A short while back the cover of one of my books, And De Fun Don’t Done, appeared on the cover of Nine to Five. It was to do with a book signing through Angus and Robertson, which I might add went over delightfuIly. I got to meet my lovely readers and they got to meet ‘the fat one’.
Somehow or other, possibly a kickback for the advertising, I don’t know, but Nine to Five offered me a job. Their cleaning lady was going in for a hip replacement and I used to clean toilets during the early part of my illustrious career. Was I interested in a bit of extra work? Well, normally I would be, but I’ve just had an operation on my knee and I wouldn’t be able to bend down and get my scrubbing brush up the S-bend properly. Was there something else for me to do? Luckily the answer was yes, a kind of boy-takes-girl-to-dinner-and-as-how kind of thing. I know I’m an author and all, but was I suave and sophisticated enough to write a dinner and theatre column in Sydney? I’d have to think about this one.
Let me set the picture for you; I’m a bachelor living on the Central Coast — Dogpatch with seagulls. Up there they think paté de fois is a French singer. Some places even make Caesar salads with tinned beetroot and frozen peas. I asked a local clicker what he thought of Grange Hermitage and he said, ‘Yeah, it went okay in the Doomben Ten Thousand but it wouldn’t win the Melbourne Cup.’ As for myself, I nuke McCain’s in a microwave unless some feral aunty comes over and does it for me. All I know about restaurants is what I learnt when I used to be a smelly, greasy kitchen hand during another part of my long and illustrious career. Choice food for me is what I used to grab off the plates that came back. Yet this could be okay. I’d get to see another side of the restaurant scene, plate wise. Instead of scrubbing dried sauce and coffee off them, I’d be dining off them, something I used to dream of when I wore rubber pockets to steal soup. I rang back and I said I’d give it a go, so off I went to be a gourmet theatre critic.
Naturally being a bald, fat miserable bachelor set in his ways, I couldn’t get a girl so I rang the editor and said my fiancee caught her foot in a rabbit trap and couldn’t make it. I’d have to do the first gourmet column on my own. The head druid said okay, but remember the deal; don’t go in too heavy, send the bill and they might pay it, and if the column was any good they might use it. Forget any advanced royalties, and no trying to plug my books. Oh, and make sure my fiancee had her foot stitched ready to go for the next column, or I’d be getting downsized quicker than the Gay Mardi Gras could go through Hobart.
Sad, lonely and dejected, a chill in the air and the rain pattering down, I drove along in the darkness to Gosford station and caught the train to Central to see what I could find.
The loop got me to Town Hall, and having a crook knee I thought I’d stroll back down George Street and dine Asian at one of my discerning author favourites. I turned right near a restaurant window full of giant crabs suffocating to death, left at the cake shop, across the road and up the escalator at the Sussex Centre. The place I usually head for is Fung Shing Gourmet in the right corner.
The woman who serves me always looks like she’s going to bite my head off. Maybe she’s an ex-Red Guard, and with my fat face I remind her of Chairman Mao. I don’t know. The other one always smiles though. Whatever, the food’s good and only five bucks a dish. I generally opt for the soy chicken with rice, or noodles with Chinese cabbage and spoon a big scoop of chopped garlic or chilli into the bowl of boiling hot soup they give you. It’s delicious.
Is it al fresco dining? It’s anything you want. Grab your chopsticks or fork or whatever, you’ll find a seat somewhere. Smoke free zone? Smoke two at a time if you want. Smoke an old army blanket. Stick a cigarette in your ear. Who gives a stuff? What do you want for five bucks, Dover sole on the balcony of a Swiss chalet?
There’s a bar with wine, beer, cola, etc., but I usually get a chilled ’94 Hong Kong mango pulp à la white can from the supermarket downstairs. It travels up the escalator splendidly and accompanies the chilli and garlic in the boiling hot soup without being the least bit ostentatious. After my sumptuous repast it was time to take in the theatre.
That book that was on the cover of Nine to Five, And De Fun Don’t Done, the one I’m not supposed to plug — that’s a Jamaican expression. Also in the book, as Les Norton flies into Montego Bay he uses the expression ‘cool running’ which always makes me laugh because when I was in Jamaica it weren’t no cool running, mon. It was hotter than a furnace, the humidity almost drowned me, and I missed a cyclone by a week. I got ripped off everywhere I went and every time I put my head out the front door some Jamaican would try and sell me something I didn’t want. That’s not counting getting trapped in a ghetto and driving through a riot. Ya I nung mon. Apart from that it was all right though. So still lonely and broken-hearted, filthy on myself and filthy on Jamaicans, I decided to rub it right in and trudge up the main street in the rain to see a movie about Jamaica — Cool Runnings.
Naturally the film opens up on those smiling, happy Jamaicans, either taking part in a billy cart race or sprinting to qualify for the Olympic Games. Somewhere in the scrum, John Candy runs a bar. The next thing you know, Walt Disney Productions have waved their magic wand and John Candy has four Jamaicans in Canada competing in the Winter Olympics. After that it would be nice to say that the movie goes downhill all the way, but it doesn’t. It howls along. I liked it. I checked out the punters around me and they were all laughing like drains, so I know it wasn’t just me.
John Candy plays a great straight man as a coach. There’s a scene where he takes a photo of himself off the wall of his bar which adds a nice touch of pathos among the laughs. It’s a shame Candy’s not around anymore.
There’s baddies amongst the European bobsled teams, line dancing, a bar room brawl, plenty of action and some snappy dialogue. There’s not a swear word in sight so it’s environmentally friendly and safe for kids. Like the punters around me I finished up cheering for the Jamaicans. It’s a feelgood movie, so make sure you see it. Happy up, I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.
It’s got a tops soundtrack too. I bought the CD the next day. It belts along like the movie. I like a track called ‘Cool Me Down’. One thing I will say about Jamaica, you can’t help but pick up a taste for some of the dance hall reggae. Also a hiry music deh pon i radio. Respec, mon.
So that’s my first attempt as a gourmet theatre critic. I think I got in under budget so they might invite me back. I don’t think I’ll get my money back from the CD though. The tricky part though is finding a KFC — kind female companion — to do the column with. However, I got in touch with a woman I know who runs a discreet dating service out near Bankstown. She said she might be able to help me. So you never know, I could be back, suaver and even more sophisticated than ever.