Cow vs Chicken: Fifty Bucks Each Way

 

Parting the debris on our table I pinpoint a menu and learn there are two other Moo Burger outlets. The existence of a growing Moo herd activates an internal red alert telling me these restaurants are probably operated by someone for whom the word “scaleability” features prominently in his business plan. This means that short of actually cooking, I’ll be doing most of the work this evening.

With fixed overheads and an apparent commitment to using ingredients like Pure Angus and Saltbush lamb, there’s really only one way to achieve the presumed desire for empire expansion with margins intact: make the customers sweat for their dinner.

I've done my domestic penance for the week and now I’m ready for a rest.  On a Saturday night, en route to a going-away party in Newtown for yet another family escaping Sydney, we jagged the only vacant spot at the heaving King St Moo.  With the rubble cleared from the table, I spotted something disturbing. I now know how the nearby residents of Fukushima Nuclear Reactor Number 3 felt when they heard that first emergency alarm. Our section of the restaurant was under the stewardship of someone labelled “TRAINEE”.

It also turned out that English was not her first language - and possibly not even her fourth or fifth. This shouldn’t prove insurmountable. I worked in an English five star hotel staffed almost entirely by French and Italian waiters fleeing national service. Most had barely an hors d’oeuvre of English but instead relied on common sense, which, unlike our badge-wearing friend, told them all four customers at a table don’t want to swig from one large bottle of sparkling water. Behind the bar at Moo there are many glasses, but they must be reserved for a special occasion. The trainee was out of earshot by the time we’d tried to formulate our request, so I made my inaugural journey to the bar on her behalf.

Glassware remained a challenge throughout the evening. My brother-in-law had generously brought a bottle of 2007 Zema Cabernet Sauvignon, which although not the best vintage from the region, still probably deserves to be drunk from a glass. The other customers were generally youngish and funkyish, of the type dressed in track tops and sneakers. Evidently they were regulars who knew they’d be covering some territory, and getting the message I headed back to the counter in search of wine glasses. Here I learned BYO came in the form of “glass hire” at $2 per glass. I don’t mind paying corkage, but $8 is a gouge, and having to locate and fetch glasses is really twisting the knife and lifting it up into the rib cage.

We drained the fizzy water, then spied the distant self-service water table which no one had thought to mention. Once more I set off for liquids. After we’d finished setting our own table, the onion rings were a welcome arrival as I feared the onset of scurvy. My Wagyu burger filled me up but was nowhere near the class of its namesake at glamour venue Rockpool Bar & Grill, which is just a few dollars more. The bun, sourdough apparently, errs on the airy and flaky side, rather than the shiny brioche style of Rockpool (a bun feature increasingly popular among burger lovers worldwide). The burger meat was quite thin and bland, the brie not adding anything to the flavour dimension, the mayonnaise almost tasteless, the sweet caramelized onions and $16 price its dominant characteristics. Bacon is a premium $2.50 offering I didn't take up. It is part of the package at Rockpool.

Chips were excellent and pleasingly presented in a paper-lined, cone shaped wire basket. The event cost almost $50 for two burgers, a share of the chips, a share of the onion rings, a dodgy Coke spider and the sparkling water. Nobody tipped me for the service I provided.

And yet the night before, a busy Friday, I dined at the original Petersham chapter of Frango Charcoal Chicken - of which there are also three -  and I didn’t lift a finger. You sniff the smoky allure long before stepping onto the horror of New Canterbury Road. The lineup of people on the footpath concludes at the takeaway counter of Frango (Portugese for chicken). Inside, the aroma evolves into a faint haze from the continuous skewering and barbequing of small birds.

Being 6.00pm the venue is mostly full. But this waiter deploys commonsense, sees I’m with two children, and detects I’m a good chance to be done and dusted by the time his 7.15 booking arrives. Or perhaps it was the pyjamas and dressing gown I was wearing. He offers me the last table downstairs while I send my wife-to-be off to the ATM for cash. I’ve lost my card, again.

There are only five things I need to order: Sagres Portuguese beer, one chicken, fries, a salad and fizzy water. Stick to this formula and everything will go smoothly. By the time my wife-to-be joins the party, I’ve made good headway with the beer and the food lobs shortly after. It looks and tastes like all the other times – a haystack of fries; heavily seasoned, juicy, charcoal flavoured chicken; a very basic salad (never with more than three olives) and the best beer and food match I know. Plus, the thick, creamy chilli sauce which just can’t be good for you. I almost drank it. The waiter must think we haven’t got enough fat on the table and suggest mayonnaise for the children. Who could reject such an offer of triglycerides?

By 7.10pm we are full and finished. The bill of $56 for four, including two beers, arrives. Even better, I haven’t been called to aid the management at all. I’ve been sitting the entire time at a clean, set table - with glasses - and I’ve been looked after. This pleases me. The girls are given a lollipop. I leave a tip.

P.S. Wanna see what a real burger looks like? Check out this brilliant dissection and dissertation from a burger-centric evening in London last week:

http://burger-me.blogspot.com/2011/06/burgermat-show-burgermonday-with-burger.html

Moo Burger

232 King St

Newtown NSW

9565 4001

Frango Petersham Charcoal Chicken

98 New Canterbury Rd

Petersham NSW

9560 2369