 | |
| My friend Joy (blonde) and Me...Circa 1962 |
I might not have had the papers saying I was a
qualified chef, but I certainly qualified by the long, hard, sometimes
stressful hours I put in over commercial stoves/ranges/deep-fryers; by the
blood, sweat and tears.
However, there few tears, except for the first time I watched my food being taken out of the kitchen in the hands of a waitress to diners. I almost shed tears at that special, unique time. I felt like a mother watching her children being taken away from her!
However, there few tears, except for the first time I watched my food being taken out of the kitchen in the hands of a waitress to diners. I almost shed tears at that special, unique time. I felt like a mother watching her children being taken away from her!
Over the years many tears were shed from laughter,
though.
I learned very early in the piece, and very quickly,
no tears needed to be shed over the slicing, dicing or chopping of onions. I always stored the bags of onions in the
cold room. Using onions that have been
stored this way (or in a home refrigerator) was/is a sure-fire method of stopping
the flow of tears caused by the chemical in the onion, when the onion is cut, that
irritates the glands in our eyes, causing us to tear up.
Over the years when I was working within the
hospitality industry I wore a few different hats, and one of those metaphorical
hats was a chef’s hat. I prepared and
presented thousands of meals to the dining public in various venues.
From my childhood, watching our Nana prepare our
meals, I showed a keen interest in cooking. I learned a lot of the basics from
Nana. Her pastry-making skills were
beyond compare, and to this day, from the lessons I learned from her, I’ve
never made pastry other than with my hands/fingertips. I’ve never used a processor to make pastry, and
I probably never will.
My interest in cooking that began when I was a little
girl carried through to my teenage years.
Take-away food wasn’t high on our radar when I was a
teenager. There were “mum and dad-owned”
fish and chip shops, many of which doubled as a hamburger “joint”. And, of
course, the good old Aussie meat pies, pasties and sausage rolls were available
at every corner store. The iconic Chiko Rolls, which originally originated in
Bendigo, Victoria, hit the market in the early Fifties. Chico Rolls later
really hit their strides in the Sixties, and became a popular addition to the
fish and chips/take-away outlets.
There
were no McDonalds, Hungry Jacks, KFCs and the like when I was a child and teenager.
As I’ve written often in previous posts, during the
halcyon years of my teens my girlfriends and I spent every weekend during
spring, summer and autumn at the coast.
On those weekends most of the time I took on the mantle of “cook”; a role I willingly performed. During our weekends at the beach my mates and I lived mainly on freshly-prepared food, using fresh produce; a lot of which we purchased en route to the coast from the roadside stalls belonging to farmers along the way. Fresh fruit was also a regular on our menu.
Similar applied to our mid-week
get-togethers/parties when we used to sit around philosophising and listening
to music. We prepared our own food, never buying it in, already prepared. We loved to experiment with recipes, and probably
me more than the others. We ate well.
From my very first visit to a restaurant at the
tender age of 16 I was hooked by the romance and allure of restaurants.
Joy, a friend (we’re still friends to this day –
we’ve known each other since early primary school days and our beach-going/surfing
days) and I went to Brisbane for a weekend.
Our main intention once in the city centre was to
purchase our first bikinis. This we achieved
on the Saturday morning.
In those years the major stores closed at noon on Saturdays
and remained closed until Monday mornings. There was no late-night shopping; no seven days
a week opening hours for the major retailers.
Corner, family-run shops operated under their own jurisdiction.
Joy and I bought a pair of towelling bikinis each at
Weedman’s in Queen Street, the main street in Brisbane’s CBD.
(Weedman’s,
which originally, in 1931, had started out as “Players”, in 1970, became
“Sportsgirl” – just a little background history that is probably of little
interest to anyone other than me).
Later, in 1982 Queen Street was turned into a pedestrian-only
mall, encompassing Queen, Albert and Edward Streets; and then later again, in 1988,
the mall was extended to cover a larger area.
I had my mind set on buying a white bikini, but Joy struck
first and chose white for herself. I didn’t want to have an identical bikini, so
I chose hot pink – same style; same fabric; different colour.
We’d already stretched the limit more than far enough
by purchasing a similar style; choosing the same colour would’ve meant we’d gone
way over the line by miles. She and I went
to the coast together every weekend; and as much as we liked each other, were the
best of mates, we had no desire to dress the same, whether on the beach or elsewhere.
