Go with the flow

It’s pretty sad when you end up arguing with a tuk tuk driver over US$0.50 cents, but that’s exactly what I found myself doing during Siem Reap’s Water Festival at the beginning of November.

For the first Sunday and Monday that month, as thousands flock to the banks of the Siem Reap river, Cambodia’s favourite form of tourist transportation suffers a shortage. For those days at least locals happily embrace capitalism’s theory of supply and demand, and a trip into the city centre inflates 100 percent, from US$1 to US$2!

The yearly Cambodian Water Festival (variously spelled in the original Khmer as Bon Om Touk, or Bon Om Thook, or Bonn Om Teuk, or Bon Om Tuk) takes place on the full moon of the Buddhist month of Kadeuk. This is either October or, more usually, November. The festival celebrates the reversing flow between the the country’s great lake, Tonle Sap, and the mighty Mekong River.

The origins of the Water Festival dates back to the navy of King Jayavarman II, the 9th century founder of the “great” Angkorian Empire, with the main purpose to make the god of the river happy, thus hoping he will bestow much fish and rice on Cambodians.

For most of the year, the Tonle Sap empties into the Mekong River. However, when the rainy season arrives in June, the Mekong rises, reversing the flow to dump water into the lake, increasing its size ten-fold. When the rainy season ends in November, the Mekong drops once more, allowing the current to reverse again, emptying the excess waters of Tonle Sap back into the Mekong.

In Siem Reap the festival is held over two days, unlike the capital Phnom Penh where it is three. This allows Siem Reap’s champion a chance to head to the countries capital and vie for the national championship, an honour a team from the city took home in 2008.

The colours are amazing as the canoes, and crew, decked in the insignia of their team. Crews comprise about 40 rowers, all resplendent in their livery.

The streets, seemingly never busy, are thronged with revellers dancing, eating and generally having a great time.

The footpaths are filled with hawker food. Some, like the French bread and pate rolls, a regular found in Indochina, looks delicious. The same can not be said for some of the fried insects, and what looks like rotting Yong Tau Foo, which has spent way ftoo long in the sun.

I stick to the Baguette and pate.

Edging my way to the front of the river bank, in order to take some pics, somehow a gap miraculously opens up in front, perhaps the only one left on the shores edge. I get as comfortable as a can.

Within minutes Dara, who is sitting with his wife, starts chatting to me, explaining that everyone has their favourite team and, like anywhere in the world, there would be a few bets placed on the races.

A soon as the first heat starts a murmur goes up around me. This grows increasingly louder as the participants approach.

It’s interesting to watch the rowers. Some, who have obviously been practicing for months, and their faces are twisted in concentration; their bodies are racked with effort and, in some cases, what looks like pain. Others appear to be out for a bit of fun in the sun, relaxed and smiling.

An audible roar goes up as the combatants pass us and necks are strained to see who ends the race victorious. Cheers and boos echo the results.

Getting home after, well I decide to walk, the streets are packed and do I really want to haggle with a tuk tuk driver again?

Cheers,

Blocka

A deranged school of thought

“At least two thirds of our miseries spring from human stupidity, human malice and those great motivators and justifiers of malice and stupidity, idealism, dogmatism and proselytizing zeal on behalf of religious or political idols.” - Aldous Huxley

I’ve only been really moved a couple of times in my life and, unfortunately, both times were when I’ve been confronted by pure evil.

The first was when I stepped into the unmitigated wickedness that is Auschwitz, and now at S21 in Phnom Penh, Cambodia.

Formerly the Tuol Svay Prey High School, this educational institution had somewhere between 17,000 and 20,000 people interned within its walls from 1975 to 1979, as it was renamed Tuol Sleng, or S21.

The museum that stands in those very classrooms now holds testament to the brutality of Pol Pot and his Khmer Rouge regime, and tries to make some sense of the madness and cruelty that took place in the former house of learning.

Images and descriptions of torture are somewhat out of place on the bright and sunny day we saunter around the grounds. The horrors depicted are clear and stark as the surrounding of the classroom walls, many of which held the inmates.

Its ordinariness is chilling. Surrounded by housing and shops, just like any other school, this is that place where the intelligencia of a nation was all but destroyed.

Small birds fly from classroom to classroom, in and out of the small holes in the wiring. Something that looks like a climbing frames, which is in fact a gallows where prisoners were routinely executed, sits imposingly in a courtyard.

