Puffy Crumpet

Being a drought-fucked cattle-baron (for at least the rest of this week at any rate), provides one with the chance to explore the insides of many fabulous hotel restaurants. Sometimes, even as a diner rather than a lurker with a knife waiting to slice the fat throats of eco and agri politico types.

Permit me to qualify my remarks from the outset. I'm of the Tism point of view on most things, but most, most decidedly on matters BFW or Big Fucking Whoopee. A great BFW Tism-ism correctly observes,

"When you can sit around on your crapulent crack and lazily whine on about someone else's cooking, then you have reached the very acme of the BFW shitheap."

This observation is very true. But more so for telly than the written word. And neither come close to being there.

The itchy violent projectile vomit of an asparagus roll towards one's hostess, has, once scratched, much more impact than a cutting bitch about a half-a-chef's-hat as determined by some pulseless prick, except Birmo, who still works for the Herald, Age or insert wanna-be ACP magazine. As such wankers usually marry or partner those involved with real professions, so they tend to have the luxury of focusing on style rather than substance. Not that anyone other than the disposable income, sodomy-and-opera set listens to their mayfly flutterings anyhow.

The essence of the Acme of the BFW Shitheap remark is also the universe of difference between the greatness of the late Sam Orr of the late Nation Review and the dickwit Pyney pettiness of A.A.A.Gill. But who or what instructs our unclean ears to hear the pitch of the more pretentious food-fucker, than the occasional wisdom of the cabbie or drunken letch at a bus-stop waiting for a bunch of blonde fifteen year old girls to get off?

We urbane Australians now too easily insist that the uncultured slob is incapable of discernment. The old lunchtime Pie Beer & a Root for $50 has been replaced with working through lunch hours, tweeter-searching masturbate in the hope of some cold vicarious entertainment, and smoked eel california rolls at three bucks per ambphibous morsel delivered by the office christmas beetle.

Paying to gain the information we defer to must also play its part. Studies have been conducted demonstrating that we generally dig the stuff we pay more for. Why? Also, genuflecting to an expertise makes us feel better that as canteen beasts, the cocksuckers describing which beaujalais is best used in a coq au vin has earnt our buck-and-half fair and square.

This is especially true when the information is stolen and the price is paid with goldtoothed rat-cunning.

I am reminded of a secret advertising agency I used to run with a few mates which involved us targeting highly-specialised parts of Sydney CBD to have our conversations overheard. We dressed up to look like our prey and stalked them into lifts, bars and bus-stops. We got people into theatres that would otherwise have been empty and did our bit to get stocks to move this way and that.It was a secret advertising agency I ran in '93 called 'Woman'..which stood for the Word of Mouth Advertising Network, but I digress.

Is my cattle-baron's view of beef any better than the chick flipping burgers at the Gumly Gumly truck stop, or the trucker who lives on burgers? Can having a vagina somehow dictate that secret ability of making the perfect souffle? In a complicated world, yes probably up to a point. Yet when you're eating, the last thing you want to discuss with your mouth full is the food.

Which brings us the long way around to where I wanted to be discussing and recommending something involving the simplest of simplest pleasures.A winter's sunset just after rain? The Collingwood supporter just after losing to Carlton? Eating a mango on packed bus? Nay. I wish to sing the praises of something so simple, that next to kippers or oats it's one's preferred brekky of choice.

As stated, simplicity's the key.

Possibly, my favourite fuck off garcon just bring me what I want brekky by way of a pair of Buttered Crumpets with salt & pepper. The ritzier the resturant, the greater the impact.

It will never be the next jus de jus in a ragout of jus if properly marketed. But that's the bloody point. It's probably little better than army rations, but can somehow rise through the ranks. Salt and pepper crumpets are so genuinely good fare which is so utterly fucken ordinary in its creating, they're unarguably the pinnacle of good taste. Try it. Crumpet with butter. Salt & pepper. Eat. Don't like it? Fuck off. Do like it? Get another. Simple.

Admittedly, this tucker is to the casino buffet brekky what the a guy in a chamois safari suit is to a Gen-Y BMW saleschick handing out out watercress on water-crackers. But could such a 70s deity get a Ronny Coote simply by asking the FTV babe if she's got any Jatz & cheddar?

Probably not if he's interested in paying for anything less than an M5, but I think perhaps optimistically, any pair of undies can be yours for the taking with a Chocolate Paddle Pop dessert provided you're smart enough, rich enough, sincere enough, or all three. An experienced salt and pepper crumpeter could easily pull it off, whereas salmon omelette brekky guy still has elements of try-hardiness no designer stubble could ever overcome.

Unless he already has the new Bentley of course.

Trust me gents. Salt and pepper is to crumpets what the puffy nipples of any hippy chick was to the 1970s bedroom poster. Timeless, near costless, a thing of wonder which can be pondered during the silences in your mind when your accountant starts discussing Family Tax Benefit B with your wife and your mind wanders helplessly.

What was I talking about again? Oh yes. Crumpet. Oh yes. Oh yes.