Australian food has ruined me.
In the last two weeks, I’ve eaten homemade Malaysian fish ball soup, Colombian tamales, North Indian street snacks, Filipino crispy pork leg, pub meals spanning prawn toast to Lancashire hotpot, Korean army stew, Balinese babi guling, pandan chiffon cake, and steak tartare prepared tableside. Each meal has been as good as – if not better than – its homeland counterpart.
Watching the final episodes of MasterChef, I was reminded just how good Aussie talent is. You won’t find those dishes anywhere else in the world, but if you could, any food lover would gladly pay top fine-dining dollar for them. I’ve also had conversations with established chefs and seasoned food critics about the epicurean curse of travelling as an Australian, where meals in cities like Paris, Los Angeles, and Hanoi sometimes feel like an anticlimax. It’s not that they aren’t wonderful, it’s just that the culinary bar back home is thrillingly high. It begs the question: why travel to eat at all?
I’ll tell you why: there’s no better way to deepen your understanding of what’s on your doorstep. There’s an extra level of connection and admiration that comes from recognising a dish’s roots, whether a carbon copy of the “original” or its reinvention. A dish’s origins provide context; grounding it in history, geography, climate, migration, memory and identity.
Earlier this year I found myself comparing xiao long bao from a breakfast queue in Taipei with what I’m used to at HuTong in Melbourne. I realised I wasn’t interested in crowning the “better” dumpling, but rather exploring the delicious in-between. I started to join the dots: a Chinese migrant opens the first Din Tai Fung in Taiwan in 1972, leading to the global popularisation of soup dumplings. Fast-forward to 2008, and Din Tai Fung arrives in Australia via Sydney – the same year HuTong opens in the world's longest continuously-running Chinatown, established in 1850s Melbourne. Food might be a universal language, but it’s spoken in accents shaped by place.
The more I eat abroad, the more I appreciate what we have at home. It makes me value the brilliance and resilience of cooks who have bridged two (or more) worlds. Food without context still tastes good, but food with it means something. This week, I found that meaning in a BYO Malaysian gem in Melbourne; declare that butter is officially trending; share a deceptively easy fish and chorizo stew recipe to transport you to the Mediterranean; and give my take on two of Australia’s most hyped openings.
Sincerely, Sofia x
The Recipe: Easy-Peasy Fish & Chorizo Stew
One of the perks of being on MasterChef is that I occasionally get to take home leftover ingredients (the majority goes to SecondBite). A few months back, there were a few Southern Rock lobsters up for grabs. I made lobster rolls from the flesh and seafood stock from the shells. I defrosted the latter last week for this Portuguese-Spanish hybrid fish and chorizo stew, laced with saffron and served with onion bread from Little Sister Bakery. It serves 6 people and only takes about 40 minutes if you have stock on hand (or in the carton). Feel free to swap chorizo for prawns to make it pescatarian.
Ingredients
2 tbsp olive oil
1 brown onion, diced
3 large garlic cloves, minced
2 chorizo sausages, sliced into 1-inch rounds
3 large tomatoes, roughly diced
1 tbsp tomato paste
1 cup white wine
1.5L fish stock (or chicken stock)
1 tbsp smoked paprika
1 tsp allspice
large pinch saffron* in 2 tbsp hot water
salt & pepper to season
2 tbsp fresh thyme leaves
2 bay leaves
600g thin-skinned potatoes, roughly cubed
750g firm white fish, boneless, skinless & cut into large bites
1kg mussels, scrubbed & de-bearded
fresh lemon & chopped parsley to garnish, crusty bread & fancy butter to serve
*Saffron ain’t cheap. Skip it if you like — this is still delicious without it.
Method
In a heavy pot, sweat onion and garlic until softened. Add chorizo and sauté until fat is rendered and edges are browned. Add tomato paste, tomato and cook until soft.
Add wine and simmer for a few minutes, then add stock, salt, spices, herbs, bay leaves and potatoes. Bring to a boil then simmer until a fork slides into potatoes with ease, about 15 minutes.
Season if necessary, then gently stir through fish. Add the mussel, place a lid on the pot and cook for 3 minutes. Turn off the heat and rest for another 3 minutes. The mussels should pop open.
Garnish with lemon wedges and chopped parsley and serve with crusty bread and butter.
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