Sails Cafe, Margaret River… Again

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Sails Cafe Margaret River… Again

After my initial visit I felt this little cafe had a lot of potential that just wasn’t quite realised in my crepe. Who the fuck orders a crepe for breakfast anyway? So I returned to try the crab omelette. The menu stating it was blue swimmer crab, herbs, chilli and ciabatta.

Now, when I order an omelette I kinda expect it to be folded and a little gooey in the middle. This was neither. The herbs and chilli were sparse like the shorts of every young girl on the street in Margaret River and the ciabatta was flashed under the grill just long enough to melt the butter. I want TOAST* with my breakfast, not warm bread! Once again I was disappointed. I really want to say it was delicious and tell all three people reading this that they should go there but, I’m sorry Sails, I can’t.

I should’ve just sat at home eating marron** like I did for the rest of my time in Margs.

Oh well, maybe I just gotta lower my standards a little…

*Toast is produced by something some people decided to call the Maillard reaction. This is a form of nonenzymatic browning. It results from a chemical reaction between an amino acid and sugar caused by radiant heat. Couldn’t be simpler eh?

**Marron. Western Australia’s fresh water crayfish and some of the best food of my trip so far. Details coming soon to a blog near you!

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The crepe crusader

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The crepe crusader

Sails Cafe, Margaret River.

Don’t tell anyone but I’m thinking about ordering the crepe for breakfast. And yes, apparently they do make crepes for men now.

The crepe. It sounds like something with a frilly edge that you might place your cutlery on. Or maybe something crocheted to put on your toilet seat…

And here I am. Sitting here, looking at a menu and contemplating ordering it.

All my fave combos were there; nasi goreng, crab omelette, chorizo baked eggs… But I just keep looking back at the crepe. I realise a lot is at stake. I’m not just contemplating breakfast here. Now it’s personal. Sexual. I’m about to cast a deciding vote for the sexuality of the big bearded (yes I am both big and bearded… And quite tall too. Bahaha ha haha ha hmmmm) men every where. Can I do what I have to do? Am I strong enough? Yes! Well grease me up then woman, cause nothing goes faster then a greased big bearded man.

It’s done.

Like waiting for the results of a gonorrhea test, all I can do is bide my time. The outcome will soon be realised…

With fan fare not totally dissimilar to the Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras, the crepe arrives.

Man, if this crepe was thinner it would have won for sure. But instead it leaves me yearning, knowing the dizzying heights it could have achieved. Like the married woman waiting for an orgasm I am left with a not deeply satisfied feeling in my belly, lying in a wet patch… Maybe without the wet patch…

But why the hell am I so keen to see the crepe succeed? When did I decide to become a crepe crusader? Who fucking knows?

After further investigation I deem the sensible part of my brain was on its lunch break… Or morning tea, or afternoon tea, or maybe one of the 20 smoko breaks is has a day… Come to think of it, I reckon it’s on break more then it works. That’s it, I’m getting rid of it! So anyway it was on its break (now a permenant holiday) and it came back to discover that we had decided that we were now crusaders for the plight of the crepe.

I know. WTF?

Well it could certainly be worse…

Crepe (or pancake it seems) with ham and local cheddar and potato salad

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