another saturday, another $10 teacup. this one at least i can drink tea out of.

friday, after a couple of weeks of half-hearted to-and-froing, deborah and i met upstairs at fratelli fresh. please understand, there was no reticence about meeting for eating. it’s just, we couldn’t decide if we’d rather eat at danks street depot or sopra… so you see, we did not really mind which way the day went.

the plan was to read the menu board at sopra, and if nothing took our fancy (as if!) we would head across the road. as it turned out, the 1 o’clock lunch crush was so impenetrable that our decision was made for us before we were even within reading range.

i used to go to danks street depot fairly regularly, usually when an invoice got paid. it was just up the street from where i used to live, and it was a great space in which to eat… well, anything really. back then it was just starting up, and you could see into the kitchen from the big central table. back then the kitchen wasn’t even in a different room; the only thing separating it from the diners was a bench on which produce sat and chopping happened. once i was there, and the chef himself came up and cleared our table. then at some point, the service started to get a little surlier, and sopra opened up across the road, and i moved away… and i reckon it’s been about four years since i was last in there.

and gosh — gawsh — is it fancy now: swirly room dividers, precision seating, shiny bar extension. no more that warm, fuzzy, sunlit feeling of sitting in uncle jared’s kitchen. it was a high-powered, well-dressed lunch crowd, and very, very noisy.

so. the decision had been made for us about where to eat, but we still faced the quandary of what to eat. the wild rabbit and pork terrine was a definite, but we spent many minutes trying to figure out its complementary companion. i was leaning quite severely towards the slow-cooked broccoli and eggs, and eventually i fell over at its feet.

because it was great! who would think of garnishing a serve of golden, buttery scrambled eggs on toast… with broccoli? it had been roasted, i think, with chili, garlic and white wine, an enormous stalk of it in a most appealing shade of olive green. and on top of that, chunks of salty and creamy fetta. i would eat this at least once a week.

it would be harder to eat the rabbit and pork terrine that often; such a solid, meaty slab. deceptively so, for it is mild pink striations with pale green pistachios and seedy figs peeping through the layers. still, the flavour was at once clean and rich, and just gamey enough. it came with a tidy stack of figgy toast triangles, a tangle of perfectly dressed rocket, and some paper-thin slices of sweet pear, none of which helped to overcome that porky feeling at the end of the meal.

you will not be shocked to know that at this point, we got up, paid our bill, and high-tailed it back across the street to sopra. almost 2.30, there were just enough empty tables that we did not feel bad about ordering just dessert. the waitresses, though surprised, were most supportive.

and truly, i had just been thinking banoffee pie, but suddenly, there we were, with that and the biggest fat bastard of a tiramisu to ever belly flop onto a plate. it really was the most obscene looking thing, and we fell upon it with gusto. gusto which soon turned into confusion, because — what were those raisins and bits of orange peel doing in there? does sopra really make their tiramisu with panettone? the cakey bits certainly had that bizarre stringy texture of panettone soaked in an alcohol bath.

(the creamy bits, on the other hand, were sheer perfection.)

the banoffee pie was pretty good, although there could have been a few extra bananas beneath the gorgeous blanket of freshly piped cream — you’d think bananas were still $13 a kilo. tchk. but aside from all that, and aside from the twinings tea bag that passes for an order of tea, sopra is still possibly my favourite place to eat.

(by which i mean, i get out here only two or three times a year, but i love it when i do.)

we sat for a while, fighting the good fight, woefully distracted by the men at the next table and their antipasto platter, and tray of cured meats, and, ahem, seafood basket. but eventually the cakes won. well, the tiramisu did anyway.

the kind and patient waitress commiserated, and pointed the way to the cash register.

it was just gone four o’clock.