We're championing fresh food that packs a flavour punch, from salads and vegetable-packed bowls to grains and light desserts.
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Are indigenous flavours the next big thing in chocolate? Lee Tran Lam investigates.
Mezzo-soprano Jose Maria Lo Monaco takes us through Milan, telling us where to shop, eat pizza and buy shoes.
We asked our favourite confectioners and cafe owners from around the country for their hottest tips.
Sydneysiders revive a landmark restaurant in country New South Wales.
You’ve got another chance at last winter’s sell-out drop from Four Pillars.
A bar for art’s sake pops up at Semi Permanent.
Attica chef Ben Shewry has been thinking about your buttocks, and wants to introduce them to an Australian design classic.
Here we've scorched apricots on the grill and served them with torn jamon, shaved Manchego and peppery rocket leaves. Think of it as a twist on the good old melon-prosciutto routine. The mixture would also be great served on charred sourdough.
Farro can be used in almost any dish, from a robust salad to accompany hearty beer-glazed beef short ribs to a new take on risotto with mushrooms, leek and parmesan. Here are 14 ways with this versatile grain.
This year's finalists across 11 different categories include established and new hotels, all with particular areas of excellence. Stay tuned to find out which hotels will take the top spots when they're announced at a ceremony at QT Melbourne on Wednesday 24 May, and published in our 2017 Australian Hotel Guide, on sale Thursday 25 May.
Where would Spanish cuisine be without the chorizo? This versatile smallgood lends its big flavours to South American stews, soups, and salads, not to mention the ultimate hot dog. Let the sizzling begin.
Our guide to the best of the region.
Kick off winter with a week of cheese tasting.
There's nothing new about Nordic interiors - blond timbers, concrete surfaces, warm, mid-century charm without the twee - and thank heavens for that. It's a style that augments the beauty of everything around it, in this case, gorgeous Hobart harbour, which makes up one whole wall. What is new here, however, is the food - by veterans of Garagistes, which once dazzled diners down the road, Vue de Monde in Melbourne and Gordon Ramsay worldwide. There's a strong Asian bent, but with Tasmanian ingredients. In fact, the kitchen's love of the local verges on obsessive - coconut milk in an aromatic fish curry is replaced with Tasmanian-grown fig leaf simmered in cream to mimic the flavour. Other standouts include a gutsy red-braised lamb with gai lan and chewy cassia spaetzle, pigs' ears zingy with Sichuan pepper and a fresh, springy berry dessert. While the food is sourced locally, the generous wine list spans the planet.
Dinner parties always seem like a good idea at the time. When the invitations go out you imagine flickering tea lights, a 10-course neo-Moorish dégustation menu and matching wines that correspond to the year each guest was born. You pledge to source all ingredients within a 10km radius of your home and you begin crocheting a table runner specially for the occasion.
The weeks speed by and the nightmares start. It's 2am; you're tossing and turning, sweaty and tangled in your sheets, dreaming that 20 guests are seated and all that's in your fridge are three goji berries, an old box of Arm & Hammer and a flaccid carrot.
Then, on the day in question, the five emotional stages of hosting a dinner party begin in earnest.
1. Denial You wake feeling strangely unmotivated. "Pish posh," you say, floundering about in your jim-jams, "14 people are coming to dinner and there's no food? Time to squeeze myself an orange juice and read my horoscope."
2. Anger Two hours later you're at the local shopping strip clutching a foot-long shopping list and cursing any recipe longer than "melt butter; add peas". You ask the teenage sales assistant whether they stock ras el hanout and he offers you a Kleenex. Light relief comes when he asks you to identify one of your purchases from the produce aisle. It's a cucumber. You push on, thinking now is the perfect time to cultivate a relationship with your local butcher; to ask if he has pigeons, and if he can bone them for you. Surprisingly, the butcher's answer is to stare you down wordlessly - his hand never leaving his cleaver - until you back out of the shop and make a run for the car.
3. Bargaining At 5.30pm you've stopped sweating like a MasterChef finalist and started sweating like a judge, meaning tears and recriminations can't be far off. Bloody beetroot hand prints cover the cupboards and the unboned quails you managed to score on the way home glare at you from the kitchen bench. You've severely mutilated two of them and have tried to compensate by sewing part of a chicken breast onto a third. It ain't pretty. At this stage you're concerned not so much with styling and presentation as with concealment and damage control. There's only one thing left to do, only one authority to turn to. You sink to your knees and pray to your kitchen god: "Dear Stephanie, just make this work and I promise to eat seasonally and locally and to create a kitchen garden".
4. Depression Hungry guests are pawing at the empty nut bowl and eyeing the clock. Staring at the oven door doesn't seem to make the food any more done, and all those vegetables on the bench are looking seriously unwashed, unpeeled, unchopped, unpuréed, untossed, undressed and unlikely to cook themselves in the next 30 minutes. Surveying the scene through the crack in the kitchen door, one guest announces she's just become a breatharian. That resolve-stiffening Martini you decided on seems to have become lost, so you send a couple more down your throat to look for it. You slump to the kitchen floor.
5. Acceptance And then you snap out of it, pick up the knife, cut your losses, abandon your dégustation and just make everyone dinner. In the end you serve three courses (four if you count the nuts) and it is more-ish rather than Moorish. There is no discernable method to your wine selection, but the grapes still prove potent: people sway, dance with the cat, and fall asleep in the laundry basket. You love how everyone attacks the quail with their hands, politely ignores that your tonka bean soufflés look like pancakes in ramekins, and enthusiastically organises a working bee for the dishes.
At 3am the last happy guest teeters into a taxi. You close the door, breathe a sigh of relief and turn around to survey the damage. "Never again," you say. Your partner nods vigorously and goes off in search of a mop and the cat. You eat a soggy hors d'oeuvre and slump on the couch. A glossy magazine catches your eye; you pick it up and rifle through it. Damn, that triple-chocolate mousse cake with hazelnut meringue and chocolate ganache looks pretty spectacular. Perhaps you could make it next month. Just for a small get-together. Maybe even roast a whole suckling pig with an apple in its mouth, and build that backyard woodfired oven you've always wanted. Nothing fancy, mind.
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