I tried to stop my British friend’s atrocious order. Then I joined him

What do you do when a friend, visiting from England, orders something atrocious from the menu at your favourite South Coast club? It happened to me the other day. The friend’s name is Matthew and the dish was oysters Kilpatrick.

“Haven’t seen them on a menu for years,” he said, indicating his intention to order a half-dozen.

It sounds rude, I know, but a surge of local loyalty forced me to challenge his choice. “The NSW South Coast is home to the finest oysters in Australia,” I said. “These are oysters plucked from nearby estuaries, their delicate flavour invoking their sun-soaked homes, these vistas sculpted by the sea. The oysters on offer tonight will be sourced, quite possibly, from nearby Greenwell Point, beguiling you with their subtle saltiness, or perhaps they’ll hail from the fast-flowing Clyde, with their famous sweetness, or from Narooma, where shallow waters produce a sharper taste.”

Why did Oysters Kilpatrick fall out of fashion?Credit: Getty Images

I took a mouthful of beer, then leaned towards my target. “And yet you, Matthew, despite being offered the chances to savour these tiny miracles “au naturel”, instead demand each be buried in a hillock of bacon, then drowned in Worcestershire sauce, before being incinerated under a grill.”

In my mind’s ear some patriotic music was playing as I spoke – Waltzing Matilda or perhaps Shipping Steel – and, as I warmed to my theme, Matthew’s crime suddenly appeared part of a pattern of British oppression: the invasion, the rabbits, the cruel betrayal at Singapore. And now this!

I gave the Britisher a pretty firm stare across the table.

A good old-fashioned Steak Diane with chips.

“Well,” he said finally, leaning back in his chair, “they sound bloody delicious. Having heard you recount the recipe in such detail, I’ll now need a dozen”.

How to respond? After a moment’s indecision, it seemed impolite not to join my visitor in his life of crime.

“Let’s each have a dozen Kilpatrick,” I said, “and would you like a heavily wooded chardonnay to wash them down?”

As with oysters Kilpatrick, fashion has turned its back on the traditional oaked chardonnay – a drink so full of wood chips you’d feel like a beaver chewing through a house. So out went the chardonnay, joining the Kilpatricks in the culinary bin. At least a glass or two might make the oysters feel more at home.

We might not have been able to afford aluminium cladding on our home, but we’d lash out when it came to a well-clad spud.

We ordered and were quickly served. Perhaps you are ahead of me here, but the experience was startling. Both items were mind-bogglingly good. The oysters? How delicious! The bacon was crispy, the slight charring managed perfectly, and the Worcestershire sauce created a flavour bomb that somehow didn’t entirely drown out the fresh oyster below.

The chardonnay? Similarly brilliant. The flavours were full and creamy, a perfect match for the oysters. Perhaps chardonnay’s fall from grace was merely due to its role in Kath and Kim, where it was featured as the favourite wine of the lower middle class, the only class that no Australian wants to join.

As I sipped, it took me back to that time before “restraint” – a time when people purchased cars that were bright red or bright yellow, instead of the endless white or grey of today’s fleet. It was also the time before everyone fell in love with tastefully tasteless pinot gris – “it’s so marvellously restrained I can hardly taste anything”. And the time before people began painting every room with quarter-strength Hog Bristle, a colour whose presumed slogan is “you’ll never notice it was even painted.”

Another oyster. Another slurp of chardonnay. As we merrily imbibed, I began to wonder what other delights from the past had been all-too-quickly pushed from the table.

Couldn’t we perform a taste test on some devils on horseback? I remember them as fabulous but have been barely offered one since 1983. Beef Wellington fell out of favour because it was difficult to cook, but couldn’t the new generation of connected thermometers offer a safe space for the modern chef? And, as for steak diane, please bring it back, and hurry because I want it now.

I’d also like hamburgers with a proper bun, rather than the new version – a soft, sweetened brioche designed for people who either have no teeth, or wish to lose whatever gnashers they might still possess. And I’d like to occasionally order a dish that’s cooked at the table, the waiter igniting the crepes Suzette as we all look on in awe.

Oh, and one last suggestion: I’d like a return to the baked potato wrapped in aluminium foil, that glamour item from the Black Stump restaurant chain, the foil hatched at the top to allow a christening of sour cream and chives. We might not have been able to afford aluminium cladding on our home, but we’d lash out when it came to a well-clad spud.

Back at the club, it’s time to choose main course. It’s not a difficult decision. Surf n Turf all round, washed down with Hunter Valley shiraz. If only they’d had Viennetta for dessert, I could have spent the entire night inhabiting the past, oblivious to Trump, the far-right in Germany, the Chinese navy off the coast, and all the other horrors of 2025.

My only question: could we fit in another dozen Kilpatrick while we wait for the mains to arrive?

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