Well Sydney, you’ve done it again. Congratu-fucking-lations. Of all the latest trends to hit the palates of this city’s culinary zeitgeist, the one I find most laughable is the internationally renowned import. Whether it’s a plane trip down to Melbs to see Heston Blumenthal sell out a pop-up before the cutlery’s even been ordered, David Chang selling hot dogs at The Star (formerly Star City – because you can’t polish a turd, but you can roll it in glitter), or Noma briefly opening behind a dusty construction site we don’t want, tucked behind the beginnings of a casino we don’t need, we’ve become obsessed with the big brand name of the international chef.
And when you think about this obsession, it doesn’t make any sense at all. Most of these imports opening their little outlets in Sydney come from countries less produce-rich and less sustainable than Australia. Australian chefs are famous for leading the world in farm-to-table philosophy, working with suppliers and farmers directly, and sourcing produce as close to the final destination as possible. And Australian chefs are famously familiar with the produce as well. It doesn’t take a genius to scoff down a seventy-dollar steak at Rockpool Bar & Grill, for example, served with nothing but a napkin and a smile, to realise that the best Australia has to offer in the quality produce department begs for simplicity and, dare I say, elegance.
Kensington St Social is the latest shiny over-priced, over-hyped and flavourless offering in the Central Park collection of bars and restaurants, located in the laneway behind The Old Clare hotel. With the room designed by some allegedly famous Asian design agency, and famed for the fact that some bloke called Jason Atherton has overseen the opening and menu, we’re expected to wet ourselves with excitement over the notion that he once worked for Gordon Ramsay and is now onto restaurant number sixteen. Or nineteen. Or who gives a toss.
First thing’s first: if I’m expected to fork out north of $350 for a dinner for two, I expect a fucking chair. I don’t think that’s an unreasonable request. The obsession with high-stools and counter dining in this desolate wasteland of pseudo-hospitality has extended way too far for this cowboy and frankly I’m sick of it. It’s not charming, it’s not clever, it’s tacky and uncomfortable. I shouldn’t have to prop myself up with a knee behind my elbow so I can lean on a freezing cold marble surface for long enough to peruse the fucking menu.
Which, in our case, was a long time to wait in this tall ceilinged, dimly lit, poorly serviced room. Upon finally ushering a waitress (albeit it can’t be easy walking through your section trying to gauge a guest’s needs when all their fucking backs are turned to you) we are informed that everything is designed to share and that for two people, three to four dishes would be ample.
This is a classic example of the ‘Sydney share plate’ mentality; that somehow it’s a modern and sophisticated way to try more things on the menu for less, whilst basically being pick-pocketed by the head chef while the dishy looks on with glee. I ordered seven things, re-assuring our server that I had the appetite of a fully grown human male and not somebody on a combination of the Jenny Craig program and chemotherapy.
As the dishes begin to arrive, I quickly learn that the minimalist design of the room extends to the flavour profile of the dishes. Where does one even begin? The goats curd radish salad is a lump of goats curd with some raw shaved radishes; the ‘social dog’ is a pork and fennel chipolata (to call it a chipolata is being generous) in a roll with some green apple and what I’m told is black-pudding crumb, but what I’m certain is the scrapings off the griddle from the previous service, and the Kingfish tataki is relatively flavourless grey flesh served with what tastes suspiciously like Kewpie mayo which, SPOILER ALERT: tastes suspiciously like sunscreen. It really does.
And they do pizza for fuck’s sake. Of course they do, it’s Sydney afterall isn’t it? Now you can’t even sneak in a cheeky little high-brow dinner in a back lane without having some wanker’s posh version of fucking pizza shoved under your nose. They call them ‘sourdough flatbreads’ but I know a fucking pizza when I see one, although I am generally accustomed to them being slightly larger than a compact disc (if these ones are modelled on any one compact disc I’m certain it’s the single version of ‘Shaddap You Face’ by Joe Dolce).
Skip through the over-seasoned rump, three dainty slices of rare beef with more sauces and purées underneath than you can fit on the fucking meat, and when mixed together taste suspiciously like vegemite, to the petit four of what they describe as ‘chicken fat toffee’ and you’ve really, really upset me KSS.
There’s a difference between being the kind of cunt that uses quotation marks on a menu by calling something ‘chicken fat toffee’ and actually serving a FUCKING lolly made out of FUCKING CHICKEN FAT. Nowhere in history has anybody opened the fridge and looked at the thin white layer of cholesterol on the top of yesterday’s chicken soup and thought ‘you know what? I might make that into candy. What a top fucking idea.’ And with good reason, it’s revolting. It’s the only dish you served me with a distinctive flavour, KSS, and the flavour was cold chicken fat. Why would anybody in their right mind put their name to this pus? What’s wrong with an after dinner mint? How did we go from individually-wrapped mint flavoured chocolates to a lump of fucking chicken fat?
As that final sticky, grainy morsel tried to slide down my throat, as the last nail in the coffin of this ridiculous experience tried to digest, I sat there feeling as deflated as my wallet, but somewhat satisfied in the knowledge that my theory on these Michelin-starred imports stands correct. Surely we could have found some young local whippersnapper to come up with a menu at least as white-bread as this, but perhaps with a little more sensibility to do it without the arrogance and self-absorbtion of which this smug restaurant reeks, and probably for a fraction of the price. Or at least one who could offer a whimsical spin on an honest fucking after dinner mint.