John Susman wants us all to eat snotty nose grunters. The topic
is sustainability in fishing not children in restaurants. I tried to Google these, I just got children.
Ryan Squires has a unique view on dolphins, one that won’t
make him any friends in Byron Bay.
Hilary McNevin rocks a floaty shirt
Pat Nourse desperately needs a microphone.
Remember when Cindy Brady got camera fright when faced with
a tv-off with Bobby? Don’t worry Ben Greeno, I would be the same. He does like
a wine custard though.
Richard Hargreave is a terrible shout-skuller
Mike Bennie invented the shout-skull and is a master of the
sport. It’s terrifying yet strangely hypnotic, a must for your next shindig.
Someobody YouTube that
Johnny Iuzzini hates chocolate combined with stage
lighting and he has a secret crush on Tony Tan. Not so secret anymore
Johnny Iuzzini has watched Lady and the Tramp too many times
– ask the unsuspecting yet obliging audience member who asked to try the chocolate. This sets off my personal space psychosis
What’s happened to the air conditioning?
Matt Jennings stole Pat Nourses’ microphone
Whisky at break time is a bloody great idea
Reminiscent of 2013 MFWF, Aaron Turner yet again struggles
with the convection stove
Aaron Turner needs to fire his chicken supplier, or lack thereof
as it were.
Everyone loves Aaron Turners beard
EVERYONE GETS FREE AARON TURNER CHICKEN (just make sure you
declare it when you write about it – I’m safe, I declined)
Did Stirling Hair travel with Myffy Rigby?
Per-Anders Jorgensen is the only panel member not to use the
word ‘fuck’ (although he did say shit)
Untrue, Claire Davie didn’t swear. But she said Gonzo – that
could be deemed swearing in some literary circles.
Chris Ying keeps telling us he is DRUNK. On the contrary he's strangely coherent which makes me
think he doesn’t know the true meaning of drunk. I mean, he still has pants on...
We all pray that the pinnacle of Myffy’s career isn’t a
Lucky Peach feature article on her personal wee consumption.
If Myffy does partake in personal wee drinking, please God don’t
let her shout-skull it.
Every time Per-Anders opens his mouth, I flip a mental
double-bird to my shitty Cannon 400D
Most blogs are dull and we all need to write more exciting
and interesting things in order to pique the interest those in the position of
what all bloggers want to be – national food editors (?) I flip a mental double-bird
to my day job and dream of drinking wee
Myffy says that bloggers are lucky because we don’t have an
editor telling us what to do
I mutter to myself that blog editors are other bloggers and the
hospitality community who come down on us like a tonne of publicly-aired editorial
bricks. I vow never to blog again
Pat Nourse continues to ask questions that no one else can hear. They are answered by the panel. That's all I can say because I don't know what the question was.
Chris Ying promises that future issues of Lucky Peach will
contain more penile hilarity
Where did the lady in front of me get that cheese from?
Myffy asks all the bloggers in the room to raise their hand. A lot of hands go up. My mind wanders to how many chef's hands go up at a blogger conference. I suddenly feel sycophantic and run up the stairs two at a time to get another whisky
Moomba dress code appears to be tiny frayed denim shorts and stilettos.
I didn’t learn too much about the rise of the food blogger,
let alone the rise and rise
On my return home I get a lecture about wasting money on oyster literature but I figure emotions are fleeting, books are forever.
Like every other social media trawler, hearing of a
new place piques ones interest to the point of obsession. Le Bon Ton in Collingwood, you're up.
Housed in the Glasshouse hotel on Gipps St (not
much glass here, it refers to the nearby glass factory that is no more) where
once factory workers in dungarees drank, and later podium dancers in dungarees drank – the hotel is now a cavernous space to get your absinth and your shimmy on. Laissez les bon temps rouler, baby.
