Gong Hay Fat Choy – We are in the season of Chinese New Year, with red lanterns, dragon dancers (my personal favorite of all the terpsechordian arts) and festive meals, so tonight we ate at No. 8 (the luckiest of the Chinese numbers). Our “booking” was honored promptly despite our early arrival and we were seated at a lovely table outside with close proximity to the street festival in full swing along the south bank of the Yarra River. Red paper lanterns stretched along the promenade, buskers performed, caricaturists drew and crowds surged past our table, enjoying the benign weather. The wine list was presented and while the human male sipped at his 12 year old Glenfiddich (there being neither Smuggler’s Cove, nor The Nant, nor The Lark available) I determined the best choice was The Dalrymple, a lovely 2012 Tasmanian Pinot Noir bursting with fresh strawberries, soft but supple tannins, and a gorgeous color – in honor of the plan to leave on the morrow for Tasmania where many good spiritous things are rumored to be abundantly available.
The sommelier appeared pleased with my choice, and MiLady seemed contented. Menus appeared to assist our contemplative state of mind, and wonderful homemade bread with salted encrusted butter arrived. Then the spectre of ruin raised its ugly head. A couple was seated at the next (upwind) table – and she lit up. I was, for many, many years a consumer of Pocohantas’ revenge, quitting only when forced to do so, and then not very graciously, but having regained my senses of smell and taste, I am extraordinarily loath to surrender their sensous joys. Perhaps, I thought as the delicate nuanced flavors of the Pinot were lost in her smoke, she’ll just indulge in a single odoriferous offense, and our meal can resume its trajectory. Sadly I was mistaken. From the butt of the last, she lighted the next. Visions of mayhem and cruel revenge fantasies danced through my brain – using my tail to upend her table and soak her with wine seemed a promising avenue to pursue. Fortunately an alternative strategy presented itself – the maitre d’ was summoned and the following conversation ensued.
Me: It is entirely my fault for not having asked prior to being seated, but does No. 8 have a non-smoking seating area?
Delightfully charming (female) Maitre d’ (sniffing out the problem instantly): Oh dear. That’s unbearable. How will you ever be able to enjoy your dinner? Let me relocate you to a lovely table that just became available at the other (upwind) end of the terrace so that you can properly enjoy your meal.
Perfect solutions are rare but this was handled so diplomatically that only the waiter, the maitre d’, Milady, the human male, and I were even aware anything had transpired. Brilliant.
The six delicately flavored oysters sprinkled with nothing more than lemon juice, were unaffected by the previous miasma, and were delectable. Medium sized, firm, fresh with a hint of brine, they were what oysters were meant to be. The paper thin Waygu beef carpaccio with dots of egg yolk (given the color and texture, probably duck) and translucent daikon radish slices with miniaturized pumpernickel croutons, capers, and red onion melted on the tongue. These slices were the best explanation of why, given the opportunity, one should mortgage one’s offsprings futures to indulge one’s senses in the here and now, without the slightest twinge of guilt.
The local lamb chops were heavenly. Thick cuts of the finest grass-fed lamb, grilled to absolute perfection and supported by a tangy yogurt they were superb. The rack of venison MiLady ordered was simply the best I’ve ever tasted. Crusted with a little herb rub, ruby red and yet noticeably hot, they were exactly what I’ve wanted for dinner for a very long time. Duck fat potatoes and a delightful beetroot with the same yogurt which graced the lamb completed the sumptuous dinner offering. As deeply satisfying as was the chocolate ganache and raspberry sherbet confection we shared to finish the meal, it was almost an anti-climax. The cappucinos were the weakest part of the entire meal – they were not quite hot enough to satisfy me, though they were properly prepared and very tasty.
My conclusion, No. 8, was a very lucky place to dine.