Meat Snob

The pub up the road in Melbourne was a truly trendy tavern. I know this because Lady Gaga once chose to eat there.

I assume she is no vegetarian (that meat dress...) and she is certainly not Australian, so just maybe we both noticed the same menu peculiarity.  There were three species of native animals on offer. 

I couldn't do it, the concept was simply too foreign to a Kiwi newcomer, I ordered a safer, domesticated meat option and wondered how Australians could so comfortably 'eat their own.'

All meat eaters have their personal preferences, but this prejudice was new.  It made me think about 'the meat that we eat' - here are my carnivorous conclusions:

• We like our meat to be plentiful but not too familiar.  We express outrage at the slaughter and consumption of endangered animals ('bush meat' and whales for example) but are also offended by those cultures who choose to eat animals that are commonly kept as domestic pets in the western world, even though we acknowledge that many of these animals have become feral nuisances.
• We do not like to think that our meat might have suffered during its brief life.  If cost is no consideration, we buy free range chickens and pork that has never been confined to a sow crate. 
• We prefer out meat to be lean, neatly packaged and cut into convenient sized portions.  Most of us do not like it to closely resemble its living counterpart. Hooves, feathers and offal are removed and easily identifiable body parts are generally not big sellers (pigs heads, ox tail, chicken feet).
• Conveniently, we can even choose to forget that out package of flesh once belonged to a living breathing animal - why else would we rename dead meat? Pig becomes pork, sheep becomes mutton or lamb, cow becomes beef, deer becomes... etc. etc
• Clever marketing has even attempted to re-brand certain species of animals as a completely new foodstuff.  Don't like venison? - here try some cervena! Would you eat chevon? - Why not? its the most commonly eaten meat in the world* 

Months later, another state, another restaurant with kangaroo on the menu. I shouldn't have voiced my prejudice.  Our host challenged my aversion. Didn't I know that introduced grazing animals were damaging the outback environment? He explained that hooves cause erosion, whereas marsupial feet do not. Kangaroos are plentiful, their meat is lean and they are perfectly adapted to the territory in which they range.  He suggested that I should try some.

And so I did.  It was a very, very large piece of meat, served rare (I was assured that this is the appropriate way to cook it).  It was bloody, smelt gamey and bled all over the accompanying vegetables. I tried it, did not enjoy it and certainly couldn't finish it. Lesson learned.

New Zealanders don't 'eat their own' because we can't.  Our extant native species are too precious to be sustainably harvested and too small to provide a decent meal.  We ought to be eating our pest species, but they are not readily commercially available and most of us are not prepared to shoot to kill. Smaller pest species carry diseases and there is a risk that their flesh might be tainted by the pesticides that are used to eradicate wild populations.


But Aussies have pest species too.  Deer, donkeys, horses and camels have all become feral pests.  These animals compete with marsupial grazers and domesticated species for food.  They destroy native plant life and spread invasive seeds in their droppings.
Why don't Australians eat their pest species? Well actually - they do.
The answer was right there in the meat chiller at Coles.  Camel burgers, conveniently packaged, nicely presented and placed right alongside various kangaroo cuts.

The next time I have an opportunity to cook for our kangaroo loving dinner companion I know exactly what I will be serving him (and I will have the lamb).




*goat

 

The Vernacular

It's the little things that you notice: they still have five cent pieces here, the magpies sound happier and of course there is no escaping the Aussie accent.

As a child, I endured a fair bit of teasing from older Australian cousins, "say six" they would order, and then fall about laughing; " she said sux! - now say fish and chips!"
I was always too timid to retaliate, scared that if I suggested that they were in fact saying "sex" they might ask me to explain what that word meant (and I wasn't entirely sure.....)

After a while you become used to the Aussie accent because most people you meet don't speak at all like Crocodile Dundee. There are rare exceptions however, when a friendly saleswoman referred to her "seester dee-owun een Keen-beer-ah" I was grateful that I hadn't asked her where Keen-beer-ah was located. Later, J explained that she had been referring to Australia's capital city.

Australians are startling fond of inventing diminutives, in fact they use abbreviations more than any other English speaking nation.  Some are familiar (barbie, brekkie, cuppa) others less so.  For example, an ambulance driver (who happened to be a member of the salvation army) seen refueling his vehicle a service station, would likely be described on this side of the Tasman as 'the salvo ambo at the servo'.
Even giant american corporates have pandered to the Australian 'appreciation for abbreviation.'
This year, thirteen Australian McDonald's outlets re-branded (for a limited time only).

