Dirtiest of all dirties - the end of an era
Castlereagh St is in the heart of Sydney. There is almost nothing distinct about Castlereagh St, other than that it is between the Hyde Park bound Elizabeth St and the pedestrian mass of Pitt St.
But, for all its lack of charm, Castlereagh St contains a diamond in its rough exterior, and I’m not talking about the Tiffany’s jewellery store.
The dirty laksa.
Actually, the dirtiest laksa.
An institution nestled in the bowels of the heart of Sydney. Those who knew and loved her, will mourn her loss, as she closed her doors for one last time.
Laksa, for those not in the know, is a giant bowl of Malay inspired cuisine, full of coconut milk, chili, noodles and tofu, without a vegetable in sight, unless you count those bean sprouts they add to the mix. Or if you ordered vegetables, in which case, your explosive bowl would contain some green beans.
Sometimes, I wonder if the laksa was really that good, or if it was just the atmosphere of the place where we were eating.
Resembling a giant underground soup kitchen, expectant diners would bound down the stairs covered in carpet that dated from the Ming dynasty (the stairs, not the diners).
Halfway down the stairs, a specials board hung flaccid. I never understood why this place advertised food other than laksa. I guess it was in the hope of generating enough curiosity such that someone, anyone would order something, anything other than laksa. Perhaps it was for those weaker of stomach, used to more amateur ingestive interpretations of Oriental cuisine.
The sights and sounds of the place will be forever etched in my memory. The din of the kitchen, as workers struggled to turn around soup orders within 2 minutes. The tinny sound of the microphone as a broken Asian accent would call out the number on the raffle ticket that they would hand you to keep track of who had ordered what.
My favourite sight, however, was the little old lady with the bucket. Reportedly the grandmother of the owner of the establishment, her frail figure would navigate between the tangle of chairs and bodies, hunched over whilst stacking the bowls and emptying the leftover soup into the bucket which she would carry with one hand, while wiping down the tables with her other available hand. All the while with the largest, toothy grin you have ever seen.
The furniture resembled the same kind that you would see in someone’s backyard, in use for a gathering around a barbeque. The room was packed tight with large, clumsy plastic chairs and tables that matched in material, but not colour. The chairs were complete with arms that bent at completely the wrong angle, perfect for eating a burger and nearly impossible for using both chopsticks and a soup spoon without completely hunching over the table.
This underground cavern was always guaranteed an eclectic crowd. White Anglos in suits would hunch over their bowls in groups. Young professionals, seemingly more suited for the up market lunch venues, would mingle as though completely at home. An Asian boy and girl would stare lingeringly over their soup bowls, completely ensconced in a second or third date. Trendy groups of Asian mid-twenty-somethings sit efficiently devouring their lunches, showing off the latest trends in mobile phone technology.
For a while, it was a Thursday lunchtime tradition with some of the boys. Lewko and Gellert the 2 main stayers, but often flagged with cameo appearances by other troopers keen to partake in this lunchtime stomach destroying tradition. Every Thursday, in preparation for soccer training followed by a large night out, I used to line my stomach with a bowl in the hope that maybe this Thursday I wouldn’t end up slobbering my problems to the guy in the kebab shop.
The colour of the laksa was distinctive – a spicy red slick floating on a yellow sea of water. The colour of laksa, however, is even more distinctive when contrasted with the background of a pressed white cotton work shirt.
And thus, a great proclamation went out across the land and mankind shouted to the Almighty “Oh Almighty, thou art great” and the Almighty responded by inventing the bib.
For 30 cents, we would all forgo our social inhibitions to avoid looking like drooling 12 year olds to attach a tissue paper dry-cleaning insurance policy to our necks. After a while, it started to get competitive to see who could wear more laksa on their bib without getting any onto their clothes.
The bibs weren’t the only place our competitive tensions ran deep. Eventually, our manliness got put to the test and we began to compete over the amount of chili we would add to our soups.. It started with an extra teaspoon. Followed by a heaped teaspoon and soon 2 teaspoons. Finally, we reached chili saturation point with 2 heaped teaspoons. For those who’ve never tried, 2 heaped teaspoons of chili gave a laksa the equivalent level of toxicity as battery acid. The soup would take on a pungent look, almost swamp-like, as though it were capable of swallowing a car if one could be driven into it.
You know those commercials raising money for starving children in Africa, or raising money for disease? Surely it’s a matter of time before the following hits our TV screens.
