Tag: seafood

Paradise on a Plate

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THE Moreton Bay bugs are swimming in it, but for once, it’s not the Pacific Ocean to which I am referring. Rather, I’m dining at Australia’s Number One Seafood Restaurant, 2 Fish Restaurant Port Douglas, where plump bug tails are floating in a sea of Penang curry sauce, pumpkin, spinach, green beans, lychee and coriander. A balmy breeze, the type that only North Queensland can deliver with flair, is whispering gently through the open doors and my pinot grigio is ice cold. Life, you could say, is pretty bloody good at this particular point in time.

A foodie, I am not. But as a true blue Queenslander, there’s not a lot of arm twisting required to entice me to visit any part of my beautiful state. Yes, I am biased when it comes to my big back yard, but when the restaurant in which you are dining has been voted the 2016 National Restaurant and Catering Award winner for Best Seafood Restaurant in Australia, who am I to argue? Feel like coral trout? You’ll find that lounging in the shallows of a seafood bisque with boy choy and a swimmer crab croquette; while the tiger prawns have paired up with a coconut lime espuma. And 2 Fish is just one of many Port Douglas restaurants partaking in this year’s Carnivale to be staged in May.

Now in its 23rd year, Port Douglas Carnivale was originally launched to mark the start of the sugar cane harvesting season but it’s now considered the official opening of the tourism season. Sure, there’s still plenty of that iconic cane around these parts, but some of the country’s finest foodies and chefs have now found their way to Port these days as well. Among this year’s celebrations, you’ll find Port On A Fork – Food Music and Wine – in which local chefs will present their signature dishes inspired by the gourmet delights of the region. Plus Paradise on a Plate, which is the renowned Longest Lunch in Rex Smeal Park and in which I find myself several evenings after my Moreton Bay bug encounter.

The waves are gently crashing against the point and a Spanish guitarist is crooning to our table under a full moon. Romance? Port Douglas has this in spades. Recipes? You’ll find some of the region’s most innovative on this menu of sesame yellowfin tuna dressed with shallot and wakame cracker; shell off/shell on tiger prawn with smoked avocado and herb buttered rye; and chicken ballottine, toasted corn, pickled fennel and coconut ash mayo.

And that’s just the start. Visitors to this year’s event can expect the likes of local barramundi with star anise cured pineapple, roasted yellow curry sauce and baby coconut salad; and lamb backstrap with a shallot puree, truss tomato, and olive crumb and sage crisps. As for dessert, how about all the textures of pina colada on a plate? A dessert which tastes like a cocktail? Now you’re speaking my language. While there’s plenty for grown ups during Carnivale, kids will also love the Wonders of the Reef Macrossan Street Parade and the Family beach Day at Port Douglas’ world-renowned 4 Mile Beach.
“It’s a party in paradise for all ages, it’s a wonderful event,” Event Director Melissa Head says.
“There’s lots of synergies and friendships formed at all of the events.”
So prestigious is this event, Melissa has also managed to lure Australian musician Ben Lee north for the event.

Not that encouraging anyone to visit Port Douglas is such a hard task. Outside of Carnivale, you’ll find a charming North Queensland town with an eclectic mix of old and new. Down the main drag, there’s still cane toad racing at the Iron Bar; the odd croc pie at Mocka’s Pies; and plenty of colour and life at the Port Douglas Sunday Markets where signs will encourage you to “drink more plants”. Meanwhile, down at the marina, Hemingway’s Brewery opened in June selling micro beers from what was once disgraced entrepreneur Christopher Skase’s apartment. In fact, Skase’s Sheraton Mirage Port Douglas, which many credit with putting the town on the map in what seems like eons ago, has also undergone its first facelift in decades. Yes, Skase may be long gone but Port Douglas lives on.

