On the city end of Oxford Street, just down from the inglorious glow of the Gloria Jeans coffee shop, just up from the fluorescent fervour of the IGA supermarket, lies my favourite Sydney restaurant, The Falconer. The food is great, the staff are knowledgeable (and bearded) and there’s a record player that spins old school records of the Neil Young variety all night long. Good times! I try not to go there too often because I don’t want to sabotage the joy I feel when dining there by making it too much of an everyday occurrence, and also, I am all too aware that I need more whiskey sours in my life like… you know where I am going…
Anyhow, last Friday, my gal pal Anna and I polished off two delicious mains and a bottle of plonk and were considering our late night dancing options when the dessert menu so politely placed on our table started to woo our already bloated bellies.
Alongside a fairly forgettable, though I’m sure delicious selection of classic after dinner sugar hits, there was one dessert singing to us in a gravelly, come hither, what you don’t really want but what you really, desperately need voice: The Tom Waits. What a name! And ingredients to match! It was a dark chocolate mousse with tobacco syrup, whiskey ice-cream and meringue powder.
Over more wine, Anna and I shared Tom Waits. He was delicious. I’ve thought about him non-stop ever since. And so here he is again, on a Friday, in fine but not food form.