I can’t wait to get out. There are so many good things to see in Cambodia; Angkor Wat, the Mekong, fabulous French and local cuisine.

This all seems such a waste.


Lest we forget.

Cheers,

Blocka

I don’t know why I love you like I do?

Next time you head to Thailand do yourself a favour and hit the road to Ayutthaya, the countries ancient capital, which is around two hours north of Bangkok.

Getting there is fairly easy. Trains run regularly, there are buses and, I believe, it can be done by boat, although that is a fairly expensive option.

I decided get an early start and get the train. It takes between an hour and a half and two hours depending which train you get and I’d decided to treat myself to the air-conditioned comfort of first class getting up there. There was even free water and a bun!
On arriving in Ayutthaya a quick perusal of the map at the station sorted our route out. I’d reckoned that it should take no more than six hours to see all that I wanted to. I had no intention of getting templed out on a one day trip.

Getting transport was easy as tuk-tuk drivers are plentiful and speak good English. I agreed a rate of 200 baht an hour, with the six hour free! I’m sure it was too much, but I had the tuk-tuk to myself and we would be moving at my pace and in the order I wanted.

The kingdom of Ayutthaya existed between 1350 and 1767 A.D. AFor much of this time it was a dominant power in the region and historically holds a strong place in Thai’s hearts. During this dynasty the Burmese are reported to have attacked and sacked much of the kingdom, including the capital.
My guide, a quiet woman, prone to giving money to small children, told gleefully of songs, still sung today, about defeating the Burmese. Passionately she articulated the anger felt, still, at what the Burmese had done in Thailand.

The temples, of which there are many, were surrounded by jungle and many remained undiscovered by the Burmese. Those they did come across were destroyed.

Many of those mostly intact are impressive. It helped that the day was clear, the sky blue and the sun warm. The architecture is impressive and while it isn’t Siem Reap, it has a charm that reflects that of the Thais themselves.
In retrospect I’d have probably overnighted there as the place does have a calmness not found in Bangkok, although to be brutally honest I don’t think there is much to do other than the temples. After speaking to a few people the accommodation also seems a wee bit lacking, but the place does have a good feel to it.

One warning, the trains back to Bangkok are NEVER on time. I ended waiting two hours. One did turn up but was so packed, due to the backlog, and I physically couldn’t get on. People were literally hanging off it.
Eventually on the next one I managed to find a non air-conditioned carriage, with hard seat, for the trip back.

The trip had been worth it for the views alone and I’m sure next time I’ll go back and spend a bit more time exploring.

It appears an almost forgotten destination amongst the excitement of Bangkok, the beaches of the Islands and the jungle beauty of trekking destinations.
A Singaporean mate, a resident of Bangkok, summed it up best.

“I've not been there although its only 2 hours drive from my place. We’ve never really thought of going there."

Don’t make that mistake.

Cheers,

Blocka

Hanging out in Mue Ni

I haven’t been on the dodgems for years, but travelling to the Vietnamese beach resort of Mue Ni brought back the terrifying sensation of being thrust into chaotic traffic.

We weaved across both sides of the road, missing trucks and other vans by a mater of inches, all the while our driver, Trang, had a very serene and contented look on his face. Oh the joy!



Around four hours drive up the coast form Ho Chi Minh, Mue Ni used to be a small resort town with a few thatched beach bars, away from the hustle and bustle of Vietnam’s largest city.

Those days are now but a distant memory and the beach front, which in many parts looks little more than a building site, has become a popular destination for foreigners’ and wealthy Vietnamese. There appear to be unhealthy number of signs in Russian!


A mate of mine is a silent partner in the Sailing Club, a group of bars, restaurants and clubs around Vietnam. We had decided to check it out and were not disappointed. It is situated at the non-building site end of the beach and has been done out very tastefully… it also has a pretty good wine list.

Our room was subtlety designed and had that all important mosquito net. While the buzzing menace was not a major inconvenience we did have problems with sand flies on our first evening, but that was our own fault.


The sailing club gives you the option of having a romantic dinner for two on the beach. As Sharon and I hadn’t really seen each other for three weeks we thought it was the perfect opportunity to catch up, and it was.