Most 'strine' is easily interpreted, but every once in a while you encounter a word that is a uniquely Australian.  For example, if you were to have a 'bingle' while visiting Australia, would you be:

a) Experiencing a pleasant tingling sensation while enjoying a romantic encounter with a well known Australian model
b) Involved in a minor traffic accident
c) Running safely to first base while playing baseball

                                        (Correct answer at the bottom of the page)

Don't expect to hear 'fair dinkum.' The most common phrase in the Australian vocabulary is 'nah wurries' (translation = no worries).  I like it.  It nicely encapsulates the Aussie ethos of casual optimism and is much more pleasant than the meaningless, contradictory Kiwi equivalent (yeah nah). 'Nah wurries' usually means 'you are most welcome.'  It is an essential catchphrase for all shop assistants. Take possession of your purchase, say "thank you" and immediately the person serving will respond with "nah wurries."  The linguistic habit has crossed all cultural and geographic boundaries.  Aussies of every ethnic background say it (charming in an Indian accent) and even call center staff in distant countries have been instructed to use the phrase while talking to anyone who rings from Ausrtalia.

Overuse of the phrase should be guarded against however, does a double positive imply a negative? Recently a barmaid used it five times while serving us drinks, we wondered whether her first name might be Cliché?

                                                   The answer is of course b)

The Hotel

I can now claim to have been accommodated in a similar manner to Howard Hughes, if not in a similar style. Howard spent the last ten years of his life moving between hotels; our stay lasted just two months.  Was his desire to live in filth and seclusion a symptom of his deteriorating mental health? or could his decline be in any way attributed to his preferred form of accommodation? Poor Howard, If I had a time machine, I would hop aboard and warn him that hotel living can be isolating, uncomfortable and tedious.  I would not recommend it to anyone who had a predisposition to addiction or insanity. While the machine was still warm, I would also administer advice to Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungen at the Chelsea Hotel.

It was no Chateau Marmont, but despite being inconveniently located in 'lard land' it was clean, tidy and well appointed. It was also very small. The 55 square meter apartment had generously proportioned hotel fixtures and fittings.  Within a few days it also contained two mountain  bikes, a set of golf clubs, ten large cartons of essential possessions and six large suitcases.  We learned to turn sideways while passing one another and discovered that it was inadvisable to cook fish in a small enclosed space and that electronic door cards are infuriatingly unreliable.

Signs on every level warned that 'day sleepers' were in residence and asked that guests should be considerate of their needs. Who were these somnolent shift-workers? I knew that there were other 'long-staying' guests but never encountered a single one.  Were they holed up in their rooms sorting peas by size and eating cornflakes with whipped cream like Howard Hughes?  Or had they simply left the hotel and gone to work during daylight hours? The only living souls that I ever encountered between nine o'clock in the morning and five o'clock at night were the housekeeping staff.  I stopped bemoaning the lack of space when a housemaid informed me that four doors down the corridor, a family with three small children and a baby were living in an identically sized room.

The housemaids were unfailingly polite, helpful and hardworking.  They were also somewhat unpredictable. At any time during the working day there would be a timorous tap on the door accompanied by the call "Housekeeping." Generally, they had simply come to service the room, but every so often one maid or young man was allocated a single task to undertake in each of the hotel's sixty rooms.
KNOCK, KNOCK
"Housekeeping, Hello, sorry to disturb you, I won't be long, I just have to:"

• "Check for spiders on the balcony" (Poisonous spiders?)
• "Empty the lint filter in your clothes dryer"
• "Check the blankets for stains" (YUK)
• "Wash the window"
• "Measure the thickness of each of your bed pillows" (I am not making this up!)
• "Clean the toilet" (60 toilets! - who had he annoyed?)

I was embarrassed to be reliant on their services, they were embarrassed by having to disturb me.  Privacy could simply have been guaranteed by hanging the 'Do not disturb' sign on the doorknob - but unlike Howard, I had not yet lost the desire for cleanliness or company.

The housemaids were frighteningly efficient, they could clean a room in under ten minutes and always left their trademark finishing touches behind: the toilet paper 'point' (known in the trade as 'toilegami') and a little row of toiletries in tiny plastic bottles accompanied by a square of generic hotel soap.
The soaps were too small, the tiny squares had sharp little edges and had been chemically formulated to simply dissolve without creating any cleansing foam.  Remembering the hotel soap story  I decided that it would be easier to simply place the soaps and unwanted toiletries in a drawer, than to convince a dozen or so different housemaids that they were not needed. Perhaps there is some truth to the hotel soap story - on the eve of our departure I gathered the toiletries together and returned them to the housemaid.  She seemed surprised and thanked me, then serviced the room as usual,  leaving another  four toiletries behind.

