on words. Not much gets past me.
A spin-off to the original highly successful but more casual diner located in Surry Hills, this latest establishment is a classy, dimly-lit affair with dark wooden floorboards, exposed brick work and a heavenly assault of exotic spicy Thai aromas emanating from the open kitchen. It excites the senses from the moment you enter.
A spin-off to the original highly successful but more casual diner located in Surry Hills, this latest establishment is a classy, dimly-lit affair with dark wooden floorboards, exposed brick work and a heavenly assault of exotic spicy Thai aromas emanating from the open kitchen. It excites the senses from the moment you enter.
A tiny little delicate-limbed Thai hostess attempts to welcome us however I’ve already spotted The Randies (who according to the Husband were apparently not yet here so how they snuck in without being noticed, I do not know) and scurry across to greet them. As usual, they both look fabulous. Tidy, neat, smart, stylish – and since I feel I can rightfully claim to have had a hand in it – glowing with fitness and shining with good health. And it has to be said, wearing the best smiles I’ve seen on two faces since the Husband’s own beamed at me with full wattage right back when he was just a bloke in a bar.
I have a suspicion The Randies might be Planners. I say this because these dinner arrangements were made over a month ago which is rare for me, I know. From The Randies careful scheduling I can glean they must be very popular with an active, demanding social life which, much like the Brother’s Wife, is diarised to minute-by-minute precision. The Brother’s Wife has in the past been known to provide availability for catch-ups in timeslots of 2.30-3.30pm on a Saturday three and a half weeks ahead of time. There is no such thing as the whimsical Drop-In at the Brother’s house.
Me? I generally don’t even book holidays that far in advance.
Here's an example. Recent evening plans changed dramatically in the space of a 5.06pm text. I was all set to watch Gary give the MasterChef Master Class on how to make a Chocolate Marquise with Mascarpone Cream and Pedro Jimenez Poached Plums from the cosiness of my gas-heated home while feasting on an antipasto collection of Italian delicacies from Norton Street Grocer washed down with a spot of red when cousin Wilma’s text shrilled, demanding a 6pm meeting at the Coogee Legion Club for the Friday night meat raffle.
Now I'm nothing if not spontaneous. And who doesn't love an opportunity to win something? Even if it is just a meat tray. Diving into action, a series of texts were fired off to the Husband (“Get the 374 to the beach instead of the 339 home”), a rapid clothes change ensued, hair was made presentable, a slash of Chanel No.214 lippy was slicked on and I was barrelling down the 45km/hr wind tunnel that was the Arden Street hill in the evening’s blustery conditions before you could say “damn why did I bother with the hair”.
And just to prove you can’t fault the impromptu night out, we won the meat tray and the fridge is now well stocked with lamb sausages, lamb chops and a large cut of lamb which, even after a bit of prodding and a good long look, we think might be shoulder but we're still not 100% certain.
Now I'm nothing if not spontaneous. And who doesn't love an opportunity to win something? Even if it is just a meat tray. Diving into action, a series of texts were fired off to the Husband (“Get the 374 to the beach instead of the 339 home”), a rapid clothes change ensued, hair was made presentable, a slash of Chanel No.214 lippy was slicked on and I was barrelling down the 45km/hr wind tunnel that was the Arden Street hill in the evening’s blustery conditions before you could say “damn why did I bother with the hair”.
And just to prove you can’t fault the impromptu night out, we won the meat tray and the fridge is now well stocked with lamb sausages, lamb chops and a large cut of lamb which, even after a bit of prodding and a good long look, we think might be shoulder but we're still not 100% certain.
I’m not sure what brings on this hesitancy to plan ahead though. It’s not that I’m worried something better might come along. Not by any means. It may be that it’s simply a hangover from my backpacking days.
As a backpacker nothing is really planned, you see. You just fill up your backpack, head off clutching the latest Let’s Go travel guide and hope for the best. You can’t get lost because let’s face it, you have no real strategy beyond the vague notion of “travelling the world” (much to your mother’s horror and apprehension).
So while you may be aiming for, say, Houston, you end up in Dallas because while you were driving you happened to be arguing with your South African Jewish travel partners about when the Messiah was apparently due to arrive on earth, and well, you must’ve missed a turn. For the record, the premise of my argument hinged on what the global Jewish population planned to do if the Messiah didn't end up arriving at all. Not just a possible late arrival, but a failure to turn up completely. What then? To productively counter this and provide food for thought, my South African Jewish travel partner snorted with derision. His short and sharp response was this: He will come. He just will. After all, they've very generously given him a 6,000 year timeframe in which to do it.
Missing Houston doesn’t really matter though (well obviously - the Messiah’s impending arrival is far more important than getting to Houston. Unless of course the Messiah was going to be in Houston). Instead of whatever you were going to do in Houston (and after visiting the Houston Visitor Information website it seems there is a lot to do there – they even have a luxury bowling alley), in Dallas you can always sit on the grassy knoll, visit the sixth floor of the Texas School Book Depositary, peer out of the very window from which Lee Harvey Oswald famously allegedly shot JFK, spend your Friday night preparing for your South African Jewish travel partner's Shabbat in your motel room by cooking up a kosher storm over your shared portable travel gas cooker (so small it looks cannily akin to a Bunsen burner) while one of you fans the smoke away from the fire alarm to avoid it going off, raising suspicion and being caught with enough butane in your room to blow a hole through the wall, and catch a Dallas Cowboys game. Which, surprisingly enough, is exactly what we did when my South African Jewish travel partners and I ended up in Dallas.
