Happy Birthday Dad (the born again foodie)

My Dad is a born again foodie. He spent most of his adult life convincing himself that he loved burnt steaks and would insist on throwing his T-bone on the barbie 15 minutes before everyone else's. One day, only 2 or 3 years ago, he accidentally undercooked his steak and realised he loved medium rare meat!
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My Dad's first cooking attempts started about 3-4 years ago. His first dish - prawn risotto. The instructions said, heat a saucepan and warm the olive oil. My Dad (an otherwise very intelligent man) put the saucepan on the stove top to heat up, meanwhile he warmed up the olive oil in the microwave.
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Since then both his cooking and interest in food have blossomed and the last time I was in Sydney I came home to this: "Hi Lex - ok, just pan frying the Barramundi fillets and toasting some pine nuts for a lovely goats cheese & roast beetroot salad I've prepared. What's your opinion on the balsamic dressing though?" Ummm, am I in the wrong house? and since when does Mum leave you completely alone in her kitchen?
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My Dad has always loved the land and has owned a farm for most of the time I've known him. His interest in organic farming has grown, much at the same time and rate as his interest in food. He is now the perfect foodie companion who loves to cook and eat, and is concerned and interested in where produce comes from. When I go home to Sydney now, I love spending time with my parents going to food markets, trying out new restaurants/cafes, cooking different recipes at home. We plan all foodie events before I arrive and no occasion for eating goes wasted. This has always been a shared love with my Mum and I, so I'm thrilled that now my Dad is part of the gang (although my Mum has remarked that cooking is meant to be "her" thing and how dare he impose on her area of expertise).
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I tell you all this, not only to share my adoration for my wonderful father, but because it's his birthday in January. He turns 60 on Thursday 28 January. When I started this blog, my Dad was keen to contribute (he thinks we share the same writing style and we definitely share the same odd sense of humour [although most likely don't share it with anyone else] - however I know that Mon Pere's writing is far superior to mine).

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My parents own a farm about 3 hours from Sydney, in the beautiful Capertee Valley. It is their little retreat where they have some cattle, grow olives and spend lots of time cooking and eating (my mum has barely put away the espresso machine from breakfast before she's starting on the scones for morning tea - see photo below of us eating scones in the cattle yards). The farm, "Snowgoose", is in central western New South Wales and is accessed from Sydney through the Blue Mountains. I therefore asked my Dad whether he'd like to write a guest blog for me on the good places to eat in the area and en route to the central west from Sydney. A few weeks later a 9 page, single spaced typed document arrived in my inbox. I decided to post my Dad's series of guest posts throughout January in commemoration of his birthday.

Please have a read and make a comment. And if you ever make it to Sydney (or for Sydney-siders, take a mini-break in the country), do take my Dad's advice. He knows what he's talking about (plus he's not really allowed to go places not approved by my Mum).
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Happy birthday Mon Pere - thanks for these posts. Have a great birthday on Thursday (Soph has a super present from us to give you which relates to your 3 great loves I've mentioned here - farming, food and Mum) and I can't wait to continue our foodie explorations in London, North England & France later in the year!
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Al xx
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I'll now pass over to my Dad, Ian Coleman. My occasional additions/clarifications are in square brackets. References to "Fifi" are my Mum, and "the boys, Oscar & Dugal" (who are referred to more frequently and with far more affection than any of my parents' actual human children) are two miniature schnauzers:

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Central Western New South Wales Supplement to Lexeat
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When the writer volunteered to undertake this task earlier in the year, it seemed a good excuse for gastronomic excess, if only of slight potential interest to devotees of Lexeat, and particularly those suffering in self imposed exile in a land from which the astute fled to invade this country two centuries ago. Sadly, the green shoots which this assignment spawned have produced little by way of harvestable crops. Fortunately, where the seeds of the idea have thrived, the result has been worth the effort.
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Before beginning, a warning to the reader is perhaps advisable. In the past, and for no adequate reason, the writer has been accused of “talking things up” to levels of excellence which they are alleged to dismally fail to achieve. With that caveat in mind, the reader may prefer to “scale down” the writer’s judgments of eating establishments. Where rapturous accolades are bestowed upon an establishment, a judgment of “passably good” might be adopted. Any establishment receiving no more than modest praise should probably be avoided unless starvation is considered beyond reasonable doubt to be the only alternative.