The table, in front of the resort on the beach, was surrounded by candles and the romantic glow lit up our small piece of Mue Ni real estate. We chose well, I has a fabulous goats cheese salad, yep that’s right, followed by a tasty seared Tuna with a Mango salsa. Sharon started with Tuna sashimi and moved onto beef tenderloin.


All were looked after expertly, the great fear that everything would be overdone did not eventuate, and we washed it all down with a delightful South African white, from a vineyard we went to 14 years ago on our honeymoon. We even had desert!

The next couple of days were spent hanging by the pool and eating. The staff were attentive without being pushy and while drinks at the bar do take a while to appear, everyone are helpful and smile.


After hanging out for a few days we headed back to HCN by train a far more comfortable, and far less scary, journey.

Cheers,

Blocka

From Bangkok to Lao… and not a single quote from Paul Theroux.

Bangkok’s main train station is a fairly chaotic place. Thai’s and foreigner’s mill around the large bustling station waiting for the steady stream of trains that head to all corners of this intriguing country.

Large groups of backpackers wander around hunting for food to take on what is, from my experience, a long and sweaty journey.

Mine would take me, eventually, from Bangkok to Vientiane the capital of the landlocked People’s Republic of Laos.

While I’d managed to pick up a ticket to Non Kai, the Thai side of the border, there was still a question as to whether I could actually get a train across to Laos.

It was reported that a new train was in operation from February this year that would take you to within twenty kilometers of the countries capital. Why it didn’t run closer is anyone’s guess.


After picking up supplies for the journey I sat watching at one point in the evening the countries national anthem started playing and all the Thais, and any of the visitors, stood as one in respect.

I’ve treated myself to a first class seat on what, according to the ticket, is a 12 hour journey. The cabin is small and basic but air-conditioned, unlike second class.

My traveling companion has already made himself comfortable. Tom, an American who has taken up the option of a retirement visa here. He is heading to North East Thailand to visit his girlfriend.


He hales from California and his luggage, together with my large rucksack, takes up most of the floor space of the cramped accommodation… I really must learn to pack less stuff.

An affable chap who speaks well and has a very friendly disposition, he’s had a varied working career having spent time as a teamster, at a race track in California, having tried to train as a lawyer and now, despite his move to Thailand, he’s working as a partner in a US tax firm.

Tom’s first trip to Thailand was six years a go and fell in love with the place. He has a Thai girlfriend, 30 years his junior, who lives in Udon Thani, and his bags are filled with presents for her family.


I raise the specter of the common stereotypical foreigner who comes to Thailand looking for love, but he succinctly notes that in Thailand such relationships are not only common with foreigners but also between Thais.

“Age really means nothing to the Thais, my girlfriend’s family just want her to be happy and for them my age is irrelevant. As long as she is happy and well looked after that’s all that matters,” he says.


Ju, a jewelry seller who has moved to Bangkok from Isaten who I get chatting to in one of Bangkok’s many bars backs this up. She has one child, the father, a Thai who is 25 years older than her, is no longer on the scene. She adds that while it is no longer officially recognized many older Thais may also take a second, younger, wife.

It’s a late train and after food is served the attendant comes in to transform the cabin into two sleeping bunks.

Very quickly I’m dead to the world, but sleep is fitful as the trains shudders and jolts to a stop numerous times during the night. More than once we see cattle being encouraged off the line and some stops are quite lengthy.


According to my ticket we are due into Non Kai at 8am. I wake around 6.30. According to Tom we hit Udon at 7.15am, but when the attendant is quizzed about this he confirms that we won’t make it until 9am. It should take 45 minutes to Non Kai from there, which only leaves 15 minutes to make my connecting train to Laos.

In fact we don’t get Udon until 10.15… oh well it is Asia, you get used to these things. It seems I’m a lot more relaxed when travelling here than usually!

We rock into Non Kai station at 11.05. There is a train another train at the station, but the schedule says it only departs for Laos at 16.00!


I head to the ticket office asking, just on the off chance, what time the next train is. “10am to Laos” comes back the response!

The train has been held for us and, as quickly as anything happens here, we are herded through immigration to be set on our way across the Friendship Bridge and into Laos.

Cheers,

Blocka

Having a peep at Beau Rivage

Slightly off the beaten track Beau Rivage is still within striking distance of Vientiane, Laos’s capital, centre and occupies prime real estate on the banks of the Mekong.