Had I discovered the reason why Howard Hughes found hotel living to be so attractive? Perhaps he was referring to the endless supply of free soaps when he advised his aides to "wash four distinct and separate times, using lots of lather each time, from individual bars of soap."

Idiots

Who doesn't enjoy a James Bond movie? Fast cars and faster women, larger than life villains and a catchy theme song.
In an effort to improve our Australian general knowledge we sourced the 1969 Bond movie which starred the Australian actor George Lazenby.  It was every bit as improbable as some of the later movies, incorporating ski chase sequences, brainwashed beautiful women and my favorite Bond movie motif  - the glamorous casino scene.

I have watched many more Bond movies, than I have visited casinos, but have yet to encounter a similarly glamorous location. Where are the chandeliers, impossibly beautiful women and men wearing Savile Row suits? Perhaps they exist in Monaco or Macao but in my experience they do not exist in Australasia.
Once, while visiting a casino on Queensland's Gold Coast, I thought that I might have found 'my people.' Glamorous, scantily dressed women were conspicuous in the casino lobby, but on closer inspection their true purpose became apparent - they were simply attempting some 'self-merchandising.' On another occasion I was invited to the high rollers floor in the Sky City casino.  Stupidly, I worried that I would be hopelessly under dressed, only to discover that the high rollers looked like they had just stepped out of LynnMall.

Clubs and Casinos play a large part in the lives of your average Australian. Both gambling venues provide plenty of poker machines ('pokies') however only casinos provide 'casino games' (with their attendant croupiers). Clubs are far more numerous and have a reputation for providing cheap meals and drinks.  I was not expecting to encounter glamour when we ventured into the nearest club, but once again X - town revealed a hidden surprise.  Perhaps the presence of a doorman should have provided a clue as to what lay inside; the vast foyer was every bit as grand as a James Bond movie set.  There were glittering lights, polished marble surfaces and pots overflowing with lush orchids.  Twin streams flowed down either side of  the wide entrance staircase.  We sat beside a trickling water course and enjoyed a very nice two course Thai meal and a bottle of Riesling; the bill came to $41.

Feeling rather pleased with ourselves, we explored and encountered a crowd who had gathered to watch a contest.  Competitors were pounding, slapping and thumping away at a row of pokie machines, the rules were simple; the person who could hit the button fastest and score the most 'hits' in a three minute period was the winner.  The contest was strangely popular, several dozen people were happily watching mindless machine bashing; one of the spectators informed me that competitors had signed up hours in advance for the chance to win prizes.  What a clever attempt to glamorize an otherwise mind numbing repetitive action! Push a button and you might win a prize - but wait...... wasn't it possible to do this by playing the machines in the normal manner?

It had been years since I had 'played the pokies.' The machines still had flashing lights and strange names (Amazon Queen, Enchanted Unicorn etc), but everything else was unfamiliar.  The happy tinkle of coins that signaled a win had been replaced with a chirpy little electronic noise and it was no longer necessary to insert individual coins and pull a handle, instead, the machine simply devoured bank notes.  We gave it a go.  The Amazon Queen promised 1 cent bets and smoothly ingested a ten dollar note.  We pushed the button, the machine whirred once and then............nothing! No tinkles or pings, the machine was simply dead.  Eventually, a weary boy was summoned.  We explained that the machine had eaten our money.  He patiently explained that before starting it was necessary to stipulate the size of each individual bet.  In the absence of any such instruction the Amazon Queen had simply taken the lot.  With one push of a button, we had bet (and immediately lost) a thousand times more money than we had intended to.  We had always believed the old adage, and now we had proved it - only idiots play the pokies.

The Bird League

My Father was born and raised in Australia and despite spending most of his adult life in Godzone, was always labelled as an 'Aussie.' During a recent visit, my Aussie Aunty mentioned that she had recently unearthed a certificate that identified my father as a member of the Gould League of Bird Lovers. A tiny amount of research revealed that this environmental education organisation still functions and actively recruited members from Australian schools during the 1930's.

I wondered whether it was peer pressure or simply the attraction of the collectible badges that made my Father sign up. Whatever his motives might have been, I was certain that his conscience must have bothered him as he made his joining pledge.  The membership drive was intended to protect native bird species by discouraging a very popular boys pastime during the 1930's; my Aunt reported that despite his enrollment, my father and his elder brother were not dissuaded from climbing trees and raiding nests in order to enlarge their extensive collection of birds eggs.