“In the modern, multicultural world of today, where food has been introduced from overseas for unfit Western stomachs, there is a disease that is killing millions of Westerners every year. Chili overdose is a serious condition and cannot be taken lightly.
Symptoms of chili overdose include sweating, sniffling, coughing, sneezing and over-anxious bowel movements. Chili accidentally going down the wrong pipe will result in a hacking fit that cannot be quenched by any volume of Coca Cola. Mild overdoses of chili often result in making the men’s bathrooms at work uninhabitable, while severe overdoses of chili resulted in paralysis, unconsciousness and eventually death. But YOU can help…”
And now, it’s over. No more hacking fits. No more struggling to walk back to work. No more wheezing fits at soccer training, completely unable to breath or run. No more dirtiest of all dirties. As I sweat and sniffle for one last time, bib completely covered in soup, I mourn the loss of one of Sydney’s institutions while my stomach breathes a sigh of relief.
Naïve stomach. Now to find something else to destroy you with.
But, for all its lack of charm, Castlereagh St contains a diamond in its rough exterior, and I’m not talking about the Tiffany’s jewellery store.
The dirty laksa.
Actually, the dirtiest laksa.
An institution nestled in the bowels of the heart of Sydney. Those who knew and loved her, will mourn her loss, as she closed her doors for one last time.
Laksa, for those not in the know, is a giant bowl of Malay inspired cuisine, full of coconut milk, chili, noodles and tofu, without a vegetable in sight, unless you count those bean sprouts they add to the mix. Or if you ordered vegetables, in which case, your explosive bowl would contain some green beans.
Sometimes, I wonder if the laksa was really that good, or if it was just the atmosphere of the place where we were eating.
Resembling a giant underground soup kitchen, expectant diners would bound down the stairs covered in carpet that dated from the Ming dynasty (the stairs, not the diners).
Halfway down the stairs, a specials board hung flaccid. I never understood why this place advertised food other than laksa. I guess it was in the hope of generating enough curiosity such that someone, anyone would order something, anything other than laksa. Perhaps it was for those weaker of stomach, used to more amateur ingestive interpretations of Oriental cuisine.
The sights and sounds of the place will be forever etched in my memory. The din of the kitchen, as workers struggled to turn around soup orders within 2 minutes. The tinny sound of the microphone as a broken Asian accent would call out the number on the raffle ticket that they would hand you to keep track of who had ordered what.
My favourite sight, however, was the little old lady with the bucket. Reportedly the grandmother of the owner of the establishment, her frail figure would navigate between the tangle of chairs and bodies, hunched over whilst stacking the bowls and emptying the leftover soup into the bucket which she would carry with one hand, while wiping down the tables with her other available hand. All the while with the largest, toothy grin you have ever seen.
The furniture resembled the same kind that you would see in someone’s backyard, in use for a gathering around a barbeque. The room was packed tight with large, clumsy plastic chairs and tables that matched in material, but not colour. The chairs were complete with arms that bent at completely the wrong angle, perfect for eating a burger and nearly impossible for using both chopsticks and a soup spoon without completely hunching over the table.
This underground cavern was always guaranteed an eclectic crowd. White Anglos in suits would hunch over their bowls in groups. Young professionals, seemingly more suited for the up market lunch venues, would mingle as though completely at home. An Asian boy and girl would stare lingeringly over their soup bowls, completely ensconced in a second or third date. Trendy groups of Asian mid-twenty-somethings sit efficiently devouring their lunches, showing off the latest trends in mobile phone technology.
For a while, it was a Thursday lunchtime tradition with some of the boys. Lewko and Gellert the 2 main stayers, but often flagged with cameo appearances by other troopers keen to partake in this lunchtime stomach destroying tradition. Every Thursday, in preparation for soccer training followed by a large night out, I used to line my stomach with a bowl in the hope that maybe this Thursday I wouldn’t end up slobbering my problems to the guy in the kebab shop.
The colour of the laksa was distinctive – a spicy red slick floating on a yellow sea of water. The colour of laksa, however, is even more distinctive when contrasted with the background of a pressed white cotton work shirt.
And thus, a great proclamation went out across the land and mankind shouted to the Almighty “Oh Almighty, thou art great” and the Almighty responded by inventing the bib.
