Bill was in the lounge-room watching tennis when he heard me ferreting around in the kitchen…

“Sally,” he said, “just come and look at this a second.”

I popped my head around the doorway and saw my brother chuckling.

“You know Dim Sims?,” he asked.

“I should do,” I answered, “you obviously haven’t read my flirt book yet!”

Bill ignored my comment and gestured to the television screen. I ran and grabbed my camera. If you don’t know about Dim Sims – the most delicious snack that ever existed in Australia – look at the delightful golden parcels next to the mini Dim Sims below! And after the photographs you’ll find the chapter, “What no Dim Sims?” from my book.

 

WHAT, NO DIM SIMS?

 

 

One of the things I most look forward to when I return to my Australian roots is the simple pleasure of eating a hot and delicious dim sim. No, for the uninitiated amongst my readers, I have not spelt it wrongly – I don’t mean dim sum, dim dum, dum dum or any other variation of similar sounding words that may or may not describe a Chinese delicacy. Aficionados of the Queenslanders’ snack of choice (second only to pies) will know already that a dim sim is not one of those pale substitutes which have been making an appearance in snack bars recently. I refer to the meagre healthy option newcomers that, rather incongruously, look anything but healthy with their ashen complexions; they are those disappointing mouth-sized parcels of meat and binder swathed in thin noodle-like wrappings and boiled or microwaved until opaque and slimy.

In contrast, a perfectly cooked large dim sim is a glorious sight to behold: it is a deep-fried golden swag with handkerchief corners twisted jauntily into a crown at the top and sprinkled with a few glistering crystals of salt. Within the bountiful bundle is a filling made from a precious mystery recipe, which cannot be replicated by the canniest of cooks or even by mermaids such as me. I have tried but the secret remains safe because it is impossible to ascertain exactly what ingredients combine to create so unique and delectable a flavour.

Usually presented in a paper bag as a take-away repast, the modest, yet understandably confident, dim sim is best eaten with one’s hands rather than a knife and fork. I always begin at one of the perky twisted corners and peel it back to reveal the steaming and succulent mix that is the filling, which, if the dim sim has been cooked properly, is more than likely to be too hot to eat immediately. Therefore I am forced to deprive my taste buds of one of their most consummate pleasures for a minute or two longer. The exquisite agony of anticipation that follows is accentuated when I turn my attention to nibbling on the mouth-watering top corners. The whole upper section is firm and crisp, as is the outside skin of the beautiful sun-coloured sack, but as I work my way down, the inside layer has a tender yielding softness that has become imbued with the smell and flavour of the aromatic and luscious filling. The familiar redolence evokes memories of earlier successful dim sim dalliances and I am unable to resist; I blow on the hot concoction before savouring my first bite into the perfect assemblage of cabbage, herbs and, I’m not absolutely sure, but I think it is pork. Strange as it sounds, cabbage never tasted so good!

Not one dim sim, large or small, was to be found in the food hall at Kawana Shopping Plaza on my recent visits. Suddenly, where for years rows of golden dim sims had sat appetisingly alongside their Chiko roll cousins on hot trays in warming cabinets in all the snack bars and eateries, it was evident that many small and wet grey things had usurped them. The pallid and insipid, fat-free malingerers appeared to be the only alternative of type to the popular and inexpensive favourite of my youth and I wondered if the diet-police were in force on the Sunshine Coast. I thought perhaps a state-wide campaign had been waged and won against the dear old dim sim during my nine-month absence – it could even be nationwide for all I know! My favourite soft vanilla ice-creams dipped in molten chocolate disappeared in a somewhat twilight zone manner from Wynnum Plaza one year and never came back; it occurred to me that dim sims may have suffered the same fate, merely for being utterly delicious, which also means a tad fattening. I conjectured that some higher authority had probably deemed the deep-fried snack to be unhealthy and far too tempting for a population that the government considers too fat.

