shit on a stick and bubble and squeak with chilli. a recipe.
Surfing never sucks
Surfing never sucks
All done, let's eat, pass the olives, pass the capers, pass the bread.
There's people out here who want to eat.
The hidden right that rears up around the headland down there and travels 300 yards to its brutal end against the cliffs. More unforgiving slabs.
But first, dinner.
food and surfing - then everything else
Fresh Lobster omelet, mace, red peppercorns and garlic chives at Crowdy Head, August 1958, 5.40 pm.
Then they all disappeared over the dunes for every hour of sunlight that the sky allowed them. Away to the distance, that curved sweep of trackless beach.
Heard this low growl about 2 am and looked out of the tent, saw a bloody feral cat sitting by the fire - big bastard.
Leave town and travel the darkening highway until you reach the coast. South is best. Park amongst the mosquitoes and casuarinas .. a recipe
Why being a surfer and a cook helps with the ladies
A big man, tanned and snowy haired, he has spent four days in solitary sport amongst the massive south swell that has swept up the coast
A famished bricklayer, who has little objection to the taste of his own bitten down and encrusted fingernails, will hurl an untasted fresh baked steak and onion pie to the ground in a fury at having to consider eating the unordered onions. A cautionary tale about life in a building site.
- and there .. ! The distant white trail of a surfer gliding down the black face of the fourth wave. The biggest of the set.
We were sitting around the table in the Rose Bay Hotel with Scoresby and a couple of hard faced Maoris watching the races and waiting on a feed of Singapore noodles, a specialty of Mr. Ngyuen, Charles.
Nice chap Charles, seasons his chips with garlic and chopped chives
He’s using the grill of a Chrysler 300/300c as a grill top, which makes sense, and for his pans he’s got a couple of full moon hubcaps, nicely chromed.
Frank introduced us to the River the day after we took him home from the Harrington pub, the day he had been beaten insensible by the three dark men who had travelled up from Sydney looking for the local plantation. Three bikers.
He was a troublesome jockey sized kid with an Irish pugnacity, an improper regard to discipline, a feral cunning and a consummate and admirable deftness in the surf. His agility, and ability to control the heavy boards of the time seemed effortless.