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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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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Kick off winter with a week of cheese tasting.
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.
I flew to Mexico's Yucatán Peninsula to eat at Noma's latest international pop-up, which is open for seven weeks at Tulum. There were ferns, grasshoppers and lots of Birkenstocks. This is what ran through my mind while I was there.
1. To get to Noma Mexico's front gate (and by gate I mean "rope between two trees") I bought flights from Sydney, paid for overpriced accommodation at the only yoga retreat not already booked out (it being the Easter long weekend) and paid $US600 for dinner.
2. Gosh, what a lot of money. I hope it's good.
3. Wandering along Tulum's main coastal drag towards said front gate, my dining companions and I stumble across a group of smiley people all wearing white T-shirts, grey aprons and Birkenstocks.
4. Turns out these are the Noma people. A handful of the 145 employees and family members who were flown over from Copenhagen for the pop-up. Lucky bastards.
5. And they're standing in front of a Mexican jungle.
6. Someone breaks off from the group and leads us around trees, ferns and bushes to our table.
7. Whoa! This floor is made of sand!
8. Don't staff get sand in their German sandals?
9. I ask and am told yes, they do, and the Scandinavian team members wear socks under them to counter this.
10. A guest at our table asks if they may remove their sand-filled shoes.
11. "Of course!"
12. I'm now sitting at Noma with no shoes on. I feel like a toddler in a sandpit.
13. To help us forget our lack of sophistication we're handed flutes of 2009 Louis Roederer. Much better.
14. The first dish arrives at the table - it's a woven basket filled with ice and topped with four plants I couldn't name if you paid me.
15. Luckily, it's the other way round and it's me that's paying, so, they tell me: a pink flor de mayo (a frangipani-like flower) filled with ginger; a long tart fruit called a piñuela, with tamarind and coriander flowers; a beetroot-coloured spring cactus topped with bitter ant paste; and a seaweed-looking thing, which turns out to be kelp filled with mussel Michelada - a take on the Mexican classic of beer with lime juice and spices.
16. The staff here aren't, in fact, called staff - or waiters or servers - but nerds. Nerds!
17. A second dish arrives, also in a basket, also on ice (will this continue for all 14 courses?). It's a raw melon clam from the Sea of Cortez with half a sour orange to squeeze over the top. With dried local lime, it makes for a tart take on a ceviche.
18. We're also served mead, fermented honey, made just west of Mexico City. It immediately transports me to the world of Game of Thrones. But, it's hot and muggy; I don't think winter is coming any time soon.
19. But then maybe we're in Meereen. Or possibly Yunkai. There's more to Game of Thrones than Westeros, after all.
20. Deep-fried tortillas, or salbute, are dropped at the table (they're not served in a basket or on ice!) and we're told they're topped with grasshoppers.
21. Will they be crunchy? Bitter, like ants? Will I hate them and want to awkwardly spit them into my custom-made napkin?
22. It's my favourite dish yet. No spitting necessary.
23. The crunchy tortilla is topped with dried tomatoes and chile de árbol. You can barely taste the grasshoppers - they've been roasted in garlic and mashed into a smooth white paste.
24. A nerd mentions that we're not drinking our water very quickly and suggests we have mezcal instead.
25. Mezcal? This will just taste like tequila but better, right?
26. Wrong. This one, made in Oaxaca, is rich and intensely salty.
27. Now there's a bowl of flowers in front of me. I cautiously nibble the petals at first, then dive in, embracing my inner squirrel (or chipmunk - I can't quite decide).
28. Two gentlemen arrive at the table but they're not wearing Birkenstocks. Who are they? How did they get out of wearing them?
29. They're in charge of the barbecue and they get to wear headbands, black T-shirts and Crocs instead. They probably don't want hot coals or chunks of suckling pig, like the one they're carrying on a bed of palm fronds, landing on their sandy toes.
30. We're yet to use the daggers sitting on our table. They might not be out of place in Game of Thrones. A leaf falls on the table, breaking my reverie, and I remember I'm eating dinner cooked by one of the best teams of chefs in the world, not running from white walkers.
31. Poor Hodor.
32. Mezcal number two arrives. How many drinks down is this? I glance down to my left at my non-existent menu.
33. A nerd warns us that you have to respect mezcal. She said she learnt the hard way. I recall sculling my first one and realise I might, too.
34. Tacos! Finally.
35. But they're not really tacos. They're big fat Bahía Falsa (a bay in Baja California) oysters wrapped in chaya leaves.
36. Escamoles, aka ant eggs, appear on our plates. They're big and white, a bit like swollen grains of rice.
37. These ants must be pretty big.
38. I scan the floor: where are these giant ants? Will they attack my unprotected toes? I for one welcome our new insect overlords.
39. The eggs are silky and creamy, and set on crisp tostadas with thin slices of bean.
40. The men in Crocs arrive again. Where have they been hiding? This time they're carrying a clay pot containing octopus encased in a crust of masa and wrapped in corn husks. It's been buried in coals for an hour.
41. A tentacle is placed on my plate atop a puddle of dzikilpak, a sauce made from pumpkin seeds. I've never eaten such tender octopus - or used a dagger to do so.
42. I resolve to only use daggers to slice my food from now on. Preferably daggers made of dragonglass.
43. Natural wine! From Mexico! The brand is Bichi and it's a pinot noir made in Tecate.
44. It's sweet, juicy and funky and the label features a mostly naked man in a mask. I wonder if they've been drinking Pink Pound.
45. Dessert begins. It starts with grilled avocado filled with avocado ice-cream. Warm avocado, in a chicken toastie, say, usually makes my skin crawl. This is a significant improvement.
46. A plate of dried pasilla chillies. We're warned to only eat the one that has been stuffed with native cacao sorbet.
47. This sounds fun, a game of roulette similar to eating a bowl of Padrón peppers, but it's pretty obvious which one has been stuffed.
48. I spoke too soon. Someone at the table immediately picks up the wrong chilli and starts eating it. "It's so spicy!"
49. Ha ha. Rookie.
50. Maybe I'm too confident. Maybe it's the mezcal.
51. To stave off the mezcal haze, we're handed our closing drink: cold-brewed coffee from the hills of Chiapas, Mexico's southernmost state.
52. It's delicious, but I think it might be too little, too late.
53. As the night draws to a close at the magical Mexican jungle, guests are floating around barefoot, fending off the buzzing wildlife with one of the many bottles of bug spray on hand and I'm trying to find James, the Australian restaurant manager, to ask where I can find escamoles for my breakfast scram back in Sydney.
54. Me gustas, René Redzepi.
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