The Global Goddess travelled to Port Douglas as a guest of Tourism Port Douglas and Daintree – http://www.visitportdouglasdaintree.com; and stayed at QT Port Douglas – https://www.qthotelsandresorts.com/port-douglas/
For more information on Port Douglas Carnivale go to http://www.carnivale.com.au

 

Sex on the Beach

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ROBERTA Flack is killing me softly and Elton John keeps warning me not to go breaking his heart, but when you’re chopping up morel mushrooms at $1300 a kilogram, these things seem somewhat insignificant. It’s only when Tina Turner reminds me I’m simply the best, that things start to take shape. It’s a sultry summer afternoon on the Gold Coast and I find myself in the most saucy of scenarios: an aphrodisiac cooking course at the Sofitel, Broadbeach. Under the tutelage of the hotel’s Room 81 Executive Chef Bill Magno I am adding my own karma sutra slant on six dishes, which the restaurant will be recreating for guests on Valentine’s Day as part of a raunchy package.
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The fact I seem to be romantically challenged is not lost on me. However the signs for this stay are good. There’s a painting hanging in the foyer by an artist called John Romeo, but before I can ponder his whereabouts, I am whisked to my 21st floor room overlooking the ocean, and in which awaits a cold bottle of French champagne. But this is no time to drink, at least until I get to the restaurant, where bottles and bottles of the fine French fizzy await me, plus a couple of big knives. A combination at home which has often found me in considerable trouble.
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The menu, which will be replicated on February 14, starts out with a freshly shucked cupid oyster with a veuve cliquot champagne granite. We all know oysters are an aphrodisiac, but did you realise this is because they are high in zinc, which raises sperm and testosterone production, thus increasing libido? Clearly not my libido, I think as I try to shuck one of the slippery suckers with a sharp knife, while not shredding any major appendages.
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The oyster is followed by a shaved jamon iberico with figs and almonds with a lemon marmalade dressing. Figs, it turns out, are a synonym in erotic literature for female sexual organs and so revered by the ancient Greeks when it came to fertility, they were more precious than gold. Almonds are also regarded as fertility symbols and those with almond-shaped eyes are considered sexy. This, I reflect, could be my problem. I don’t have almond-shaped eyes.
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Next up are the seared nova scotian scallops, cauliflower silk, asparagus and morel mushrooms with a truffle vinaigrette. Given I spent a good hour peeling the asparagus, including some rather fancy white sprigs from Peru, I find it imperative to learn that this vegetable is said to stir up lust in men and women. I don’t know about lust but I have a blister on my thumb from all the peeling. Curiously, it is said to boost histamine production which is necessary to reach orgasm in both sexes. I mean, the peeling was fun, but it wasn’t THAT fun.
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Main meal, if there is such a thing in a six-course production, is a lamb loin, crispy lamb breast terrine, broad beans, sunchoke puree, pommes fondant and anise jus. The sweet liquorice flavour of aniseed was believed by both the ancient Romans and Greeks to strengthen female sexual arousal. Now, we’re getting somewhere.
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Vanilla and honey panacotta form the first dessert (yes, there’s multiple deserts on this menu), with a vanilla pod considered a mild nerve stimulant which can enhance sexual sensation. Honey, on the other hand, was once known as Aphrodite’s nectar and has long been associated with romance. I make a mental note to stop at the local beehive on the way home.
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The night is not complete with an erect cherry soufflé, chocolate sauce and coconut sorbet. And we all know that chocolate is not only a vital food group but increases your body’s endorphin and serotonin levels. We finish dinner with tea, coffee and heart-shaped macaroons, all innuendo and any remaining cooking skills exhausted.
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I head back to my room ready to retire my chef’s hat and apron but the hotel has other ideas in store for me. My rather enormous bed is covered in rose petals in the shape of a love heart. I’ve had one or two champagnes, so at first I think I’ve mistakenly entered someone else’s room. But I carefully slip myself under the doona – not unlike one would a slice a cheese into an already packed sandwich – and fall asleep laughing myself silly at cupid and his crooked bow. The next morning, with rose petals scattered all over the bed, the floor and a couple stuck to my face, and as I consider how I’m going to explain this carnage to the housekeeper, I reflect on life and love. My eye catches the bottom of the Valentine’s Day menu beside my bed, upon which is inscribed the words: “magnez bien, riez souvent, aimez beaucoup”. Which translated means: “eat well, laugh often, love much.” And so while I wait for cupid to get his damn arrow straight, this is what I plan to do.
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The Global Goddess travelled as a guest of Sofitel Broadbeach. To book this six-course feast, which includes a wine package of Australian, New Zealand and French varietals, priced at $225 per person; or the Deluxe Valentine’s Room package for $795 per couple, which includes an overnight stay and breakfast as well as the six-course dinner, go to http://www.sofitelgoldcoast.com.au
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Sisters are doing it for themselves

