As you, me and the entire population are aware, the Australian “smashed avocado” now represents something beyond a delicious mess alone. We won’t ruin our breakfast plans by returning to headlines that identified a national avocado habit as the cause of unaffordable housing.
What we will do is: (1) give thanks to food chef Luke Nguyen this summer when we remember that he showed us how to pop avocado in a cooling drink; (2) applaud the avocado role in Mexican cuisine; (3) worship this berry which is usually affordable, always exquisite and probably the foodstuff that has saved the greatest number of vegans from despair.
Poor avocado. The only hostile thing an avocado has ever done is refuse to ripen for a week, then suddenly ripened, then, when we popped out the back for ten seconds for coriander, turned to grey mush so mushy, “smashing” was no longer an option.
I forgive you, avocado. You beguiling mistress of instant rot.
Even so. I find it hard to forget the damage done by those who first insisted that av should be “smashed” and not simply “mashed”. (Or why not “squashed” or “muddled”?) In my way, I too am angry at what the “smashed avocado” has come to symbolise. I really do not wish to revive this av-troversy. But, I am afraid I am compelled.
The only hostile thing an avocado has ever done is refuse to ripen for a week.
Avocado is a fragile fruit, that, unlike a potato, cannot stand up for itself. Smash a spud, sure. Put “brutalised Bintje” or “punished Pontiac” on your menu, if you must. But speak of the av with the tenderness she deserves. Also, peas. Who seeks to “smash” this tiny sweet herald of spring?
I’ll tell you who. Bro-hipsters. Or Bro-sters, as I imagine they are sometimes called. While it is difficult to trace the origin of “smash” as a culinary verb, I boldly accuse a particular kind of chap. An Australian one with Anglo-Celtic heritage who went to a nice private school, but prefers to act as though he did not. Not that there is anything wrong with being such a person, goodness no. Some of my best friends etc.
But, when these chaps tell their parents that they are Jamie Oliver, secure ample funding for a Bro-ster café, and apply a Mixed Martial Arts approach to hospitality, I find digestion difficult.
Cool it with the belief that a bushranger beard is appealing to a woman even when some of it ends up on her toast.
I really do not mind gentlemen calling each other “bra” while wearing hats ironically. I do, however, resist their over-representation in the casual dining business. Good luck to any brave person, of course, who takes on such a challenge. But as a consumer eager to support local, affordable eateries, I would implore these youngish men to cool it with the belief that a bushranger beard is appealing to a woman even when some of it ends up on her toast, or that naming your burgers after heart conditions is clever marketing. These form part of the reason your joint, filled with upcycled dentist chairs that any patron who likes “extreme” sitting less than you do (note: every patron) closed inside a month.
I am all for dining innovation, and food culture that is new to me. Bring on the sushi robots. Bring me your biryani, and leave me to observe how other diners eat it so deftly in bread with their hands. Novelty can be perplexing to a cheap eats diner for an instant, but that all dissolves when you know that the proprietor seeks to offer you comfort for a small fee.
When a proprietor demands that I peruse a menu heavy in 1980s action film references at a table made from skulls, my patience dangles from a bungee cord. I become cross. Almost cross enough to smash the blameless avocado.
Helen Razer is your frugal food enthusiast, guiding you to the good eats, minus the pretension and price tag in her weekly Friday column, Cheap Tart. Don't miss her next instalment, follow her on Twitter @HelenRazer.
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