Boundless and Unfiltered

Category: Restaurant and food

  • The sauce of life: Why sauces deserve a spot on the pedestal of culinary greatness

    Let’s be real: life without sauce is like a party without music – a sad, flavourless affair. Whether it’s the fiery zing of Hungry Jack’s spicy sauce or the velvety richness of béchamel, sauces are the glue that holds our meals together (literally, in the case of lasagna). And if you disagree, well, I suggest we settle this over a very dry, gravy-less roast.

    Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Aren’t sauces just condiments in fancier clothes?” Wrong. Sauces are an art form, a philosophy, dare I say, a religion. The French understood this when they crowned béchamel, espagnole, velouté, tomato, and hollandaise as the mother sauces. Not “aunt” or “second cousin twice removed” sauces – MOTHER sauces. That’s the level of respect we’re talking about here.

    Take the English roast for example. A quintessential classic, yes, but without gravy? It’s just a collection of well-intentioned ingredients looking for purpose. It’s a team with no coach. A symphony with no conductor. The gravy, my friends, is the soul of the roast. It turns a plate of meat and potatoes into a full-on experience.

    And let’s not forget the unsung heroes of the sauce world – those little packets from fast-food joints. Who among us hasn’t dunked a fry into a suspiciously orange sauce and thought, “This is what happiness tastes like”? Hungry Jack’s spicy sauce could probably broker peace treaties if given the chance.

    But sauces aren’t just about taste. Oh no. They’re a lifestyle. A philosophy. A declaration to the world that you demand better from your meals. That you won’t settle for “meh” when “magnificent” is just a drizzle away.
    So, to all the sauce sceptics out there, I say this: embrace the sauce. Let it runneth over your roasts, drizzle down your burgers, and smother your pasta. Because life is short, and meals without sauce are just… sad.

    In conclusion: sauces maketh the meal. They maketh the experience. Heck, they maketh me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some béchamel to perfect.

  • Supernormal: Out of this world every time

    Stepping into Supernormal feels like walking into a space where great food, impeccable service, and good vibes collide. Whether you’re there to celebrate a special occasion or just grabbing a casual lunch, this gem promises – and delivers – a memorable experience.

    What makes Supernormal so extraordinary is its ability to make every guest feel welcome. It’s not just about the fantastic dishes (which are a delight in their own right), but the way the staff treats you like a VIP, no matter how you show up.

    Denim shorts and a t-shirt? No makeup? Full glam? It doesn’t matter. You have the freedom to show up 100% as your true self, in whichever way that is and Supernormal’s team ensures you feel comfortable and valued, bringing the same warmth, care, and attention each time. This kind of consistent, inclusive service is rare and sets them apart.

    You leave Supernormal not just full but already plotting your next visit. It’s like they’ve sprinkled something addictive in the air – or maybe it’s just the dumplings. Either way, Supernormal isn’t just out of this world; it’s the kind of place you’ll wish was just around the corner from your house.

    If you haven’t been yet, fix that. And if you have, you know exactly what I’m talking about.

  • Curry-ing disappointment: A Kerala foodie’s tale of broken paratha promises

    As an Indian, stepping into a restaurant promising Home Style Kerala Food sets my expectations soaring—like a coconut tree reaching for the sky. And why not? I’m here for prawns so immersed in spiced coconut broth that they might as well have been marinated in it for generations. I want a chicken curry that doesn’t just smack my face with heat and spice but gives it a Bollywood-worthy slap of joy. And the raita? It should be a cool, velvety oasis sprinkled with crisp cucumber jewels to soothe my taste buds after the curry’s fiery festival.

    But alas, at Toddy Shop – a fantastic name, by the way – those dreams withered like a stale dosa. My hopes were dashed when the prawns swam out flavourless, the chicken curry merely whispered, and the paratha? Oh, the betrayal of a frozen paratha when my soul craves the flaky embrace of one made fresh!

    Even my husband, who after years of consuming real-deal Indian cooking, has achieved honorary masala connoisseur status, left deflated. The service was lukewarm, the flavours tepid, and – dare I say it – no brown hands in the kitchen crafting the culinary magic.

    Look, it’s not that I’m against innovation or other cultures making Indian food. But when the result is less “Kerala masterpiece” and more “spiced-up mediocrity,” I can’t help but mourn.

    Thank goodness for places like Dishoom in the UK, where the curries sing, the spices dance, and authenticity isn’t just a word on the menu. One day, Australia will get its Dishoom moment – a place where you can’t wait for the next bite of that chicken curry. Just… not today.

    Dreams dashed, but hope simmers on.