At the end of a rather long sejour in my hometown, Leonardo diCarpaccio and I decided to pop over to Sydney for a weekend of wining and dining with happy newlyweds Thyme Burton and Helena Bonham-Tartare,  and (aside from the shameful meal of frozen fish fingers and potentially off tomato sauce that we ate on arrival) the weekend was one of pure hedonism.

Photo: Porch Bread and Wine Parlour

We ruminated over the roast lamb shoulder at The Chiswick; we sweated over our generously spiced Pla Pad Cha at Spice I am; and each morning we could be found sipping our creamy flat whites, moseying from the moreish ‘veggie brekky’ breakfasts to prodigious ‘porch pie’ lunches at the ever charming Bondi institution Porch Bread & Wine Parlour.

Photo: Porch Bread and Wine Parlour

Then there was the time we went to Ruben Hills for a mid morning coffee and accidentally polished off the ‘Fried Chicken with chilli in a basket’, a ‘Dirty Bird burger’ and a ‘Baleada with pulled pimenton pork and chimol’ …oops.

But perhaps the most memorable moment of hedonism happened at Bodega – that très cool Argentinian tapas bar in Surry Hills run by Ben Milgate and Elvis Abrahanowicz, where we found ourselves happily ensconced between Thyme, Helena, and our favourite Sydney-siders, hot couple Halibut Berry and Olive Martinez.  The venue is colourful, loud and eclectic (not unlike the hyper-hip, ink-ed up, quiffed, braced, rock star team of waiters that bustled about, delivering mouthwatering treats and calling us lovelies) and the food is ingeniously divine.

From the tinned white anchovies with fish pate on water crackers to the chilli crab sauced, pickled up pork sausage wrapped in a lettuce leaf, there was nothing on the menu that wasn’t incredibly executed, and instantly devoured. The hiramasa fish fingers – those devilish morsels of raw kingfish hidden under a web of cuttlefish and mojama, served on crunchy charred toasts – were simply heavenly (a whole different kettle of fish from the aforementioned frozen fingers); the pork, octopus, cabbage and green apple salad with jalapeño dressing was a salad even I could make friends with; and the sweet mustard encased BBQ wagyu tri-tip, tasted decidedly like a whopper – which, lets be honest, is all you ever really want in a meal.

Picture: Rohan Kelly Source: The Sunday Telegraph

Then came the dessert, that unfathomably mouthwatering banana split. The banana parfait was velvety and unctuous, with a perfectly crunchy brûléed shell that demanded it be cracked with the back of a spoon, and the caramel was cooked to the precarious point of dark golden perfection, 10 seconds between a lacklustre sweetness and bitter burn.  It was truly magical.

We licked our spoons clean, finished off the bottle of Chacra Barda and with happy hearts and bursting jeans, we stumbled onto the streets of Surry Hills.  What a meal.

And then somehow, 5 hours later, after making a rather long cameo at at a slightly depressing fashion party full of people who most definitely didn’t accidentally eat fried chicken for breakfast, Leonardo diCarpaccio and I found ourselves romantically perched on a balcony overlooking the harbour…eating a whopper.

The weekend was indulgent, yes perhaps even excessive – a whole lot of YOLO. But boy was it worth it.

Abstinence certainly never made the heart grow fonder.

xoxo

Paris Stilton