So while you may be aiming for, say, Houston, you end up in Dallas because while you were driving you happened to be arguing with your South African Jewish travel partners about when the Messiah was apparently due to arrive on earth, and well, you must’ve missed a turn. For the record, the premise of my argument hinged on what the global Jewish population planned to do if the Messiah didn't end up arriving at all. Not just a possible late arrival, but a failure to turn up completely. What then? To productively counter this and provide food for thought, my South African Jewish travel partner snorted with derision. His short and sharp response was this: He will come. He just will. After all, they've very generously given him a 6,000 year timeframe in which to do it.
Missing Houston doesn’t really matter though (well obviously - the Messiah’s impending arrival is far more important than getting to Houston. Unless of course the Messiah was going to be in Houston). Instead of whatever you were going to do in Houston (and after visiting the Houston Visitor Information website it seems there is a lot to do there – they even have a luxury bowling alley), in Dallas you can always sit on the grassy knoll, visit the sixth floor of the Texas School Book Depositary, peer out of the very window from which Lee Harvey Oswald famously allegedly shot JFK, spend your Friday night preparing for your South African Jewish travel partner's Shabbat in your motel room by cooking up a kosher storm over your shared portable travel gas cooker (so small it looks cannily akin to a Bunsen burner) while one of you fans the smoke away from the fire alarm to avoid it going off, raising suspicion and being caught with enough butane in your room to blow a hole through the wall, and catch a Dallas Cowboys game. Which, surprisingly enough, is exactly what we did when my South African Jewish travel partners and I ended up in Dallas.
It might not be the best idea to raise the backpacking lifestyle in front of The Randies though. From what I can gather, there was a bad experience in New York which involved some budget accommodation, loud, thoughtless backpackers attempting to dine on Pringles and tuna in a courtyard right outside The Randies’ bedroom window, no blinds, an inability to close the window, and quite a lot of pacing back and forth while gripping one’s head in one’s hands in angst and sleep deprivation.
I, of course, was not that kind of backpacker. I am pretty sure I never ate Pringles and tuna together (although don’t quote me on that). I do know we tried to smuggle kosher frankfurters into the Dallas Cowboys game so the South African Jews could eat. In an effort to maximise the sale of hot dogs and beer though, the Stadium banned bringing in any food of your own and after a bag search revealed the prohibited contents, we had the choice of tossing the kosher frankfurters or being tossed out ourselves. Texas isn’t as kosher-friendly to the observant Jew as it professes to be.
I, of course, was not that kind of backpacker. I am pretty sure I never ate Pringles and tuna together (although don’t quote me on that). I do know we tried to smuggle kosher frankfurters into the Dallas Cowboys game so the South African Jews could eat. In an effort to maximise the sale of hot dogs and beer though, the Stadium banned bringing in any food of your own and after a bag search revealed the prohibited contents, we had the choice of tossing the kosher frankfurters or being tossed out ourselves. Texas isn’t as kosher-friendly to the observant Jew as it professes to be.
Back to the present and Spice I am. Ordering a set menu (yes - spicy, tasty, exotic, fabulous), we ploughed through what seemed to be dish after dish after dish of spicy food – each dish more fiery, zesty, peppery and tasty than the last. All accompanied by three bottles of wine. Three. How did we end up with three bottles between four people, particularly when one of us (me) didn’t get to drink all that much because they had the misfortune to be the designated driver? Don’t know. Clever sleight of hand probably on the Husband’s part.
You’d think all of that would have been expensive, wouldn’t you? Nuh. In total it all turned out to be remarkably good value. Made all the more ridiculously cheap after The Randies produced two Entertainment Cards entitling the bearers to something like a $100 off the total. Not only were we eating and drinking like kings, The Randies had considerately made sure we were saving money as well. You can’t buy friends like that.
And so it was that we devoured our way through a plethora of curries and chillies and roasted this and deep fried that, finishing off neatly with the dessert of the day which turned out to be a divine surprise of some sort of sweet sticky glutinous black rice over which was poured some sort of sweet creamy coconut type of milk, topped with a scoop of green tea ice cream ingeniously served in a glass just to make it appear even more chic and glamorous (and I’m sure tasted all the better because of it).
To quote The Randies – delicious. Just delicious.
* Clover Moore – current Lord Mayor of the City of Sydney since 2004
**The Randies are also host to the annual highly acclaimed and coveted Randy Awards. You might have heard of it? No? Well, I am honoured to be the proud winner of the 2010 Randy Award for Favourite New Person of the Year. It’s not often you get a text message like that on New Year’s Day. I’m currently working hard to retain the title.