Getting there we head off the main road down a track that runs parallel to the massive river. The rains have been heavy and the mighty estuary, according to locals, is far higher than it should be at this time of the year. The Chinese have damned the river further up and now the Laotian government struggle to stop it bursting its banks.

The red clay potholes in the road are awash with water and we rattle down the street eventually reaching the pink fronted hotel.

It’s been approaching twenty hours since I departed Bangkok and I’m pretty knackered so I’m very happy to reach my room, a large airy space, whose center piece being a salubrious bed. The feel of the space meshes both tradition Laos cultural with an almost Mediterranean feel.


The room should have a view of the magnificent Meakong but unfortunately, and this is about the only criticism I have, it is obscured almost completely by trees that allow only the briefest glances on the stretch of water separating Laos from its Thai neighbours … a real shame.

A winding staircase, with open slats leads up to your room slippery under foot you don’t want to be heading up them if you’ve had a few beers and it’s been raining.


Vientiane has changed a great deal since I first arrived here 11 years ago. There now is the usual mix of new four wheel drives monsters and bikes that now occupy its streets, many of which remain little more than mud tracks.

New concrete malls have replaced many of the old shop houses and food shops. I desperately try to hunt for a place we used to hang out in that sold the best, raw, spring rolls, but it appears to have disappeared into the center of a concrete mall.

I did however manage to find a street stall selling pate and French bread… marvelous pate, course, is served with Coleslaw and some form of ham, all in the one roll.

Laotians are, in general, far more reserved than their Thai and Vietnamese neighbours. It’s really only the Tuk Tuk drivers that seriously tout for business. You walk unmolested past massage parlours, while food and drink stalls will generally only shout out a cheery good day, without ever really trying to get you to taste their wares.

The banks of the Mekong are strewn with bbq food stalls, selling varieties of grilled foods. These wooden structures are usually adorned with plastic roofs and are wrapped in all manner of colorful Laotian advertising... although most of it is for Beet Lao, a great drop!

Sitting at one of these may stalls, having a beer, the staff readily break for lunch. Ignoring me they settle down to a shared plate of fresh looking food. I hear the word for foreigner mentioned a number of times, but have a feeling it is not in relation to me.

We get chatting and one of them asks if I play pool. They are trying to learn and want someone to practice with and I’m more than happy to help out!

Cheers,

Blocka

Swept back in time

As you walk through the lace covered doors of Jakarta’s Café Batavia you are immediately swept back to a different age, a period of colonial decadence, big movie stars, big cars and big clothes.

Judy Garland is singing on the sound system, the staff are impeccably dressed in white serving suits, ceiling fans whirl above you and huge mirrors decorate the walls above long bars that straddle the lounge areas.

Pictures of stars from a bygone age adorn the walls throughout the two tier bar/restaurant, whose floors are joined by an impressive staircase, and lit by striking chandeliers.

On the day I lunched at this historical throwback there were only a smattering of customers, mostly expats but, according to local residents of Jakarta, the area, near the old municipal Jakarta town hall, has never been the same since the riots of the late 1990’s.

As former British Prime Minister Winston Churchill and romance author Barbara Cartland, a strange combination, stare down upon me as I tuck into my post hangover lunch of chicken congee with snake beans.

The silky congee, thick with chicken and a touch of chilli oil, gives me the right combination of comfort food and a kick to get the taste buds working again after a night of beer.

The beans were sweet and also cooked with chicken, garlic and chilli. Some dim sum rounded off the lunch and I’m in need of a walk after.

Over the road is the Jakarta Museum of History. The place is interesting ansd does give a good insight into how Jakarta developed.

Many of the building surrounding Cafe Batavia and the Museum are derelict, or at best in bad repair, but there is the possibility for turning the whole area into an arts and entertainment area.

There was some talk of rejuvenating the area in 2006, but as yet little has been done.

Next is a short trip to Jakarta’s dockside. Here in the 17th century is where the Dutch looked to take a foothold in Asia through the spice trade.


The area now is a mishmash of tourist spots, a working port, and squalor.

Tourists wander through the maritime museum, which give a great overview as to how Jakarta developed as a trading port.


Behind the museum locals wade knee-deep through rubbish, dumped unceremoniously on the shore edge, a child plays amongst the refuse and an open toilet, sitting amongst the filth, is also engaged, in full view of the tourists.