For 30 cents, we would all forgo our social inhibitions to avoid looking like drooling 12 year olds to attach a tissue paper dry-cleaning insurance policy to our necks. After a while, it started to get competitive to see who could wear more laksa on their bib without getting any onto their clothes.
The bibs weren’t the only place our competitive tensions ran deep. Eventually, our manliness got put to the test and we began to compete over the amount of chili we would add to our soups.. It started with an extra teaspoon. Followed by a heaped teaspoon and soon 2 teaspoons. Finally, we reached chili saturation point with 2 heaped teaspoons. For those who’ve never tried, 2 heaped teaspoons of chili gave a laksa the equivalent level of toxicity as battery acid. The soup would take on a pungent look, almost swamp-like, as though it were capable of swallowing a car if one could be driven into it.
You know those commercials raising money for starving children in Africa, or raising money for disease? Surely it’s a matter of time before the following hits our TV screens.
“In the modern, multicultural world of today, where food has been introduced from overseas for unfit Western stomachs, there is a disease that is killing millions of Westerners every year. Chili overdose is a serious condition and cannot be taken lightly.
Symptoms of chili overdose include sweating, sniffling, coughing, sneezing and over-anxious bowel movements. Chili accidentally going down the wrong pipe will result in a hacking fit that cannot be quenched by any volume of Coca Cola. Mild overdoses of chili often result in making the men’s bathrooms at work uninhabitable, while severe overdoses of chili resulted in paralysis, unconsciousness and eventually death. But YOU can help…”
And now, it’s over. No more hacking fits. No more struggling to walk back to work. No more wheezing fits at soccer training, completely unable to breath or run. No more dirtiest of all dirties. As I sweat and sniffle for one last time, bib completely covered in soup, I mourn the loss of one of Sydney’s institutions while my stomach breathes a sigh of relief.
Naïve stomach. Now to find something else to destroy you with.
posted by The Groin at 5:20 pm
5 Comments:
It was a world away from Sydney. A good find but no longer - such sad new.
And I spell FOREGO in that way and not FORGO.
It is a sad day to see them close; I will miss the atmosphere, but the place has not won a single metropolitan laksa award in over a decade. Im not saying it is bad laksa: they set a damn high benchmark, however there is an establishment which serves a superior laksa up near 71 Kent Street. I believe they won the "best chicken laksa in Sydney" last year. I havent verified this title with the Laksa Council of Australia (LCA), however, my taste buds agree. As you know, this profession must maintain stringent Laksa standards at all times so as not to bring the name of Laksa into disrepute. It is a prestigious award (one which shouldnt be taken lightly Grunners) I recommend you bib up and check it out...
You're right that place on Castlereagh Street was famous for its laksa - its laksatives. Unbelievable. More runs than the Don.
I am surprised this sad news did not reach me sooner on the rumour mill given my close proximity and fellow laksa lovers. A sad sad day. thank you for letting me know Dave. The den of sin may not have won awards but the sticky plastic tables and 200 year old bucket woman (obviously a user of SKII for her entire life, seeping into the very core of her existence and keeping her young inside and out), bib as an optional extra and the sense that there had been many a laksa smeared or splattered on the walls and floor for years on end makes for a sad tale. Perhaps her departure from this earth is the reason for the closure. In saying that i do recall the tenants prior to this one, is anyone else old enough to have frequented this joint prior to it becoming a laksa den? I believe it was something call Mary's or Stellas and it was an underground pub decked out in pink?? or perhaps that was a dream / nightmare.
Time has passed since my last comment but it is time to speak up again.
The dirty laksa joint (whatever it was called) was the closest thing that Sydney has ever had to an opium den. Men would sit slumped in their plastic chairs over a nearly empty bowl of laksa, their eyes glazed over; seeing things too dreadful to be written here; dreaming of vast Yeatsian images out of spiritus mundi slouching to Bethlehem to be born. It was indeed a place where the best lacked all conviction and the worst were full of passionate intensity.
I went there with you more than once, years ago, when we were younger men. I too have known the lure of the laksa. I have seen the oriental gentleman eyeing us, knowing something about us of which even we ourselves were unaware. I have joined the faithful ranks while, as one, we spooned that substance into our collective maw. The whir of Castlereagh Street and the Pitt Street mall faded into the irrelevance of the real world, which fades whenever one entered that place and whose colour never properly returned even after exit. Every time we went into that place, we left some of our soul behind.
In memoriam.
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