Most of us remember the great firsts in our lives such as our first day of school, our first kiss, our first boyfriend, and our first manly boyfriend. If you were a child brought up in the bush at Gumdale, as we Porch children were, there are an awful lot of firsts you remember: some were momentous events like the joy of turning on a kitchen tap in our new house – the first in our road to be connected with running water from the town supply – when our neighbours still had outside tanks; and then there are the things of less significance such as the first time Dad brought home a family tub of Kentucky Fried Chicken. I remember it now as if it was yesterday. Umm… Crisp and spicy, soft and succulent. We didn’t have a clue what part of the chicken we were tucking into to but it tasted incredible. So it was with my first dim sim, bought from the fish and chip shop down the road from my old primary school at Wynnum central; it tasted every bit as scrumptious as it looked and smelt – it set the standard for all subsequent tastings. Nobody worried about us getting fat on dim sims in those days, but then, we didn’t have them very often. And now I cannot have one at all!

I have been yearning for those crisp golden bundles of cabbage ambrosia ever since I realised there were none to be found north of Brisbane. Even the oh-so-soft in the mouth Woolies’ iced-buns do not quell my longing for the deep-fried savouries.

A short while ago, after a fretful night and dreams of diet-police, I awoke with the sun as usual and set off early for my jog walk into Wynnum and along the seafront to Manly; I did not have breakfast as I aimed to find a nice dim sim for that purpose on my travel, if indeed my suspicions were unfounded and they hadn’t been banned from every snack bar, take-away, fish and chip shop and café in Queensland. Each likely establishment I encountered on my search throughout Wynnum central shopping area was noticeably devoid of anything resembling the former most popular snack in this state after meat pies – as I told you, everybody in Australia loves pies. There would be an uprising if there were no pies to be found in Brisbane, but, evidently, the same could not be said of the missing dim sims.

“Do you have any dim sims?” I asked a teenage girl serving behind one counter.

“Dim sims?” she asked dimly, as if she had never heard of them before.

“You know,” I said rather impatiently, “Those round yellow things with cabbage inside. You sold them last year. Every take-away sold them last year and all the previous years!”

“Oh, those. I haven’t seen them for ages. We have these other dum sim things here,” and she pointed to about three hundred pallid grey things in their rows of different shapes. “Lots of people like these”, she added.

“No, thank you, I’m only interested in dim sims. Are you sure you haven’t any hidden away in the freezer by any chance?” I knew I was clutching at straws if she could not even remember them from nine months ago without prompting.

The last question perplexed the simple lass so I pressed on. To my surprise, there were similar responses from each snack bar and take-away I visited. I could not understand why there were no dim sims and why people were either very relaxed to the point of indifference about the loss of them, or they seemed to have no recollection that such a delight ever existed.

With no ground for confidence other than my natural optimism, I felt sure I could count on finding dim sims at my favourite little café, where oft times last year and other years I had succumbed to one of the enticing golden bundles, which huddled in the big glass warming-cabinet facing the passers-by. The two tables were still there outside on the pavement for eating while watching the world go by. As I approached the counter it was impossible not to notice the large squat man with the big square head sat at a smaller table standing adjacent to the entrance. Nearly filling the little table in front of the man with the enormous head was a huge oval meat-plate piled high with steak and chips (or French-fries, si vous preferrez); a token lettuce leaf and a thin slice of tomato on the side served as both a nod to healthy eating and a salve to the conscience. Rather unkindly, I linked the gigantic meal with the giant head and the walking sticks propped against an arm of his chair; then I admonished myself for joining the ranks of my bête noire – the despised diet-police.

A tiny grandmotherly Chinese lady hid meekly behind the towering glass-fronted counter while I peered in. I didn’t recognise her; she may have been the new owner, or perhaps, more likely, she was an elderly relative stepping in. My heart sank yet again when I noted that all the warm eatables on display were grey, and there was no sign of the yellow beacons I yearned for.

“Do you have any dim sims?” I asked without holding out any hope by this time.

English was not her forte, and “dim sims” probably, sounded very much the same as dum sims to her. She must have thought me blind or stupid because she responded with a wave of the hands that suggested all the grey titbits inside the cabinet were varieties of what I had just said.

“What are they?” I queried futilely in an effort to keep some sort of conversation going.

“I make,” she said proudly and with a hopeful smile – she understood the art of conversation. Then the eager little lady patted her tummy; we both laughed and we both knew she would make a sale.

