With BOOTO and Stinks on a promotional tour of Victoria (leaving the Sponge trying in vain to remember what he used to do when a bachelor), it was decided to take guests for our next blog: the Pakistani Prince and the South Sea Island Princess* gratefully accepted the Bloggers’ invitation to join them for an evening of lager and pub grub at the Flying Scotsman.
(* Note: not real royalty.)
We had no expectations as to quality of the food at the Scotto – each of the Bloggers had been there from time to time for a quiet (or loud) drink, but never to eat. All recent reviews we could find appeared to be of the whiny variety, focusing on how much character and ambience the place had lost since its upgrade and how it would never be the same. (Apparently someone had neglected to pass this on to the punters though, who were there in droves.)
A table was booked (which we found to be essential if intending to eat), and was promptly and graciously reconfigured at least 3 times by the friendly staff as they tried to find the best way to seat 5 people. The Scotto is a bit like the scruffy, charismatic cousin of the Queens and (being what we understand to be the only viable drinking alternative up this end of Beaufort) was packed, while still maintaining a friendly and informal atmosphere.
Starters (ordered from the bar) arrived promptly and were unexpectedly brilliant: a platter consisting of a generous spread of such delights as octopus, ribs, chicken wings and some of the best and most tender squid any of the Bloggers (or their royal companions) had eaten for some time. This was accompanied by a dish that made the Deliberator curl into a foetal ball: pouteen. Pouteen is simply chips, melted cheese and gravy. Once combined however, they transform into a manna-like concoction that would make a grown man (in this case, the Deliberator) weep.
Mains were again impressive: the Brains’ Fat Bastard Pizza lived up to its name, parmagiana was bloody good (and enormous), the Deliberator’s ribs (washed down with a second bowl of pouteen) did the trick and the South Sea Island Princess’ salad was tasty and lovingly crafted. Unfortunately, so too was the Pakistani Prince’s. The Bloggers are collectively still stunned and slightly hurt at the Prince’s decision to order a salad at a pub, and will no longer mention his name on this blog. He is dead to us.
Service was attentive, speedy… and knowledgeable – our waitress chimed into our heated debate to confirm that the minimum contingent for a gang-bang was indeed 5 people. Debate concluded. (Incidentally, and while we had already established that 3 people formed a threesome, we are still in the dark as to the correct term for a beast with four backs. Suggestions welcome.)
Service: Great, with an encyclopaedic knowledge of the karma sutra.
Food: A couple of cuts above what we anticipated. Sorry, Scotto.
Ambience: Lively, informal and eclectic. The Brisbane it ain’t.
Highlight: The squid. And the Deliberator’s vow to plant a pouteen tree in his backyard.
Lowlight: Maybe slightly cramped and noisy for dinner. (But hell – it’s a pub.)
Rating: 3.9 pouteen trees out of 5.
Will we be back: Yes, either to eat, drink or both. (Not just for the fact that we note that the bloody upstairs balcony is finally completed!)
Details: The Flying Scotsman is just down from the Walcott/Beaufort St intersection. The bill came to about $50 a head for mains and a shared starter (and drinks. Lots of drinks.) Kitchen closes at (we think?) 9pm, although pizzas are available later than this.
Coming up: Alright Diva – your turn next so we can finally tie up everything north of Walcott.