βLetβs each have a dozen Kilpatrick,β I said, βand would you like a heavily wooded chardonnay to wash them down?β
As with oysters Kilpatrick, fashion has turned its back on the traditional oaked chardonnay β a drink so full of wood chips youβd feel like a beaver chewing through a house. So out went the chardonnay, joining the Kilpatricks in the culinary bin. At least a glass or two might make the oysters feel more at home.
We might not have been able to afford aluminium cladding on our home, but weβd lash out when it came to a well-clad spud.
We ordered and were quickly served. Perhaps you are ahead of me here, but the experience was startling. Both items were mind-bogglingly good. The oysters? How delicious! The bacon was crispy, the slight charring managed perfectly, and the Worcestershire sauce created a flavour bomb that somehow didnβt entirely drown out the fresh oyster below.
The chardonnay? Similarly brilliant. The flavours were full and creamy, a perfect match for the oysters. Perhaps chardonnayβs fall from grace was merely due to its role in Kath and Kim, where it was featured as the favourite wine of the lower middle class, the only class that no Australian wants to join.
As I sipped, it took me back to that time before βrestraintβ β a time when people purchased cars that were bright red or bright yellow, instead of the endless white or grey of todayβs fleet. It was also the time before everyone fell in love with tastefully tasteless pinot gris β βitβs so marvellously restrained I can hardly taste anythingβ. And the time before people began painting every room with quarter-strength Hog Bristle, a colour whose presumed slogan is βyouβll never notice it was even painted.β
Another oyster. Another slurp of chardonnay. As we merrily imbibed, I began to wonder what other delights from the past had been all-too-quickly pushed from the table.
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Couldnβt we perform a taste test on some devils on horseback? I remember them as fabulous but have been barely offered one since 1983. Beef Wellington fell out of favour because it was difficult to cook, but couldnβt the new generation of connected thermometers offer a safe space for the modern chef? And, as for steak diane, please bring it back, and hurry because I want it now.
Iβd also like hamburgers with a proper bun, rather than the new version β a soft, sweetened brioche designed for people who either have no teeth, or wish to lose whatever gnashers they might still possess. And Iβd like to occasionally order a dish thatβs cooked at the table, the waiter igniting the crepes Suzette as we all look on in awe.
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Oh, and one last suggestion: Iβd like a return to the baked potato wrapped in aluminium foil, that glamour item from the Black Stump restaurant chain, the foil hatched at the top to allow a christening of sour cream and chives. We might not have been able to afford aluminium cladding on our home, but weβd lash out when it came to a well-clad spud.
Back at the club, itβs time to choose main course. Itβs not a difficult decision. Surf n Turf all round, washed down with Hunter Valley shiraz. If only theyβd had Viennetta for dessert, I could have spent the entire night inhabiting the past, oblivious to Trump, the far-right in Germany, the Chinese navy off the coast, and all the other horrors of 2025.
My only question: could we fit in another dozen Kilpatrick while we wait for the mains to arrive?
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