Although able to be experienced by only a fortunate few, the apex of culinary excellence in the region is to be found at Snowgoose homestead, near Glen Alice, in the world’s second largest enclosed canyon: the Capertee Valley (above). Against the backdrop of the towering sandstone cliffs of the valley, chef Fifi produces provocative entrees, extravagant mains, with cheeky sides, and lavish desserts which reflect the diversity and intensity of the environment. Using fresh seasonal produce, organic meats and chemical free ingredients, Fifi’s offerings excite the palates of her fortunate favoured guests, whether it is 2 degrees outside and the sleet horizontal, or 40 with not a lizard stirring. When the fortunate traveller’s sojourn comes to its all too swift finale, and the bitumen is regained, a difficult decision must be made: to follow the heart, or follow the stomach.

(Fifi/Mum with another delicious lunch at the farm)
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Having followed the heart in the belief that Fifi’s table is but the first of many happy diversions on the culinary conquest of the central west, the pilgrim is soon in Rylstone, a deceptive town which promises much, but sadly delivers little to excite the discerning human palate. It was not always thus. For several years, the Rylstone Food Store served great five course set menu meals featuring fresh, local seasonal fare at communal tables. Free coffee and no corkage added to the value. Diners ate what they were offered, served themselves, sat where they were placed, and booked weeks ahead to get in. Then, according to local legend, a farmer did the unthinkable and loaded his plate with almost half the food allocated to his table of four, two of whom were unknown to him. Whilst the writer cannot imagine a farmer doing such a thing, the following week, the restaurant closed, and never re-opened. Shortly thereafter, the Bridgeview Bakery, operated in the same interests, also closed its doors. Kim Currie, the inspirational originator of both establishments, took herself, and her inspiration to Orange and never returned. Rylstone has not been the same since. The writer never passes the Food Store premises without thinking of that poor farmer, and how harshly rumour has treated him. [Lex: Actually Dad, there was 5 of us - b/c it was Mum and I blushing with embarrassment at the actions of our "farmer" dining companion]
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The plane trees which bisect the main street of Rylstone, abundance of well preserved sandstone buildings from the early 19th century, and unmistakably solid feel of this essentially affluent rural centre imply that good food and drink are a given. The corrugated iron walls, rough sawn timber beams, old wool bale stencils and generous garden of the Globe Hotel cannot compensate for an uninviting menu which appears to have been set around the time refrigeration was invented, and followed with unfailing fidelity ever since. To call it “pub food” would be to insult those pubs which actually do produce tolerable to good simple meals. In its defence, the Globe does bury its offerings under a mountain of limp lettuce leaves, grated carrot, tinned beetroot, sliced tomato and thick potato chips. Only on leaving will the unwary remember that the diners were mostly miners in orange fluorescent vests and grimy overalls, intelligence that should be stored away for future encounters. Sprinkled along the main street are half a dozen cafes, mostly run by pleasant locals who can no longer shear, or fence, much less turn out a decent espresso. Behind respectable sandstone facades lurk amateurs falsely pretending to offer quality sustenance for the unsuspecting out of towner. These establishments are to be avoided, unless paying good money out of sympathy for its maker, for something to be thrown away or poured out provides some perverse form of fulfilment.

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There is however Bizzy Bird’s Cafe, on the corner opposite the now re-opened Rylstone Hotel, just up from the showground. Part of its appeal is that it does not pretend to be what it is not. Satisfying light meals, hearty soups, a good fire in winter, local organic produce and oils, and coffee usually worth the 30 kilometre drive make Bizzy Bird’s Café the place to eat in Rylstone- at least during daylight hours. Bizzy Bird’s snuck quietly into the 2010 Good Food Guide, whose authors embraced its home-baked bread and butter puddings, banana and walnut cakes, and carrot cake with yoghurt icing. After dark, traveler and stomach are on their own, and off to Mudgee, about 60 kilometres to the north west.
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Click here to check out the Mudgee post, and posts on Dubbo & Orange.