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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Attica chef Ben Shewry has been thinking about your buttocks, and wants to introduce them to an Australian design classic.
Charleston, the antebellum jewel of the Carolina coast, has embraced its Lowcountry roots, writes Shane Mitchell, and now shines anew.
Our June issue is out now, and it's all about breakfast. Pat Nourse kicks things off with his editor's letter.
Andrew McConnell’s Cantonese-inspired restaurant will become a classroom for a night during the Emerging Writers’ Festival.
A bloody good dinner for a bloody good cause.
An ambitious, brand new regional hotel has been awarded not one but three top accolades this year.
Andrew McConnell’s yakitori, buns, dumplings and lobster rolls head south of the river.
Sydney’s favourite whisky bar makes a rare overground appearance at a pop-up on Pitt Street Mall.
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.
A far cry from Tuscany’s familiar gently rolling hills, Monte Argentario’s appealing mix of mountain, ocean, island and lagoon makes it one of Italy’s hidden treasures, writes Emiko Davies.
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.
Kick off winter with a week of cheese tasting.
No, it’s not a pop-up. The team behind Sydney’s Moon Park is back with an all-day east-Asian eatery.
Prepare to enter a picture of the countryside framed by note-perfect Australiana but painted in bold, elegant and unsentimental strokes. Over 10 or more courses, Dan Hunter celebrates his region with dishes that are formally daring (Crunchy prawn heads! Creamy oyster soft-serve! Sea urchin and chicory bread pudding!), yet rich in flavour and substance. The menu could benefit from an edit, but the plates are tightly composed - and what could you cut? Certainly not the limpid broth bathing fronds of abalone and calamari, nor the clever arrangement of lobster played off against charred waxy fingerlings under a swatch of milk skin. The adventure is significantly the richer for the cool gloss of the dining room, some of the most engaging service in the nation and wine pairings that roam with an easy-going confidence. Maturing and relaxing without surrendering a drop of its ambition, Brae is more compelling than ever.
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.
Like its oft-disputed name, the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia defies simple definition but its rich diversity extends from the dinner table to the welcoming locals, writes Richard Cooke.
It's not all "the good life" being a producer - sometimes
it's more like the good, the bad and the ugly, writes Paulette
Whitney from the other side of the market trestle table.
Yesterday, after the farmers' market, I was sharing a cider with a friend and having a chat about our day. "A lot of people about?" he asked, thinking that a good market is about dollars, which it is, but dollars are not the primary driver for me, or I'd be an accountant, not a farmer.
"There were a few about; it was busy," I replied. "But today was different; everyone was kind. There's usually someone who'll give us a hard time, but this week everyone was really nice."
Sometimes you're standing there and you can't feel your hands, your kids are moaning about being bored, you're trying to make labels for your produce, drink some coffee to warm up while you wait for a customer, and someone will come by and lob a nasty comment at you.
Last week it was: "Everyone at this market is selling old kale. I like it small, like baby spinach. Here it's all too big and too old."
Matt, my co-gardener, who is also a chef, chimes in. He tells our accuser how he likes to cook kale, that it's a vegetable that responds beautifully to being braised or dropped into a soup. His descriptions are making me hungry. He suggests that if she wants something more tender, something that she can cook more quickly, she could try the cime di rapa.
She interrupts his flow, saying, "You should harvest it younger," with a particularly caustic tone. So I join in; I try explaining the horticultural angle. Kale is a cold-season plant that we start in January and harvest from the same planting all winter. That it's a far more sustainable option than cultivating every few weeks to replant a baby-leaf crop, that we get kilos of food from a single cultivation, with no need for pesticides or fertilisers.
She asks again how to cook it and I give her my ideas. I like it in a lamb curry, shredded in a salad, braised with green lentils, bay and garlic. She picks up every bunch from our pile, examining and up-ending them as I talk to her. She lifts the final one close to her face, squints at it, and dumps it on top of the turnips. She turns away, glances over her shoulder and says dismissively, "I'll think about it."
Our kale is $3.50 for a good-sized bunch. We hand-cultivate the beds, hand-weed, harvest the day before market, carefully arrange the fruits of our labour, with a not insignificant amount of pride, on our table. We've spent 15 minutes talking to her, and another five minutes putting the display back together. We've been honest, passionate, informative and friendly. Although it might seem like a small thing and we should be able to shake it off, every week there's at least one person who behaves this way and it's a real kick in the guts.
"Your gear is too expensive. I got herbs at home, I grow 'em cheaper 'an you an' I'll come down 'ere an' sell 'em. Youse a bloody rip-orf."
Well, thank you, sir, for your shouted observations, that's made my morning. Maybe if you'd come closer than shouting distance I could have explained to you the economics of bringing things to market. The stall fees, the public liability insurance, the labour involved in growing and maintaining plants, as well as harvesting and marketing them. The gamble that nobody will buy them and I'll be eating mint all week, the time that I spend standing there to sell my produce, the cost of the marquee that keeps the rain and sun off it, and the fact that everyone, including farmers, has the right to work hard and earn a reasonable living.
"There is blood in your soil?" asks another woman after reading our methodology, which is clearly presented on our stall. Yes, there is. I explain that we buy local blood and bone meal, a source of phosphorous, nitrogen and countless other nutrients. That all soil is made up of decaying animal, as well as plant matter, that the alternative source of phosphorous is rock phosphate, a vital but diminishing resource used in conventional agriculture, and that peak phosphorous is a potential food security crisis not many people know about. That the abattoir waste that makes up our blood and bone would otherwise become a pollution issue for meatworks to dispose of.
"Humph," she says. "But your soil has blood in it, right?" And walks off to eat whatever food she can find that is completely unsullied by death.
But this week, there was none of that - not a jot of it. One lady came and told us, "Your salad is amazing. I loved it so much I need two this week." Another came and asked for some cime di rapa and, "This stuff is great. Can I please have a bunch with plenty of rapini in it?" Why, yes you can! I go through the pile and pick the choicest bunch, full of deliciously bitter little flower heads for her.
My girls swapped some seedlings for hot cups of miso flavoured
with striped trumpeter and local kelp, and oca for cannoli. I
bought soap, made with Tasmanian olive oil and herbs, for a
friend's birthday present. We completely sold out of kale, cime di
rapa, tomatoes and turnips, and came home for that cider tired but
You get an incredible sense of achievement from feeding people produce that you know is well grown. We've worked hard, we've fed people and we've got our milk, cheese, apples and meat for the week from the hands of our friends who grew it. We've been given plant pots and strawberry punnets to re-use by our customers; one has a handful of passionfruit from somebody's garden in it.
Every week a woman comes and buys her greens along with a little edible bouquet. We chat about cooking and gardening. She tells us she misses her family in WA, that coming to the market and chatting with all of us makes her week full, makes her feel like she's part of a vibrant and warm community.
"It's only a little thing," she says, "but it makes all the difference."
Illustration: Tom Bingham
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