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FIRST come the books. I can’t help myself, I’ve packed two juicy travel bios into my bulging suitcase. I draw the line at actual guidebooks, but only just. You see, last week I went where few travel writers dare to go. I took a holiday. A plain, old-fashioned, crunchy-sand-between-the-white-cotton-sheets beach holiday. The type of thing that we lonely travel writers dream about all year, often discuss late at night in empty airports when we’re away from family and friends, but rarely have the time, the will, or the money, when we’re at home. Which is what makes the concept all the more appealing. One whole week of doing nothing but getting up, having a cuppa while staring at the ocean, lazing around in my pj’s, and planning a day which consists of nothing more than alternating between the beach and the pool.
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In old-fashioned beach holiday style I am away with one of my three older sisters – an early partner in crime when it came to this kind of thing. After 40 odd years, my sister and I know each other’s rhythms. It’s as predictable as the low and high tides at our Sunshine Coast destination. And predictable is what we want this week. It’s her turn for the room with the double bed, and so I cram myself into the room with two singles, one for my books and baggage, the other for my adult self, who lays awake each night wondering how on earth I did this as a kid. The bed springs creak and ping, and I hit my knees on the wall well into the dawn. I wake messy haired and bleary eyed. Yep, a typical beach holiday.
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The hours are long and languid. These are fresh prawn sandwiches on wicked white bread type days. We drink crisp white wine with lunch. Chat about our childhood. People we’ve forgotten, forgiven and forbidden from our lives. Snatch lazy afternoon naps to the sound of the ocean curling outside. Take the odd walk but we don’t venture far. That’s not the point of this week. Late afternoon it’s olives, cheese, smoky sausage and sparkly Pimms on the deck. In between I dive into my books and delve into other people’s lives. For one whole week I put my life on hold. Try not to answer emails. Stay off Facebook as much as is humanly possible. Take late night dips in the heated spa under a Turkish moon which creeps behind the building. One night I look up and wave at my sister dimly lit and standing on the balcony looking down on me in the spa. Too late I realise it’s not her but the 20 year old male occupant of the unit below. Soon not one, but two of his mates also wave at me. Exposed, I have no where to hide in the spa, and just pray to the spa Gods it keeps bubbling away as I slink as low as possible. Upstairs, my sister laughs outrageously when I recount this tale.
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When we do venture outside we attract unusual attention. “Are you two sisters?” complete strangers stop us all week in our tracks. We laugh to ourselves and think, if only our other two sisters were here. Worse, our Doppelgangers are somewhere on our beach holiday but we remain frustratingly one pace behind them. The night we get takeaway Thai, the operator welcomes us with open arms: “you’re back again!” he exclaims to our surprised bemusement. “Oh, two sisters who look just like you were in here last night,” he says as we clutch our curry, chuckle and shuffle into the night. The next evening, at the surf club, we are welcomed again: “Oh, you were here last night!” the waitress explains. No, but our Doppelgangers were. We never meet our Doppelgangers but by the end of the week every pair of women look like sisters to us. “Do you think it’s them?” we whisper in conspiratorial tones to each other over dinner. We wonder whether they are better versions of us than we are. We decide that’s impossible. It becomes our holiday joke. Every holiday needs a joke, that’s what makes families tick.
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And our family has had its moments. Nine years ago, When my sister’s marriage collapsed suddenly, I was among the first people she called. “You need to sit down,” she said down the phone line. Little did I realise that a few years later I’d be having that very same conversation with her. Years later, she confessed to me that my weekly phone calls were all that got her through each miserable week. I think back to the season of my discontent, that winter that seemed so bitterly cold where I sat in her old country Queenslander and cried and shook while she just sat patiently with me. Not so long ago her two daughters – my feisty, fabulous nieces – were having a rip-roaring fight, the type that only adolescent siblings can. My sister turned to them and in the quiet way she has said to them: “You’re going to need her one day”. How right she was.
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Surfers Shenanigans

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I’VE awoken in a Surfers Paradise hotel room and I have a swollen eye. The Surfers Paradise part I can explain, even to myself who takes a few minutes to remember what I’m doing on Australia’s Gold Coast. But I have no idea how I’ve acquired the swollen eye. I check my hotel bathroom for a baby, a tiger and Bradley Cooper. 