It is easy for a New Zealander to understand how the mania could have taken hold.  Australian native birds are inescapable, they are numerous, large, colorful and noisy (often all at the same time).
The majority are utterly charming; who couldn't love a multicolored parrot? Flocks of pink and grey Galahs' forage  along the roadsides while smaller green and red Lorikeets feed in the tree tops.
Other species are more boisterous than conspicuous: Cockatoos cluster and screech, Magpies warble and the ever present Crows obscenely caw "Fa-ark, Fa-ark."
Away from the urban centers the bird life gets even better; Pelicans, Ibis and even the occasional magnificent Sea Eagle can be seen in rural areas.

The inevitable comparisons between New Zealand and Australian bird life must be drawn.  Australian native birds are an inescapable feature of urban life.  Sadly the same thing cannot be said of New Zealand.
It is perfectly possible to go about your daily activities in any major New Zealand city without encountering any native birds whatsoever.  The common urban bird species that you will encounter were introduced from Britain during the nineteenth century; competition and predation has forced many of our native birds species to retreat to pockets of native bush and predator free sanctuaries.
While  most New Zealanders will have encountered Fantails, Wood Pigeons, Tui and perhaps the occasional Bell bird - how many native species could the average Aussie name?

While barefoot Australian boys in the 1930's were being persuaded to protect bird life, fifty years earlier, New Zealand boys were being recruited into 'Sparrow clubs' which rewarded the collection of  Sparrow eggs in an attempt to curb a damaging population explosion of this introduced species.
 
As a consequence of the smell generated by rotting partially 'blown' eggs, my father's precious egg collection was stored beneath the house. One day my Grandmother (who was born in New Zealand) amused herself by dipping one half of a very large hen's egg in cold tea.  She presented this strange specimen to her sons, telling them that it was a Kiwi egg.  They never thought to question its authenticity and carefully (and boastfully) placed it among their collection.  Within days the precious 'Kiwi egg' was stolen by a rival gang of boys from a neighboring suburb.

The lesson learned?  - its the scarcity of New Zealand's native birds that makes them so precious.

Roadkill

It doesn't pay to try and compare New Zealand and Australia, there are just too many contrasts.

While New Zealand is small (but perfectly formed), Australia is 'lucky' and vast.  

There are approximately 900,000 kilometers of roads in Australia; New Zealand has 90,000. 

Where there are roads, there are cars and where there are cars there is roadkill.  Here the similarity ends.

The last time I returned to Godzone, I was struck by the sheer number of squashed animals that ornament our rural roads. Being small, they are simply left there.  When fresh, they feed hawks, and eventually the combined effects of decomposition and compression by passing traffic reduces their sad little bodies to nothing more than a furry pancake or red smear on the tarmac.

And NOBODY CARES.  

Each animal versus car fatality is considered to be a small victory in the fight to protect our native species.  

It is not a nice thing to run over an animal on a rural road in the darkness.  A small thud, a sick feeling then a glance in the rear view mirror.  But would you stop, get out and check that the animal was dead? or render emergency medical assistance if it was mortally wounded? - HELL NO.  

Why not? There is almost a 100% chance that the animal you had just struck was an invasive introduced pest.  In New Zealand the only good possum is a dead possum, ditto rabbits and hares, and weasels and stoats (stoatally different and weasily distinguished).  Hedgehogs carry horrible fungal diseases and decimate our native invertebrates, while magpies and myna birds aggressively defend territory to the detriment of our native bird life.  

I once worked with a young English teacher who wrote his car off swerving to avoid a magpie. "Why would you DO that?" I asked.  "They're only Australians." Quietly, I wondered why he had never noticed that Magpies are almost impossible to run over.  They 'play chicken' by standing right at the edge of the road, and take a single swift sideways step, right at the very last moment, as if daring you to swerve.

The attitude to roadkill on this side of the ditch is completely different.
With the exception of Koalas, most animals that you are likely to hit are large enough to cause significant structural damage to your car. 'Roo-bars' serve a practical purpose, and striking an Echidna necessitates tire replacement.  Australian roadkill is  never subtle.  Large dead marsupials are a hazard to motorists and in many cases collisions with cars threaten the survival of local animal populations. 

As a new immigrant, I admired the numerous yellow road signs that notify travelers of the presence of Australian native species.  I thought that it was very helpful of the Australian roading authorities to advise watchful animal lovers of the possibility of observing these species in their natural environment.  Other signs are equally subtle. Some provide an emergency number that can be rung if you should encounter an injured marsupial, others simply warn of unfenced roads. 

