Sunday, March 7, 2010

The Adventures of Campos and Luxe

I can't sleep. And it's not because of the repetitive music playing somewhere close by, or because of the incessant sounds of cars and ambulances hurtling down the main road near my flat...

There are so many thoughts whooshing around in my head. This has become quite a common occurrence for me...I love it, but sometimes it would be nice to catch them, put them in jam jars and devour their gooey goodness another day...

If there's one thing I've learned about Sydney in my short residence here, it's that Sydney thinks it's awesome. Bloody awesome. Not even kidding. People wear whatever the hell they want. And they walk around like Bonnie and Clyde. Roads smugly smirk at you, arrogantly telling you once again, 'no right turn,' forcing you not only to go completely out of your way to reach your destination, but also to brave more crazy Sydney drivers. There seems to be an event in Sydney every single weekend. Again, traffic setback, plus large clusters of 20-something's wearing short shorts tucked into patterned tank tops, and exorbitant numbers of police about.

However, today, (technically it's Sunday, but the essence of today still lingers...) I crawled my way into Newtown (took me 45minutes to drive 9km). And found did I a place filled with friendly people - well mostly friendly anyway. Apart from a woman in a clothes store who couldn't care less that I tried on nine garments, and proceeded to buy absolutely nothing, and the guy in the jewellery-cum-designer clothes store that took one look at me and said zilch but was able to muster a happy greeting to another customer, this place has a very 'come hither' vibe to it.

The main attraction for me was Campos Cafe on Missenden Road (Street? Not sure, can't remember). Various reviews I have read say this is Coffee Hollywood. Now, apparently it is a well known fact that in comparison to Melbourne coffee, Sydney coffee is rate-less. Terrible. Crap. Before today, my opinion was very much the contrary. While I have been here, I have had a fabulous coffee experience. Maybe this is my sixth sense; an extra facet in my brain that sends sub-conscious messages leading me to the liquid gold...Apparently not so.

I finally arrive in Newtown, and make my way up to Campos. One step in the door, and something's just not right. Apart from some commercialised pastries and brownies at the front counter, this cafe just turned into a coffee house. Literally coffee only. Oh. Bum. But, not to worry, two steps to the left is an incredibly modern and attractive looking place called Luxe Bakery. I walk up the stairs and peer at the chalkboard menu. Looks pretty good. Quick visit to the toot, then up to the counter. After asking the waiter a few questions, I am left with a dilemma; turkish bread or sourdough fruit toast? Other options include gourmet salads and sandwiches, muesli, eggs poached, scrambled, fried and omeletted with all the usual sides and garnishes. But I'm in the mood for pane. I go the fruit toast. After taking a seat on a shared table, I open up my beloved Saturday paper and immerse myself in all its wonder. Very soon my fruit toast arrives; crisp and warm - yum. Qualm alert: sparseness. One of my pet hates, despite being inordinately petty, is sparse fruit toast. I don't want to have to use a magnifying glass to locate the sultanas and figs, ok? Is that really too much to ask? I don't think so. This particular offender is not the worst I've seen, but could really use some improvement. Nonetheless, its crunchy yet moist, sourdough goodness is wonderful. Qualm two: I never met a jam I didn't like. Until now. I've even grown quite fond of the tart marmalades around, but this particular breed of preserve, a banana marmalade, just didn't quite cut it. Too funky. Bananas belong in splits, smoothies, or even on peanut butter sandwiches. Not in marmalade. On the upside, the plum jam was beautiful; could have used a few more chunky bits, but that's me being picky. My coffee arrives a shortly and it looks pretty good. Warning: looks can be deceiving. As my spoon plunges into the mug, it's clear that the froth has now divorced the milk and is idly floating on the top of it. Not good. One sip and it's all over. I scoop the idle froth up with my spoon to eat, (slurp? inhale?) and then push the mug aside. Quite satisfied with my toast, I have to say. The three average sized slices leave me feeling satisfied but not stuffed, which is rare for cafes these days. You either get a meal contains your entire calorie intake for the day, or, microscopic servings at outrageous prices. The temptation to try the foccacia (which looked exactly the way a foccacia was always meant to look: fluffy and soft on the inside, with a slightly browned but chewy outer layer), is a bit of drawcard back...we'll see. Not wanting to offend the friendly staff with my neglected coffee, I quickly slip out the doors.

Things have seemingly worked out perfectly, as I can experience Sydney's most loved coffee house after all. For a second time today, I note the absence of women employees. Not a particularly profound observance, but still interesting. I order my soy, weak cappuccino and slide into one of the circular tables at the rear of the cafe. Campos is set up like an Italian Espresso bar, except that they have chairs. In Italy, it's pretty much swig and keep striding. Anyway, contrary to what I mentioned before, my sixth sense must have ditched me in favour of the beach (to be fair, it was very hot today), because disappointment thy name be Campos Coffee! The three essentials of a cappuccino were undeniably missing; decent amount of froth, a generous shake of chocolate powder on top, and the smooth, syrupy flavour of espresso. Role call: good coffee? *silence engulfs the room.* Not to be melodramatic or anything. I just won't be back. That's all.

I make my exit and peruse King Street for the afternoon. I come across a diverse assortment of shops; from vegan grocery stores to retro clothing joints; this is certainly an eclectic street. I think I like it.

All of a sudden, it's 4.00pm and I have 10 minutes to rush back to my car. I can't resist stopping at a stationary store on the way back, and an art house-cum-bookstore, so by the time I reach my car, it's 25 past. I brace myself for the flapping piece of rectangular evil shoved beneath my windscreen wipers, but to my absolute relief, my windscreen is undefiled. No sooner had I jumped in the car, ready to fly away, did I spy a parking inspector ambling up the hill. I don't like using the word luck. It reminds me of fortune cookies, for some stupid reason. It suggests that nothing is sound, and everything is subject to this unmeasured degree of chance. I like to believe someone has got our back. I don't know why grace was extended to me in the form of narrowly missing out on a parking ticket. All I can say is that I'm grateful.

I slowly make my way down King and discover that the street is a lot longer than I thought. This calls for a a definite revisit I think. Once home, beans are chopped and boiled, and capsicums, tomatoes, zucchinis, onions (both brown and purple variety) and garlic are caramelised in the oven. Din dins done for the next couple of days. Finish off the evening with You've Got Mail - an oldie but an absolute goodie.

Til tomorgen me loves...xx

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