 The last thing I remember was playing Putt Putt golf with some friends before having a few drinks. Unless things have changed in the past 20 years, Putt Putt, from memory, is a pretty tame affair which doesn’t result in swollen organs.

I decide to take Quasimodo out to breakfast, acutely aware this shall not the morning I will be meeting the man of my dreams. When I head back to the 22nd floor my room key is no longer working. Which would not be such a problem were it not for the strange grumble my stomach has just made. Just when I think my morning can’t get much worse, it does. The cause of my swollen eye suddenly becomes apparent. I’ve overindulged in oysters at the seafood buffet the previous evening, I’m having an allergic reaction, and now my gut is about to explode. In the lift. Full of women attending a beauty conference.

 I break into a cold sweat. By now, I’m frantic. It occurs to me that I’m about to resemble an Australian footballer, and crouch on the carpeted hotel hallway with my swollen eye and do the unspeakable. I telephone my friend whose room number I can’t remember. “Open your door,” I scream down the line, “O-p-e-n. Y-o-u-r. D-o-o-r!”  A door swings open down the hall by which stage, I am crawling like one of the crabs which is causing all the commotion inside me. I burst into what I hope is her hotel room, and not that of some poor Japanese tourist, and dash to the toilet.

 

My retro weekend in Surfers Paradise has begun with a blast. My friend, Corina, has decided our next adventure should be cycling along the beachfront to the Southport Spit. It’s going to be so simple, bikes are even delivered to our hotel room. Corina is wearing her trademark high heels, tighty whitey pants, and a koala backpack we’ve nicknamed “fluffy”. I am having visions of my own loveliness, dressed in a long white skirt, hair blowing in the sea breeze, riding along the oceanfront like something out of a feminine hygiene ad. Dame Alison, our other friend, has wisely decided to take a limo transfer to meet us for lunch. I take off and make it to the first corner when my skirt becomes entangled in the bike chain. Corina falls off her bike. We are covered in grease when we limp in to lunch at the old Southport Bathing Pavilion which is now a café. A bloke called Chico offers us a Chicko roll. Things are looking up.

 

That evening, Corina has planned a special surprise. A trip to the Wax Museum. The operators resemble the Adams family which is more than we can say for the actual wax exhibits. Barack Obama is white. Michael Jackson is black. Whitney Houston looks like Bobby Brown. The whole display is creepy and just little bit scary. We leave abruptly. We need a drink.

 We decide our trip to the glitter strip isn’t complete without a Chinese banquet and head to the Focus Chinese Seafood Restaurant with our new-found friends, Cade, Caitlin, Shae, Grant and Maggie. Full of Peking duck, we decide to eschew a trip to the old haunts – Melba’s and Cocktails and Dreams – in favour of an early night. I go to sleep smug in the knowledge we’ve had a pretty tame night. Even my eye has almost returned to normal.

On Sunday morning I awake to find a game of Two-Up in last night’s handbag, a Meter Maid’s business card and bum muscles I didn’t know I had, courtesy of our bike ride. I ponder this as we board the Aquaduck for an amphibious adventure on the Broadwater. There’s no suspension on the vehicle and we bounce along the Esplanade, as do our boobs. Corina tells me to “get ducked”. I tell her to “duck off”. Back at Ripley’s Believe It or Not, Dame Alison sits near a farting man exhibit while the museum owner catches me stroking a male fertility statue. “Be careful, you’ll get pregnant,” he warns, before adding, “but of course you have to have sex to do that.” Just my luck to be the second woman in history to conceive by immaculate conception.  

 By the end of the weekend, I realise something I’d long forgotten. Surfers Paradise is tawdry, tacky and terrific, just like my friends. It will pick you up, twist you around, dance with you and gently put you back down. But dull? Never, ever.

 The Global Goddess travelled as a guest of The Outrigger, Surfers Paradise, whose carpet, she is pleased to report, remains intact and whose bathrooms are to be commended, in whichever room you may find yourself in a panic. To experience your own retro weekend, go to www.outrigger.com.au