The place is sexy. It’s dark, brooding and
cosy even in the middle of the day. I was a little sad that I was there in
jeans at 1pm rather than there in a slinky red dress at 1am with a half
dozen mint juleps under my (garter) belt. Whilst the exterior has barely changed,
the interior is copper panelled (same as the Chignon taco truck – no coincidence
as it’s the same owners), emerald green plaster and exposed brick work which
has been cleverly and sympathetically sign-painted by the fabulous T.J.
Guzzardi. All that’s missing is an old piano and equally aged blues
I panicked a little about booking because, you
know, it’s Melbourne – surely every man and his ironically named French
Bulldog* would be there but on the contrary, this big venue would comfortably
fit a fair few football teams and we easily got a table. Given its location - decent stumbling distance from Smith St, you should too. Check first.
We’d picked a day when biblical plagues of sticky
little flies were only interested in attaching themselves to our eyeballs, so after dealing
with that for 2.8 minutes we moved inside. A shame really because the astro-turfed
‘backyard’ made un-fake by the most amazing Yucca I have ever seen would be a
perfect place to relax on a Saturday afternoon - sans flies and maybe sans smoke
too if that’s not your thing (I mean from the meat smoker not the punters. Frankly, I love that smell but old Hairy couldn’t hack it).
God did not put me on this earth to bear children
or heal the blind. God put me on this earth to eat oysters and of course I obliged.
On this particular day, Le Bon Ton had Coffin Bay beauties that you could order straight
up, with mignonette or with mignonette on the side (?) I went straight up. Plump
and creamy (one bite, swirl and down) they were tasty in flavour and price at
$3.50 a pop. The menu states that the oysters are ‘current market selections’
meaning I can’t and Le Bon Ton can’t promise you will get Coffin Bays - no
fear, if you are like me when it comes to oysters, almost any Australian mollusc
will do nicely. Praise to our coastline and the abundance of excellence she
The menu is reasonably varied – starters, salads, sandwiches (essentially
burgers to you and me) and big fruity pies
but we couldn’t pass on the a good old plate of fried chicken and some chilli
fries, hopefully stuffing us to the Texas ten gallon brim (heart the size
of… hunger the size of…you get my drift).
For what is a flavoursome dish of 12 hour brine-soaked
then 12 hour ‘buttermilked’ crispy fried chicken fillets, I was pretty
flabbergasted at the portion size. Three pieces of boneless chicken the size of
a newborns fist is appropriate for a starter if you ask me but at $14.00,
a sweet roll or a chunk of corn or something would have been a welcome accompaniment.
Say what you will, call me on my piggish ways, I don’t care. It was a small
enough dish for us to order it twice, in total having three baby fists each (sounds
creepy but you know what I mean). The chicken is served with thick, creamy white
pepper gravy, the kind traditionally served with ‘biscuits’ and a perfect friend for this fried chicken. I'll be asking for a straw and/or the recipe next time.
Our other dish was the Texas Chilli – the kitchen
had run out of the meat version (at 1pm on a Saturday. Weird) so we were given
the vegetarian option at $12.00, luckily I don’t mind a bit of cheese and red
kidney bean action on my chips. Filling, cheesy, messy. Perfect.
I ended up with the house white - a sauvignon
blanc - as all other wines by the glass were sold out (at 1pm on a Saturday. Weird)
it was as decent a house drop as you’ll get.
Friends quizzed me on the quality and
authenticity of the smoked meats and the wine list but these were passed by or rather,
left until next time. There will be a next time because it appears to be a bunch
of fun for any time of the day or night. I shall be dragging my niece there
next weekend to ply her with absinth and all things NOLA.
I’m by no means an expert on American BBQ and
have yet to hear the final verdict from resident fried chicken expert Veda
Gilbert but having tried quite a few ‘joints’ that have popped up in Melbourne,
Le Bon Ton won’t disappoint – except maybe portion size.
Le Bon Ton 51 Gipps St Collingwood (03) 9416 4341
I aint exactly a small gal, but my finger is there for scale.
PS - that white pepper gravy should be served with a straw. Maximum yum. *my dog is called Leon. Not that ironic, but named after Jean Reno, ya know...French and all that.