In the absence of emergency assistance, there is an Australian protocol that should be followed if you should discover (or create) fresh road kill.  It involves determination, a strong stomach and a fair amount of prior preparation.

1. Take your 'Roadkill rescue kit' from the boot. It should contain a 'joey bag', sharp knife, gloves and a large sack with a drawstring neck.

2. Check for signs of life 

3. Determine the sex of the injured marsupial (kangaroo 'man-bits' are mercifully fairly obvious)

4. If female check the pouch for a joey

5. Try not to think of the Simpsons episode set in Australia.  Bart - (in pouch) "Ew its not like in cartoons." Homer - "Yeah, there's a lot more mucus."

6.  If the joey has fur, take it out, place it in the joey pouch, put it in the sack and drive hell for leather to the nearest vet

7. If the joey has no fur, settle your stomach.  Take the knife and surgically remove the teat it will be clinging to (do not attempt to pull it off the teat, this will kill it by pulling its mouth apart). Make sure the piece of flesh that the teat is attached to is too large for the joey to swallow and choke on. 

8. Place the joey in the joey bag, put this down your shirt, next to your skin to keep it warm and drive hell for leather to the nearest vet. 

Sometimes ignorance is bliss.  One day when we were happily driving aimlessly through the rural outskirts of Melbourne, we happened to notice a very large dead kangaroo by the roadside.  No big deal, we saw a few others on the same day and felt no particular sense of responsibility or urgency.  On the return journey, we noticed the same dead roo - but noticed that its tail was MOVING! What to do? the thing was huge! should we attempt to manhandle it into the back seat and drive it to a vets? What was that damn injured marsupial emergency number? Do you dig in the pouch if the thing is in its death throes? 

We slowed for a closer look, and witnessed.......... an enormous black crow exiting from beneath the kangaroos tail, a length of blood stained lower bowel clutched in its beak.  We drove on, nausea competing with a guilty sense of relief. Give me a hawk feeding on a dead rabbit any day. 

The Cinema

I have a certain fondness for a particular movie star.  A Korean bar girl once told J that he was "velly handsome, look just like Lobert Ledford." What good taste in men she had!
Opportunities for entertainment in X - town are limited, so I willingly accompanied the imposter to watch the Sundance Kid's latest movie which was screening locally at the middle aged friendly (mugger unfriendly) time  of 6.40

Taking sensible precautions (no valuables in sight, park under a street light) we ventured out into the epicenter at night.
The cinema was not a vast, soulless Hoyt's, and bore no resemblance to the splendidly renovated art deco theater that we used to walk to in Melbourne. It was small and unassuming and looked a lot like a bus station.  The foyer was strangely empty - no seats, few posters - just this huge sign on the wall
(above).
We were almost scared away. There was very little food for sale (and certainly no alcohol) - patrons were obviously quite capable of becoming abusive and aggressive without the  aggravating influence of a glass of cheap chardonnay.
Every now and then X-Town throws you a curve ball. When the imposter bought tickets we discovered that the theater not only looked cheap - it was cheap! Tickets were $6.00 each - every session, every day.
We marveled at the modest price and wondered how they made any money - there were very few customers.  A weary looking staff member was growling at kids who were swinging on the barrier ropes outside the closed theater door. They laughed at her.  The poor woman entered the closed theater, and very quickly emerged looking distressed and disgusted.  She rushed away to wash her hands - what had she touched?
Mercifully we never encountered the same offensive substance but there was a very strong, strange smell in the theater. I suggested burned popcorn, the imposter suggested vomit.  I tried hard to ignore it.
No seat numbers or ushers with torches here - first in, best seated. A couple sat strategically far enough in front of us to create no irritation, and then four noisy girls (ignorant of almost empty theater etiquette) sat - right behind us.  Almost immediately a pair of bare plump feet were placed on the back of the seat right beside me.  They stayed there for the entire length of the movie.  Fearful of  abuse and aggression, I tried to ignore them and consoled myself with the thought that the mystery smell was masking any foot odor.
We have been back twice since and on each occasion have encountered neither unpleasant aromas nor aggression.  When the lights went on at the completion of the Star trek premier I was charmed to discover that the vast majority of the patrons were young bespectacled males; X - town has a hidden population of nerds!
On our last visit the movie started at the slightly less middle aged friendly time of 7.40
When it ended we were astonished to find that the foyer was jam packed.  Standing room only; at least three or four hundred young people were waiting to claim the best seats in the next session.  Mystery of financial viability solved.  We had found the right place, at the wrong time.