Food review: Comida at Hahndorf
Paella is only one of the reasons to discover a Spanish eatery that has found a new home in the Adelaide Hills, writes Simon Wilkinson.
Food & Wine
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The satellite-dish-sized pans of rice, chorizo and other goodies that were conjured up at the Comida stall became as much a part of the Central Market routine as two-dollar-bags on a Saturday afternoon.
But when Brad and Fiona Sappenberghs closed their little homage to Spain last year, the paella disappeared, along with those awesome jamon legs that hung above the counter like Christmas decorations.
Market shoppers take note. It might require a longer drive, but a paella pan is the first thing you will see when walking into Comida’s new home in the tourist town of Hahndorf.
Formerly the Seasonal Garden, the main street property it has taken over has masses of space and endless potential.
The white-walled, cottagey building at the front has been fitted out with booths and a mix of other tables, alongside a bar and partly open kitchen, the new design making great use of natural light and natural materials.
But it is through the back door, out to the twin decks and a view across sprawling lawns, a shelter with a wood oven, picnic tables and marquees, that really sets the heart racing. It’s a setting made for a midsummer night’s dream of pizza, paella, wine and friends.
And while paella is definitely an option, our focus is elsewhere.
Anyone who has sat down for a proper meal at Comida in the market, or its other guest appearances or catering gigs, will know that Brad’s kitchen craft goes far beyond wrangling rice.
And now, with the Hills’ legion of producers as neighbours, and an extensive market garden to one side of the back yard, he has inspiration all round.
The result is a menu that flows from familiar tapas nibbles (Port Lincoln mussels escabeche-style, tomato and garlic toast with jamon) and sunny Spanish flavours to the contemporary Aussie approach that can happily embrace everything from XO sauce (with Spencer Gulf prawns) to a Caesar-ish salad. Veggies are given special attention. Golden crumbed spheres filled with an oozy mixture of mushroom and melted manchego are buried beneath an extra avalanche of the grated cheese.
A velvety-textured block of chicken liver parfait is dressed to impress with pickled purple and golden beets to the side and a drizzle of quince syrup. Fried pastry fritters known as “orejitas” replace the usual crispbreads. Beetroot features again, as pieces and a fluorescent puree, in a salad of shaved ox tongue, witlof, caperberries, cress and mojo verde, Spain’s version of a herb salsa made with a splash of sherry vinegar.
Octopus is poached and then pressed into a compacted block, so the tentacles become extra meaty and the naturally gelatinous skin helps bind it all together.
Another mojo, this time made with roasted peppers, paprika and cayenne, adds a spectacular splash of burnt orange, while a curve of potato crisp rises above it like a well-set spinnaker on a racing yacht.
Beef short rib has lost all inhibitions and collapsed into a braising pool that contains Pedro Ximenez, the treacle-like black sherry. All that indulgence is tempered by ajo blanco, an emulsion of bread and almonds, and a salad including persimmon, currants, sunflower seeds, radicchio and caperberries.
That one red meat plate is accompanied by four of veg that are so much more than sides. The unanimous favourite is built around Jerusalem artichoke in two forms – soft, wrinkly roasted flesh and crisp shards of skin – that complement each other like Lennon and McCartney. They are tossed about with perky leaves of kale, a mix of seeds and nuts, garlic and a crowning quenelle of goat’s cheese.
Another combination with roasted fennel, freekeh, rocket and preserved lemons has a similar creamy blob on top, this time of sumac-sprinkled labne.
Raw brussels sprouts are shredded to form the base of the “Caesar” salad but the seasoning, along with the aioli dressing, takes the saltiness a step too far. And there are patatas bravas, of course, the fried spuds here topped with dollops of aioli and a tomato and chilli jam.
After all this, the thought of “postres”, Spanish for desserts, is preposterous, particularly when one is “leche frita”, essentially a custard-filled version of fried ice-cream, with lemon curd and sorrel leaves. An excellent wedge of basque cheesecake is much safer ground.
On the way out, we pass that pan again and pick up two takeaway paellas to feed the boys at home. While they happily scoff their dinner, we fantasise about balmy nights in the Comida garden.