Aussie Appetites

In the 80s, I had to chuckle at the overly optimistic banner some planning council had sprung for on my block: "Avenue C is the place to be in the 80s!" Like hell, I thought, as I skateboarded to my coatchecking job at a druggy and violent nightclub called The World.

"You workin'?" a man bellowed at me across the street.

"Coat Checking!" I yelled back.

"Prostitutin'?" he rephrased his query, understandably confused.

"No, coat checking!" I joyously repeated at the top of my lungs, proud to have finally nabbed that elusive New York gig, a good service job. I have never been allowed to bring food to people, perhaps because of my shifty yet lackadaisical demeanor, so shuffling around behind a counter was my only opportunity to get tips from generous gay guys during the Tuesday night's Rock'n'roll Fag Bar.

Before the Sunburnt Cow opened on Avenue C and 8th Street in 2003, there were "Close the Sunburnt Cow!" flyers posted along the avenue. Owner Heathe St. Clair pressed on, opening the day before the Great Blackout. As you may recall, the blackout was a good day for beer and barbeque, two things St. Clair excelled at supplying, and all objections to his restaurant were overcome. He had run out of money building the place, so food was served on paper plates for a while; customers had to pay in cash.

I went with my roommate, Kara, a brainy Cooper Union engineering student. We sat there waiting for the food in silence. What do you say to somebody who starts off as a Craigslist contact but soon sees you dashing to the bathroom in your underwear, scratching your butt and grumbling, "Hi"? A Moo Juice loosened things right up-though I don't drink, I enjoy the company of the inebriated, and Kara loved it-"It's sweet with a spicy aftertaste," she opined, young enough to be tickled by the baby bottle it arrived in.

St. Clair recently redesigned the menu with head chef Matt Baldwin, so it's authentic (though I picture Australians wolfing down larger portions). It's really a place to drink a lot (they have a $15 all-you-can-drink brunch) and share food, two things I'm unlikely to do, but I had to try kangaroo meat, so I tried the Roo Bangers and Smash first. "It has a musky taste," Kara said. Now where did she learn that word?

We were both crazy for the Calamari Oz Style, which we dipped in a kiwi-jalapeno salsa that absolutely kicked ass compared to the red stuff. We tried the Barramundi, an Australian fish, which we were pleased to find not too fishy, and a macadamia-crusted Australian lamb that came with a beet cous cous. Altogether the menu is quite a feat, matched by an extensive list of Australian wines. Take that, you native purveyors of the mozzarella stick and wildly inaccurate rendition of buffalo wings.

We squealed with excitement when the dessert, Mum's Pavlova, arrived. It's a recipe of St. Clair's mother's, consisting of fresh fruit, meringue and cream. Kara and I were still talking about it weeks later: "That thing was good, Jesus!" she said, reminiscing fondly over her student diet of Thai Kitchen products sent by her mother, and the loaves of cheap store-bought bread I generously supplied.

I wanted to know more about the Australian food thing, so my foodie friend Dave Ritz brought me to Ruby's in Nolita (now referred to as Australita due to the recent infiltration.) It's a small space, but we found room by wait staff of two pretty but normal-weight girls, and ordered the bronte burger ($9) and the bondi chicken sandwich ($8). Lincoln Pilcher, the 24-year-old maven who co-owns it, has chosen to use the new narrative technique of no uppercase letters on his menu.

The bronte burger came with a bread called ciabatta, which Blue Ribbon Bakery makes just for Ruby's, and a sweet chili, mayo and cheese dressing. It was the best burger I think I've ever had. Suddenly I understood my friend's food enthusiasm completely.

"Isn't it funny how in our minds we crave burgers, but we're so ruined by all the bad burgers all over this town? You'll eat a burger somewhere and it'll fill you up halfway-but this! The ciabatta bread is hard and the burger is so juicy," he raved, adding that the bondi was also one of the best chicken sandwiches he'd ever had. After a little bit of Segafredo Zinetti coffee ("We Australians are very in touch with coffee, very European," Lincoln informed me), I was really getting the whole Aussie food thing.

Leaving, I zipped up Mulberry, enchanted rather than repulsed by the designer goods on offer. To the best-looking and hardest-working go the spoils.