THE
WARATAH
thursday july 23 6:00pm ish in darlinghurst
The Waratah was packed to the dainty floral rafters when we arrived. Small groups of hungry wannabe diners wandering in and out in search for a table at a small neighbourhood pub that only allows bookings for groups of 6+. Their lower level was filled with lucky diners seated at teeny tiny tables lined up along the walls, and accompanying them in this stifled space were those standing with searching eyes and growling stomachs. Or at least my eyes were searching and my stomach was growling. Other than on this lower level, seating was also offered outside with their alfresco dining and upstairs in their dining room. Each and every one of these tables were either spilt with full and empty plates, glasses of wine and purses or reserved for those who were lucky enough to have 6 or more friends.
So, the server with an attitude so friendly it would never cross your mind that she was working within the depths of a busy and disorganised hell popped us on a 5 minute waitlist.
And after 5 of the most gruelling minutes of my life, we had a table! A small one, it’s table-top a mirror reflecting the gorgeous waratah-painted roof and our radiant double chins. As Sophie went to order from the bar, I took more of our surrounds in. Dark tiling lay on the floor, like the kind you’d feel beneath bare feet while cooking in a Tuscan kitchen. The wall behind the bar was decked out with local and far bar coasters littered amongst other odd bits and bobs.
Upon very little deliberation over their prominent yellow letter board showcasing their selection of cocktails, my choice was clear. The Waratah Spritz, their signature beverage. It called me with its sweet ingredient list, no sign off anything too experimental. Just pretty things like watermelon and rhubarb liqueur and vanilla and vodka! Out came a deep red spritz clinking with ice, its taste reminiscent of a watermelon Jolly Rancher. Of course only the best parts of the sickly sweet lolly were present, and in an extremely rare occurrence, I sipped my alcoholic beverage with joy!
The food came out in a record time for the number of mouths they had to feed this evening. We started with a focaccia, nothing notable other than the incredibly crisp exterior. It began as crumbly hinderance, flakes speckling the view from our mirrored tabletop. But a quick swipe of butter and this once deemed overcooked bread turned into a taste-bud-pleasing, salty crunch of goodness.
Out next were our skewers. Both delivered on silver platters, dressed generously with spring onion and lain next to the most petite plop of aioli that I ever did see. The tamarind-glazed pork was warm and soft beneath my touch as I tore it off its skewer. Devouring the pillowy meat had an essence of what seemed like curry warming my mouth. Upon further research, tamarind has no hints of curry and I can only assume my immature palate was deceiving me. The charcoal beef skewer was my favourite. Its wow factor being the mysterious trace of a deep miso flavour. I wasn’t able to easily identify this at first and I’m not sure my assumption is even accurate, immature palate and all, but after racking my gustatory memories I settled on a resembling taste to Sushi Train’s miso soup. Each chew nostalgic and delectable.
Finally, the dish that pulled us from the comfort of our Beaches bubble on this fine Thursday evening. Their steak and fries special. Just those words nestled together makes my stomach tingle with a yearning excitement. For only $28, they deliver you a plate overflowing with a 200g rump steak, a hefty side of chips and an ice cream scoop of their plum butter. Unfortunately this was the part of the evening where my inner steak snob and her extreme unearned expertise came blaring through. And so, as I chewed…and chewed and chewed, I pondered whether this rump was worth the sickening peak hour traffic over the bridge and the claustrophobic tirade for a table. I’m being mean. The steak wasn’t bad, it was just boring. My expectations are too high and it takes a juicy rim of fat or a glistening crust for me to be pleased. Even beneath the melting sparkle of the subtle plum butter and beside the perfectly salted chips, I was just bored. But for $28, I’m very ok with being bored.
Through the haze of the boring rump, they had a saving grace! For the easiest $3 I’ve ever spent, we got a whole sauceboat filled with a silky, drinkable gravy. It was flavoured as though the gods themselves used their bare hands to whip up the perfect ratio of Gravox and then combined that with juices that dripped from the most tender sliver of meat that had ever been sacrificed to them. It’s staked claim as the best pub gravy I’ve ever had.
As we neared the end of our feast people were still walking in and out of doors, lustily gazing at empty plates and waiting to hear the scoot of a chair so they could pounce and take claim. We watched as two girls entered, eyes searching and stomachs growling. We beckoned them over to take our place after scoffing down our last gravy-soaked fries, and with our good deed of the day completed, we were off into the night with stomachs full and taste-buds mostly entertained.