As in much of the city the potential is undeniable, just unrealised.

Cheers,

Blocka

I do, next please.

"The woman cries before the wedding and the man after." - Polish Proverb

There is something MacDonaldsesque about weddings at Singapore’s Registry of Marriages. From the plastic chairs and big screens in the waiting room, to the quick fire ceremony and celebrant who seemed to want to get it over and done with as soon as possible.

A good friend of mine, Stu, recently took this trip on a typically hot and muggy Singapore afternoon.


Dressed in my finest ‘junior minister on a fact finding tour’ outfit, including Panama hat, I sweated it out waiting for the bride and groom to arrive at the base of picturesque Fort Canning.

Waiting inside was not an option at this point as numerous other wedding parties were in line for what can only be described as a battery farm approach to marriage. There must have been five other parties set to take the plunge in the 30 minutes before our friends were scheduled to tie the knot.

With the bride and groom now safely arrived, and having squeezed into the air-conditioned safe haven of the registry office, we now had to work out how long to wait. No problem, on large wall mounted TV screens, details of the happy couples nuptials were plastered for all to see, including estimated waiting time and instructions on when to move to the prescribed “waiting area.”
How efficient.

As the due time approached we are herded into a small room where the celebrant is waiting.

After a few hiccups with names… Stehart, steeeart, steve, oh Stuart, we were under orders and off. In no time at all it was over they were officially now the happy couple.

The celebrant wished a cheery, if hurried, congratulations and we were out of there in around seven minutes or so.

The drinking lasted much longer.

Cheers,

Blocka

Vietnam Vets

On a muggy and humid late afternoon in Ho Chi Minh (HCM) voices are at full cry and the subject of frozen greyhound semen is being hotly discussed, well at least on my table.

Despite my taxi drivers best efforts, I’d successfully found one of the many Vietnamese eateries workers unwind in following a hard days toil.

Secluded upstairs in a relativity nondescript shop-house on Dinh Tien Hoang Street in District 1, Green restaurant (in Vietnamese: Quan Xanh) the eatery can be easily missed if someone isn't directing you in.

It looks like any other shop house in HCM, other than the aroma of freshly cooked delicacies wafting from its entrance, and a huge Tiger beer sign over the door.

Beds and chairs are festooned in back room throughout the ground floor, giving no indication of the bustle and gastronomic delights that wait on the second floor balcony.

I was set to meet an Australian from Singapore, one of our intrepid cricket team soundly thrashed, but not embarrassed, by the Saigon Australian Cricket Club (SACC) a couple of days prior.

He, Dr Shane Ryan, had been joined by three others, two men and a woman, all four veterinary surgeons (Vets). The three Vietnamese Vets Doctors’ Son, Van and Khoa, were all based in or around HCM.

As I arrived the Vets were already stuck into the food. A rich Oxtail strew was sat on the table. Spicy and pungent filled with great chucks of oxtail, coated with layers of gelatinous fat and set amongst a bed of chilli’s and green stringy, but tasty, vegetables.

The meat was tender, the fat chewy and the chilli hot… just the way I like it.

Next was a chicken curry. Mild and fragrant the curry sauce was infused with lemongrass and was thick with coconut milk. I helped myself to a couple of bowls, the guys laughing at my enthusiasm for the dish.

Finally what the vets described at fish spring rolls was served. These were pieces of fish with were to be dipped in a sweet chilli sauce. Moorish it was left to Shane and I to polish most of them off as by this time our party was starting to flag.

It was some time between the Oxtail and the curry that the conversation of frozen greyhound semen arose. Dr Khoa was looking to raise greyhound puppies in Vietnam. In the region, only China and Vietnam have greyhound race tracks so a project has been initiated to breed the offspring of Australian racers.

Dr Khoa was wrestling with how to improve the greyhound stock in Vietnam, which, he himself admitted was “rather poor.” Importing frozen semen appeared to be the answer, and that exactly what they are doing!

Horse racing is currently the favoured pastime for sports enthusiasts in Vietnam that want a punt at the track, despite the horses being little more that the size of Shetland ponies.

Dr Son is the chief vet at HCM zoo and botanical gardens, based just down the road at 2 Nguyen Binh Khiem, almost in the centre of the city.