The man with the square head jumped up from his lofty meal to act as interpreter and arbiter of taste. He assured me that the grey things shaped like half-moons were the best things since dim sims. Mindful of the claims, but doubtful that my unsophisticated palate would appreciate the subtlety of flavour offered by the healthy options; I left with two microwaved wet things.

When I arrived back at Henry’s twenty minutes later the once steaming grey mouthfuls I had bought as a breakfast treat for us both had become cold and shrivelled up; the opaque exterior had hard creases resembling skin that had spent too long in water. I was fearful that if I zapped them again in the microwave they might explode.

“What’s this?” Henry asked as he prodded the embryo-like grey thing with the dry crumpled skin – he adopted the dubious sneer of one who had not yet noticed the invasion of the dim sim snatchers.

“This is what you get when you ask for dim sims nowadays.” I had to laugh.

“Incredible,” my brother tutted.

“That’s exactly how the man with the square head described them too,” I giggled.

“How do I eat it – with my fingers?”

“Well, we won’t burn our fingers. Here goes!” We each took our first bite. Henry’s face spoke volumes.

“Would you prefer some toast and …” I didn’t have the chance to finish.

“Bonghy? Yes please, Sally. I’m glad we think alike.” Henry raised his right eyebrow in the fashion of the Simon Templar character from “The Saint” and we burst out laughing.

After that experience I dismissed the idea of having any more dim sims for breakfast. I had, more or less, come to the conclusion that the golden oldies were now obsolete and off the menu forever.

Yesterday it rained again but I went out for my usual jog-walk anyway – you know how much I enjoy singing in the rain. I was in Wynnum, walking under the shelter of shop awnings whilst waiting for the rain to abate a little when I saw the now familiar sight of the square-headed man at the café that no longer sells the old-style dim sims; unfortunately, the name ‘Meathead’ had planted itself in my mind and I felt guilty for being so uncharitable. The man with the voracious appetite occupied exactly the same spot as the day before and he was eating the same gigantic breakfast on an oval meat plate; there was another enormous slab of cow served with chips piled high and a nominal salad on the side, the only difference was the addition of a single raw onion ring. Meathead’s eyes met mine and I smiled a greeting and said something almost unwittingly, and which I soon regretted. I am afraid it was the same old cliché that people in similar situations to me invariably rattle off without great consideration; a harmless enough thing to say one might think, and yet I wince as I enlighten you. It was, and I will never say those words ever again – “You must live here!”

This was the opening he had been waiting for. It was his one opportunity. Meathead’s reaction formulated before my very eyes, but I was too naïve to grasp that I had unlocked Pandora’s Box and too slow to make a pre-emptive move. He started with a smile and I was taken in momentarily. I sat down opposite him out of politeness after he began his sentence; I remembered reading somewhere that disabled people prefer to speak to others at eye level to themselves. If only I hadn’t read that particular article! If only there had not been a chair for me to sit upon (there certainly wasn’t room for another plate)! If only! His sentence had no end, there was no apparent pause for breath, and therefore no chance to break in; there was no way out for me without appearing rude. His smile was fleeting; it lasted only as long as it took to tell me that he lived across the road and always ate breakfast at the same place in the open air to catch the morning shoppers “for the company”.

I was tied to my chair by my upbringing and staring right into Meathead’s face; it looked much better when I was standing. Pointing to his apartment across the road, he went on to tell me that it was three floors up and, “what with my knees being so bad…” I considered his three hundred pounds in weight and I put on a sympathetic face. He didn’t pause to let me speak, perhaps fearful that I might make my excuses and leave (which I would have). Sensing that I probably wondered if he had ever been married (he was right) he carried on, and as he did so, his mouth began contorting and I saw that his piggy eyes were the palest and coldest of blues. He revealed that his wife was a “brownie” and I wondered what kind of man would refer to his wife in such a way; I began to suspect he was one of those nasty “Bogan” people that Xavier had told me about – a Morlock in my perception. The revered wife had, apparently, “never been accepted” and died in their house when it was burnt down. Inside my head I screamed in panic, “Oh dear. Let me out of here!”

