My new job as a personal assistant has resulted in a definite decrease in the time I have available to blog. Funny how 12 hours a week can make such a difference. What I miss more than scribing for TBC is the lack of time I have to read what my blogpals are posting. I am trying to keep up, but it is challenging at best.
At any rate, the new job is going fairly well. There's lots to be done, and anyone who has served as a personal assistant/office manager knows how insane it can get at times. Once I receive my first paycheck, I will no doubt feel much better about it all around.
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Friday night, Mark and I went to the official opening night of Manacle at the Clarence Hotel, where we caught up with Kevin and a couple of other friends. Manacle has been open in its new venue for a while now, having moved to the Inner West from the troubled and tragic Oxford Street strip, but for some reason they held off on the grand opening until this weekend. I like this place, although it's a schlep from our townhouse (circa $20 cab-fare and not on a very good public transit line). Good music, friendly people...and chains, rivets, snaps and buckles everywhere. The OUTbar, a bright, boisterous sister bar across the foyer, is a good complement to the dark, edgy environs of Manacle. Both were crowded, and aside from the coat-check man giving away my new, Levi denim jacket to some other customer, it was a great night.
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Mark and I were invited to attend a small birthday lunch at the Boathouse on Blackwattle Bay yesterday. This restaurant is in the remotest boondocks of our dining-out budget, and we knew that, but for various and complicated reasons we both felt we couldn't say no. Heck, there were only five guests invited. How do you turn down a select invitation like that? And why is it so difficult for us to say to single gay men in very well-paid jobs that, as a couple with a young child, only one and a half incomes, substantial debt accrued as a result of being an internationally based couple, a Sydney mortgage, etc., we are on a very fixed income?
In reality, Mark and I were excited about trying this restaurant. It is billed as one of the finest dining experiences in Sydney. We figured that we might skate by with a reduced bill, due to Mark's recent surgery and the lower intake of food that he can handle as a result. He can't eat full portions, so when we go out nowadays, we often end up sharing most everything. That means one or two starters, one main dish, and one dessert. Fab!
Well, it didn't quite work out that way here.
First, the food. Mark and I shared a starter that consisted of a creamy crab crepe-like thing over a beautiful consomme and a few spires of enoki mushrooms, paired with a decent Margaret River semillion for the table. For our mains, we shared a watercress, blue-cheese and slow-roasted beetroot salad and dish of smoked Spanish mackerel over roasted leeks and mushrooms. With the mains, our host ordered a Riesling for the table. Dessert consisted of coffees and a blood-orange and chocolate parfait. All in all, it was a very fine meal, although the mackerel dish left me a bit cold. The flavour of the fish itself was quite nice, but the entire package seemed average. The parfait was beautiful, although there were only four very small slivers of blood orange positioned around the delicacy itself. Sorry, but that's hardly enough to give it premium billing in the name of the dish. As for the waitstaff, they were efficient, but a bit on the harried and unfriendly side. On a good note, the coffee was probably the best I've had in Sydney.
The Boathouse, as one would expect, is situated on the waterfront in the tony Inner West suburbs of Sydney. True to its eponym, it is a renovated boathouse with many, many windows that afford a view of Blackwattle Bay and the Anzac Bridge. That said, I don't see the attraction to this whole area. I really don't. The road systems are dreadful, the sidewalks old and tattered, the public transportation spotty and the waterfront dowdy. I am sure there's something that attracts folks, but as of yet, I have no idea what it is.
The folks at the birthday party were an interesting collection of people. Mark and I know the guest of honor (GOH) somewhat socially, but mostly through work, and all-in-all, not too well. But we were flattered to be invited. The other guests were the GOH's ex-partner, a long-time friend and travel companion, a former colleague, and the two of us. There were some interesting stories, to say the least, from smart, fun and intriguing people.
Then the bill came. Oh, I wish I were in the position to say screw it, here's $300 regardless of what we consumed, but I'm not. Our income cannot support it at this point. Mark and I crunched the numbers, and our combined bill for the two of us was $145, including wine. Not too shabby, and what we expected. Then it was announced that the bill was $135 per person, as we were all sharing the cost of the GOH's meal. Now understand that I have no problem with that in the slightest, but when you add in his meal, it still didn't account for a whopping total of $270 for the two of us.
As it turns out, we helped pay for the martinis and oyster-fest appetizers shared by two of the guests. Now that I had a problem with. But then, I guess they don't know us and don't realize our struggle. The couple of minutes it took for me to walk to the car, where I'd inadvertently left my wallet, allowed me to reflect upon the entire experience and realize that it's all fairly inconsequential in the long run. So we eat beans and broth for the next couple of weeks. At least we had a fine-dining and social experience that will remain with us for a long time. But I won't go back to this restaurant. All the resplendent socialization in the world doesn't account for overpriced food. Not in my book.
Yesterday, while Zane was hanging out at a schoolmate's house for the afternoon, Mark and I took advantage of the current summery weather and headed to Sydney's Eastern Beaches. 
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