The amiable doctor had learnt his very passable English at school. He was also said to be conversant in French, Russian and German, somewhat reflective of the influences that have colonised Vietnamese society in the last 100 years or so.

Throughout the night, especially as more drinks were consumed, he surprised us with various idioms in English, French and Russian.

“The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain,” he articulated at one point.

Drinking is central to these events. The clinking of glasses created an almost melodic tone around the restaurant, together with the Vietnamese toast of “Yo!”

This is done on a regular basis; in fact it seemed to speed up as the evening went on.

By the time we left many red faced and raucous Vietnamese still remained, all appearing to be set for the night. It was only Monday; many still had at least four days work ahead of them.

As Oscar Wilde famously once uttered, “work is the curse of the drinking classes.”

Cheers,

Blocka

Russian roulette in PP

Eating in Phnom Penh (PP) can be a little like Russian roulette, with every mouthful you just pray the chamber is empty.

As a Singapore based journalist friend of mine recently found if it goes wrong, it goes wrong big time. Looking forward to a nice weekend in PP, she contracted a very bad case of food poisoning. Her husband, who was only there for the weekend, got to see nothing of PP other than the very uninspiring trip from the airport.

We had no such problems on our trip a week later. On the whole the food was excellent and not a dodgy tummy was to be had.

The city is riddled with eateries to suit all palates and wallets, from mobile hawker stalls, to genuinely high class French eateries. In fact I’d go as far as to say that my new favourite restaurant is in PP, and sits on a quiet street just behind the royal palace.

Open Wine, on 219 street, is a typical French bistro. It has a selective menu and wine list and doesn’t try to be all things to all men. What it does, it does superbly.

We started by sitting outside, decided that, even in the night air, it was still too warm and asked to be moved inside. No problem.

The clientele were a mixture of expats and French speaking Cambodians, while the décor is of a typical French bistro; dark wooden tables and chairs, accompanied by French white linen tablecloths. French cultural icon Edith Piaf sings hauntingly in the background.

The staff flitted around us at the new table inside, offering drinks rolls and practicing their English. They all smiled.

Having spent the last eight years in Sydney I’m not really used to this. In that great city they prefer the standoffish approach, which is now all the vogue, with added extra snarl if you dare ask for a top up of anything, or complain.

What is it about sullen restaurant staff? I’m always polite to them; it’s my one rule when I go to a restaurant. I want it to be an enjoyable experience for the both of us. There is nothing worse than obnoxious customers that look down there nose at staff. For gods sake they are only trying to earn a crust.

But the opposite is also true, for crying out load if you don’t enjoy working in a restaurant, get another job. Don’t bring my night down just because someone three weeks ago glared at you when you brought them a white roll instead of a brown one.

Sitting at our table I noticed that a guy on the next table had a cricket shirt on, unable to resist I started chatting to him, causually dropping that the team I play for in Singapore would be keen for a trip up to PP.

The conversation quickly turned to the restaurant though. He sidled up to me, rather conspiratorially, and in a hushed tone said:

“You've done yourself a favour coming here, it’s by far the best restaurant in Phnom Penh.”

And, of the ones we tried, that turned out to be true.

Having perused the menu my ever suffering wife Sharon started with the Fois Gras, a generous serving that melted in the mouth and was incredibly flavoursome.

I started with smoked salmon, served with a shot of vodka - sorry doc – together with pepper, salt and capper condiments. The fish was fresh and the vodka provided some punch.

For mains Sharon had the Duck served on Cassoulet. This was incredible; the slow-cooked bean stew was prepared to perfection, sprinkled with liberal chunks of sausage and bacon. The duck, a generous proportion, was tender and moist.


For my mains it was impossible to ignore the deer. Succulent shreds of lean meat covered in a rich juis and toppled with a fluffy mashed potato round.

On the side were French beans served in incredibly aromatic garlic butter.

Wine was a French Semillon, not particularly expensive, but with great body and the typical citrus flavours one would expect from a young wine of this style. I also snuck in a glass of the house Pinot Noir. Again the wine was fresh, with cherry overtones that perfectly matched both the duck and deer.

The whole thing came to just over US$100 and admittedly while this is a lot of money in Cambodia, restaurants in both Sydney and Singapore could take a leaf out of this eateries book. Open Wine provided us friendly top quality food, service and ambience without charging an arm and a leg.

Cheers.

Blocka