Meathead continued to spit out his story but my ears refused to listen any more whilst my eyes and my mind went into overdrive. His yellow teeth were a good deal too sharp and pointy, betraying too much of the carnivore about him. His hair was very black for an older man and he had a fringe down to his eyebrows that accentuated the square-ness of his already square head. His long oily hair was straight and stuck flat to his scalp for the first four inches before it jutted outwards over his wing nut ears and trailed in thin rat’s tails over his shoulders. In his left ear he wore a gold sleeper embellished with a miniature skull that moved freely around the golden ring with each vigorous turn or nod of his head, and there were many. But I didn’t think he looked like a pirate or even a Hell’s Angel – we mermaids are intuitive, and we are usually right. It gradually dawned on me that the vitriolic fellow at the table was not a man at all, but a troll presiding from his vantage point over all the comings and goings that he could see, including the meek little Chinese lady, who cowered behind the counter at the café. The moment that the troll included swearing in his diatribe against humanity I felt freed of any moral or social obligation to stay; at that point I emulated the Bee Gees when they walked out on an unpleasant interviewer – like them, I stood up with dignity and calmly walked away without saying a single word. Meanwhile Meathead continued ranting what must have been one of the longest sentences in history.

 

This morning the sun was shining and my world was a rosier place. I took a different route on my constitutional and thus avoided meeting the “fat controller” (another way I regarded the troll). I entered the town centre from one of the streets farther up in the grid, so I had the advantage of seeing his sentry post from the opposite direction at a safe distance; he was there again like a judge at his bench, and a gavel in each hand; but he didn’t see me as I crossed over and disappeared down the hill to the seafront. Incidentally, had Meathead turned around he might not have recognised the strange looking woman wearing an ugly baseball cap from Brunei, dark glasses and long plaits.

I had not had breakfast and I was on the way back from Manly, and flagging from my exertions, when the desire for food hit me. As luck would have it, at the very moment hunger struck I was standing right outside the take-away café on the corner opposite the drinking fountain near the wading pool. What a coincidence! I’d long since given up on the notion of finding any dim sims but there were still chiko rolls. Hopefully, I had one dollar and twenty cents in my pocket and I wondered if it would be enough. A chiko roll is another deep-fried savoury snack and looks like a large spring roll. In fact, I prefer spring rolls nowadays but I always buy at least one of the dim sim cousins when I am in Australia because I enjoy the nostalgia. I could not tell you what is inside a Chiko roll – it is another secret recipe, not that I know the secret, of course – but I can tell you they are quite nice, though not as delicious as dim sims. Nothing is as sumptuous as a golden dim sim, especially when there are none to be found anywhere!

At one of the tables outside the café a couple of hunky senior boys on school holidays eyed me up and down, and I felt embarrassed; I quickly undid my weird plaits and took off my baseball cap and sunglasses before going inside.

A tall Vietnamese girl greeted me with a beautiful smile as I entered.

“Good morning! Isn’t it a lovely day? And what can I do for you today?” she asked chirpily in an Australian accent with a slight Vietnamese twang that must have come from her parents.

“Well, what I’d really love you don’t appear to have, and you probably won’t remember what they are anyway, so I’ll just have a Chiko roll please”, I returned her infectious smile.

“It’ll take a few minutes,” she said.

The girl with the sunny disposition disappeared momentarily and returned from the kitchen in thoughtful mode.

“I was thinking about what you just said, tell me, what is it that you really love and we don’t have?” She looked as though she was truly interested.

“Dim sims,” I answered, half afraid that I was going to disappoint the delightful girl because she would not be able to help me.

“I knew it! I knew it!” she said with glee.

“You seem to be the only person who remembers them from last year,” I responded, happy at last to meet a normal person with a memory greater than that of goldfish.

“Of course I remember them. They were our best sellers! You didn’t know the factory burnt down then?”

“So that’s it! Thank you so much for solving the mystery! I wonder why nobody else told me. I don’t live here anymore and it’s nine months since I was here last. Do you know if they are rebuilding the factory?”

“I’m not sure but I would think so. Don’t you think there would be some kind of public uprising if Australians couldn’t get their dim sims?” she winked.

I took my steaming hot breakfast over to the tables under the trees on the seafront. Oddly enough this morning’s fresh chiko roll tasted every bit as good as the first one I ever tried. But it wasn’t quite as good as a dim sim, naturally!