Hey man, now you're really living

It's supposed to hurt.

THE drinks list alone of the Nyala African Restaurant in Fitzroy is like a Shakespearean drama:

“The first cup is bitter, like life,” the menu says of the mint tea, “the second is sweet, like love; the third is gentle, like death.”

I order a coffee, which promises “passionate flavour”. If that’s not code for “even more alluringly vicious than Vietnamese coffee”, I don’t know what is.

I’ve never been to an African restaurant before – which is shameful, as Nyala’s been here for 20 years – and I’m pretty excited. The décor here’s warm and welcoming, and it smells like comfort food.

When my coffee arrives it’s thick and tarry and gives me a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp.  My fella’s beer smells as yeasty and syrupy as a brewery. In good ways. Sometimes you want a drink to really hurt.

Then my meal arrives, and it’s hurty spicy. The fluffy bread is lighter than celestial pancakes, and the hearty Ethiopian stew (you’ll find dishes here from all over the continent) suggests this cow has been marinading since infancy.

Look how fluffy.

Keeper? Yes.

My haul.

COR, I’ve never seen so many junkies in one place. There must be some sort of convention on.

Victoria Street is crawling with the shifty buggers today, all moving in that peculiar, sphincter-clenching gait that’s native to the area. No wonder all the shopkeepers are so impatient with me on my quest to eat curious things.

“How would it be fresh if it was kept outside?” one snaps at my request for durian fruit that isn’t frozen. He stops just short of pushing his tongue into his chin, spastic-style.

Next stop is a bubble tea. Kiwi snow shake bubble tea with jelly, to be precise. Jelly that takes you by surprise when it shoots up your straw. Then there’s a packet of Aloe Vera dessert and a can of grass jelly drink; ingredients: grass jelly, sugar, water. Simple. The woman scoots my change across the counter at me with a frown, so as not to touch my hands.

I take the haul back to the office. Half an hour in, I’ve consumed so much sugar-water, I’ve probably developed thrush. I’m keen to get onto the durian though – a fruit so legendarily stinky that in many Asian countries there are signs banning it from hotels and other establishments.

With the cellophane on it smells like over-ripe mango, but the moment the cellophane comes off, an offensive whiff gusts into the office and clears it. It’s bad, all right. A bit of rotten eggs, a bit of blue cheese, a bit of je ne sais quoi. As soon as it’s in my mouth, I lose the smell, but it adheres itself to my teeth like putty.

Keeper? On occasion. I don’t think I’ll ever be satisfied with a drink without jelly in it again.

EVERY Boxing Day for the last four years, the East African Community of Castlemaine have put on a thank you feast for the local people who have helped them with things like English and maths tutoring, computer skills and driving lessons. This year’s event marks a particularly pertinent time, as the Southern Sudanese independence referendum is in 11 days time, affecting everyone preparing for the gathering in the Campbells Creek Community Centre tomorrow.

This evening, I head down to the council office kitchens to help some Sudanese women prepare the food.

Arob pulls up a chair for me and shows me how to dice the potatoes just so, for a mincemeat and vegetable dish. I’m thankful she’s got the job of peeling the potatoes so that I don’t show myself up… but then she examines my dicing technique critically and says, “We will try you with something else.”

Now I’ve got a box of okra to work through, which is way easier, particularly when Arob urges me to work at a more leisurely pace. “Last year we were still doing this at five the next morning,” she says, handing me a cup of tea and a biscuit.

We have a chat about the merits of Castlemaine over Melbourne and Arob’s husband pops in with some more food. Some pleasantries are exchanged, probably: “This girl’s nice enough, but she can’t even cut a potato.”

Keeper? Yes.

Totally cooking those scallops.

IF Helen’s hamming it up, she’s doing a marvellous job. “Fantastic,” she says, tucking into scallops and broccoli, delicately singed with chilli and garlic. “Really, really good.”

Upping the ante thrillingly from Day 11, in which I ate seafood, I’ve put out the call for suggestions for a seafood dish to cook myself, but since these suggestions ranged from “penguin” to “fish fingers” to the bloody impossible ” bouillabaisse”, I’ve decided to go down the scallop route. I’m pleased to be broadening my practical skills, although I’m mortified when I complain to Helen about the toxic garlic and chilli fumes infiltrating the house, and she pleasantly offers, “That’s why I always shut the kitchen door.”

I reckon there’s a ways to go before I think of things like that off my own bat.

Keeper? Yes! Will try mussel broth next time, and laugh in the face of food poisoning.

REBETIKA is like the blues of Greek music, with seamy, underbelly connotations. A band plays every Wednesday at Spitiko in South Melbourne so I went along with Clare to see them.

Earlier in the day I leapt out of the car upon passing a big watermelon. I’ve got a hankering to visit all the big things in Australia (avocado, prawn and banana are already under the belt), so if anyone fancies doing a heeeey-I’m-sure-that’s-been-done-before road trip… well, let’s do it.

Keeper? Yes, and yes.