I got a bad feeling we’ll all be back in lockdown soon. Well, maybe not Elana. She’s living large in the enchanted realm of Westralia where they mount the heads of easterners on spikes at the border. Not because they’re infected or anything. That’s just how they roll.
I sort of wish we did the same thing up here in Queensland. I’d been getting used to my old freedom of movement. I’ve been to the gym a couple of times this last week. The strength training area is chock-full-o’-roid-apes, as you’d imagine. But the cardio floor is nicely empty.
And I’ve been eating out again, kicking back at Mosconi, my fave Italian bar and diner over in Newfie. We normally catch the ferry across the river and walk the fifteen minutes through the old warehouse district. It burns enough calories to account for at least one knob of pan fried gnocchi in the slow cooked beef cheek ragout.
But I rarely get past the Milanese cotoletta, which is a fancy way of saying I am a bitch for the crumbed pork chop.
And who wouldn’t be? This bad boy is insane. A juicy white disc of perfectly moist pig meat, armoured in a crunchy golden coat of deep fried crumby goodness, all floating on a small circular pond of silken artichoke mash and deep green silver beet.
Even sitting here at home, full of a perfectly respectable moussaka tonight, I hunger for just one more taste.
When dining in at Mosconi I prefer to sit at the bar and watch the staff do their magic. It never fails to impress me just how fascinating, if not totally fucking miraculous, it is to watch eight or nine frenetically busy human beings pull together dozens of beautifully crafted works of nom-nom art on a plate, all while making cocktails.
I have no idea how they keep it together. I can barely get my toast and coffee served in sync.
I’d like to think I can keep jaunting across the river, but I worry it’s all about to end again.