I’ve always liked the food. From even the youngest of ages, when I was finally able to cling to thoughts long enough for them to become memories, I remember defining places my parents took me by the food that would be available. One of our family friends ALWAYS had schnitzel. Platters of it. And when they didn’t, I cried.
Now I’m older, food (and the preparation thereof) still bobs around the top of the list of my obsessions. And while it’s easy to pretend that my tastes have developed and matured, I can’t claim that with a totally clear conscience.
Yes, I love finding an exotic new ingredient or complex recipe and decoding it slowly, sometime attempting it three or four times before either proudly adding it to my limited ‘repertoire’, or abandoning it entirely. I like go out and order the goat or the snail or the brain or the foam and eat it like it’s in my lunchbox every day. But the truth is, there’s a whole other side. A Dr. Food-Jekyll to my Mr. Food-Hyde.
I love eating crap. Utter crap. Love it. The moment I have a night at home alone, a trip to the supermarket prefixes a meal of something microwaveable, something crumbed, something frozen and something self-saucing; the true food pyramid.
A bed of microwave ‘pasta’ ‘alfredo’ delicately topped with an Inghams frozen chicken kiev, followed by an Ice-Magic-laced bowl of vanilla ice cream. Michelin stars await.
This duality started when I was younger. My mum taught me quickly the rewards of being adventurous with food. I was the only 7 year old keen on sheep’s brains with fresh-squeezed lemon juice, or to have ox tongue and horseradish in his sandwiches at school. And I loved it all. Mum was right- by taking risks, you could find something delicious that nobody else knew about- the Secret Smoked Eel Society.
But when the time came to eat out, to truly explore the world of food, there was only ever one option. One menu item to rule them all. The dark side…
I don’t know where I first fell in love with the Fisherman’s Basket, but I do know that it quickly became an obsession. Over-crumbed, over-salted, list on salad, I just couldn’t wait to get into the calamari/prawn/fish bite/chip/seashell-full-of-tartare-sauce combination.
Maybe it was the sheer size of the basket they came in. Or the simple fact that someone at the table was being served his dinner in wicker. Everyone else at the table would marvel at the size of the meal I’d been given, and would applaud when I finished it (I don’t remember ever offering to share any…).
So enamoured was I, at around age 11 I convinced my parents that one day I would write a book comparing every Fisherman’s Basket available in Australia. That book’s still at the planning stage, I’m sorry to say.
In my defence, they seemed to be everywhere. Maybe my parents only took us to places that had it on the menu, but the ‘basket’ seemed omnipresent, like the ‘parma’ is today.
It’s been a long time since I had a Fisherman’s Basket. Diets and a predilection toward Asian restaurants have restricted my exposure to the crumbed masterpiece. But when I’m home alone, unable to get my hands on my former favourite and not required by others to create something with even a slight nutritional benefit, you can almost guarantee that my shopping bag will be filled with something equally appalling.
As we worry about oil filling our oceans, over-fishing, scarcity of fresh ingredients in an over-populated world, at least one things for certain; with nothing fresh or green, and very little connection to anything that’s come out of the sea in the last 5 years, the world will one day see the revival of this classic Australian dish.
And I’ll be ready for it.
Tristan Lutze, 2010
