Another Fucking Thai Restaurant.

In a city inflicted by a wretched deficit of Thai restaurants, it’s always a pleasure to hear about another one starting up in the heart of Surry Hills. So, when such news reached our ears, we thought it best to swiftly experience and professionally review such a place.

The restaurant in question holds true to the noblest of all Thai restaurants in that it not only uses the word THAI in it’s title, but it also offers chopsticks – which reminds us daft Australians that we are eating authentic Asian food.

We were already a little too drunk to be of any acceptable accessory to the surrounding patrons, but we were there to try something new and the public would have to wait.

So, in the interest of trying something new – I had the Pad Thai and my dear friend Rob had the Pad Si yew. Both tasted unlike anything we hadn’t had before.

The beer, however, was something that bore an all too familiar comfort from our surrounds. And so, as with every other restaurant review – we fell head first into the booze… with more and more patrons heading out the door as our laughs gathered decibels.

And as the beer shot through James like a carbine through Crisco, he finally had a chance to review the amenities. Upon his stumbling return I inquired – “How are the bathrooms squire?” – to which he replied with a dipso grin “lemony fresh!”

Curious to his quirky answer, I made my own stumbles out to the back room, from whence he had come. I was immediately confused by the abundance of fridges and freezers in the bathroom corridor… And when I got to the end of the corridor, what I found was no toilet, nothing… just a back room with a rusty rolling door and a freshly watered lemon tree.

When the beers ran out – it was time to leave.. such is the one true downfall of a BYO restaurant – you must go elsewhere for more booze.

But, we thought that the final item worth checking was the service, of which we were far too drunk to properly review earlier in the piece.

So, we decided it would be in the best interest of an impartial review, if we put the waitresses dedication to the test. And without making a fuss, after thanking the chefs for a delicious meal, we walked right out the door.

We had barely made it 30 meters down the road before a young, Thai girl came chasing after us – chirping apologetically in an obnoxious octave. It seems we had forgotten to pay… Immediately this girl gains points for staying true to the golden rule of hospitality, in that her first inclination was that we were still somehow in the right.

However, this Crown Street eatery finishes on a fail, on account of it’s penultimate test. For as it is accepted that most established establishments accept Visa and any restaurant worth it’s bill will take your Mastercard and issue a meal in return – this pad-thai palace refused an offering that dates back before the garish gifts of gold… that time honored token – cock.

For as Rob dipped into his pants, seemingly searching for coins or cash, he returned with a fistful of treasures that the waitress was not prepared for – ALF.

Now, it is worth noting that ALF is the name of Rob’s cock (based largely on his slightly superfluous foreskin and poorly written one liners). But it is also worth noting that cock has had a life long history as currency. Female aristocrats in Roman times would often send a meaty cock to one another as an endowed endowment of thanks and sometimes even payment.

So you can imagine my absolute mortification when the waitress screamed and if you could only picture Rob’s horror when the waiting waitress laughed… There we were, stuck in an awkward moment, all three of us feeling terrible to be caught in such a member-induced mmbop…

A rare moment in life, where by I have no photographic memory of the event, I can barely remember the girl’s face or even what the weather was like that evening on Crown Street… But it’s as though I temporarily flew to the other side of the street and drew a quick, mental sketch of the altercation… A screaming Thai girl, a photographer with no camera and a writer with his cock out. Like a Friday night at the Murdochs’.

James Bloodworth