Bite-size Stories

I don’t do attachments when it comes to gastronomy. It’s hard to know what makes it work sometimes. I’ve tried them all: Mediterranean - charming, but a little too self-absorbed. Asian - endlessly exotic, but too much mystery. French - definitely some sparks, but once you’ve had it, you know what to expect. With the Mexican, though, the connection was instant. Complex yet relaxed, never revealing its secrets, always leaving me hungry for more.

Cashmere coats and Armani suits abound. Office people uphold their importance with expensive good looks on the classy side of Collins Street. They rush around the Mamasita sign, treating their afternoon meeting agenda like a life-time commitment. Me too, very important. My meeting agenda included a salt-ringed glass of margarita and char-grilled corn cobs in melted cheese, paprika and mayo. Keen Melbourne crowds queue just to get that. The word on the street is that Mamasita is an adventure. No, I do not like to queue, but I am always up for an adventure. I trick the crowds, and get in just before lunch time. Braised goat tostada, a few margaritas and an icecream covered in popcorn. We do not need an agenda to have a killer of a meeting Mamasita and I.