It was on that particular weekend that I had my
first restaurant dining experience.
After our Saturday morning shopping spree, Joy and I decided we’d lunch at “Christies” in Queen Street Brisbane. We sat upstairs on the mezzanine level. After studying the menu carefully, I ordered Spaghetti Bolognese.
Joy was aghast that I would even entertain the thought
of eating spaghetti in public, let alone bite the strand and chew it!
In those days, in many ways, Joy was more openly confident
that I was, but on that occasion she chose to stay safe by ordering for herself,
toasted cheese, ham and tomato sandwiches.
My choice of fare was made to enable me to conquer
my shyness about eating in a public venue; to build up and gain self-confidence
by eating, of all things, spaghetti!
In for a penny, in for a pound...I dived into the
pot! Well, not quite...
A few years later when I was residing and working in
Brisbane (employed by the Kolotex Group of Companies) I’d often take myself to lunch
at various Chinese restaurants. I’d ask the waiting staff to remove the knives and
forks from my table setting; for them to replace the cutlery with chopsticks. By eating alone amongst and within view of other
diners I taught myself how to handle chopsticks with aplomb. No fear...fully confident...and
no dropped food!
Spaghetti Bolognese really only became popular in
Australia...became one of the “In” foods...around about the late Fifties/early Sixties. Until then, in most Aussie homes the only
spaghetti eaten came in tins/cans. No kitchen cupboard or pantry was complete without
a few tins of Heinz Spaghetti in Tomato Sauce. Of course, Baked Beans in Tomato
Sauce kept the spaghetti company on the shelves. Like love and marriage, or a horse and carriage,
they go together....
In those days, and probably in the majority of instances
still, - Spaghetti Bolognese was prepared and served here in this country using
spaghetti, not tagliatelle.
For goodness sake! We were still getting used to the long, thin, cylindrical,
solid dry pasta called “spaghetti” ; the pasta we, ourselves, had to cook in salted,
boiling water.
We didn’t need tagliatelle thrown into the mix to confuse things!
I doubt tagliatelle was available in Australia in those
days other than perhaps in the homes of Australian-Italian families, where the barely-English
speaking Nonnas diligently passed on their cooking knowledge and prowess; where
the Nonnas prepared everything from scratch.
The majority of “Anglo-Saxon Protestants (or those
of the Roman Catholic faith) hadn’t even heard of tagliatelle, let alone eaten it!
Aussies were just waking up to the fact that there were
myriad varieties of interesting food from the rest of the world ready for us to
explore - foods other than the British-Scottish-Irish influences we’d grown up with
in our homes.
During our weekend in the “big city” the beach beckoned
Joy and me. After all, we were the “Gidgets”
of the day. We couldn’t ignore the lure of
the beach.
One of Joy's cousins, who lived in Brisbane, generously offered to drive us to the
Gold Coast. Being a Sunshine Coast surfer
girl, I’d never been to the Gold Coast before that particular Sunday. I can’t remember
clearly, but I feel it was Joy’s first visit, too.
Sitting on the beach at Coolangatta we cared not that
it was a bleak, grey, windy, somewhat chilly morning in August.
August is still winter here in the Land of Oz. Our spring springs into action in September.
With stiff upper lips, Joy and I braved it out, keen to christen our new, and
first, bikinis. We were two trim, taut and
terrific 16-year olds.
On the beach we determinedly remained for a couple of hours while her cousin, who was much older than us (and who obviously had more sense), drank of cups of hot coffee in the warmth of a local cafe.
On the beach we determinedly remained for a couple of hours while her cousin, who was much older than us (and who obviously had more sense), drank of cups of hot coffee in the warmth of a local cafe.
I believe we looked pretty good in our newly-purchased
bikinis. In those days of yore I think we
looked pretty good in whatever we wore. However,
we were in no way cocky or “up ourselves” about it. If we even broached the perimeter of feeling that
way we’d soon be brought back down to earth by someone in our respective families
- of that there is no doubt.
Back home in Gympie after our enlightening adventure
I decided I’d make Spaghetti Bolognese for the first time. It was to be a special treat for my mother,
grandmother and brother.
I learned a quick lesson from that not-so-little
episode, too.
I managed to cook enough spaghetti to feed the
population of Gympie, and probably the nearby towns of Maryborough and Nambour,
as well!
Always learning – forever learning!
More to follow...
