so i made it back to mr close for the halloumi sandwich last week. the original plan of course, had been to brown bag it and pair it with a chai frappucino from the starbucks across the way. but it was not quite lunchtime and the cafe area only held a handful of suits in business meetings, so i showed myself to a table in the corner, and breathed the springtime scent of the jonquils before me. in no time at all, a smartly aproned waitress brought water and a menu. lovely.

now. see the charming little clutter of flowers, peppermill and stripy postcards — it no doubt makes for a welcoming tableau at the table, but once the food got to the table, i found the flowers just too much on the nose. why would you not want to smell your freshly toasted sandwich instead?

this one, which came as a piadina served on a board, had a nice crunch which gave way to a great salty mouthful of cheese, capsicum, eggplant and rocket. the generousity with the halloumi may be applauded, yes, but it also reinforced my reservations about halloumi sandwiches in general: the saltiness just overpowers everything else in its vicinity, and in this case the supporting cast was well worthy of their place in the spotlight. fortunately my tastebuds were saved from complete erosion by…

it’s time for your close-up, amazing side salad. it costs $2 more to have your sandwich on the premises, and it does say on the menu that eat-in sandos come with a small side salad. i was expecting nothing more than a little pile of dressed leaves, so this perfect, elegantly disheveled portion of rocket with slices of in-season corella pear, walnuts — toasted, even — and musty little lumps of gorgonzola ended up being the highlight of my lunch. and i don’t even really like blue cheese.

my artfully poured hot chocolate was pleasing too. it had arrived first up, a promising shade of rich brown, and proved itself to be intensely chocolatey without any glugginess or cloy. a much nicer beverage overall, than my bottle of gluco-scan earlier that morning.

yes, the old glucose tolerance test. it would appear that one of the side effects of pregnancy, at least this time round, is gestational diabetes. i suppose i had a lot running against me: sitting way the heck over this side of 30, being chinese and tubby, having a family history (on both sides!) of type 2 diabetes… and well, fine, i expect the preceding years of pancreas-punishing cake consumption can’t have helped.

i’d like to think the salty cheese sandwich might have done some good towards lowering my blood glucose that day.

saturday just gone, we suffered a couple of false starts before we got a seat in the cosy little space that is milkwood. the cosiness has its drawbacks you see: sideways crabwalk access only between tables, and that’s if you even manage to get a table. alas, we did not. we waited our turn out on the footpath, got called in prematurely and then sent back out, and then when our promised spot along the front counter finally became available, a tall bald man swooped in from the street and laid his claim. by the time we made it inside and sidled across to the spot, he’d already ordered a coffee. i told him, politely, that we’d been waiting outside ten minutes for the seats and that maybe we could ask the waitress about what was what, but he flounced muttering back out into the cold.

his loss.

my luncheon (40 minutes in the making! i may not complain about CERES again), off the specials board, was a mound of middle eastern poached eggs. do they poach eggs in the middle east? i shall not quibble. the bounty of bitey rocket, drizzled in tahini, with little nubblets of fetta and juicy green olives and a good sprinkling of za’atar, made an exceptional riff on the old poached-eggs-on-buttered-sourdough number. dee-licious.

i took myself out to dimsum the other friday. i’d been working my way through a cold all week, and was at that stage where i’d been well enough to leave the house that morning. an hour and a bit later though, i was wilting and drippy, and just past noon, was fortuitously close by the melbourne central outpost of the oriental tea house. there were but a couple of people at a couple of tables, drinking tea, so i was a bit surprised when i asked for a table for one and was shown to a gloomy little corner banquette by a wall crafted in recycled timber. no matter: it is nice when you’re poorly to sit in a dim spot away from the rabble (of which, at this stage, there was none).

past the little corral of outdoor bench seating and the bright retail space at the front of the store, the bit where tea is drunk is large and open, smartly appointed with cafe tables and bentwood chairs in a palette of red, white and “wood”. the young staff wear crisp aprons and friendly smiles, and glide about the polished concrete floor in a most efficient manner. one of them swiftly presented me with a drinks menu, from which i chose the barley ginger tea. it showed up a few minutes later, in a fat glass with an integrated strainer. within it was a cheery melange of oolong tea leaves, dried ginger, barley and a single red date. it brewed pale, but the ginger was bitey! the barley soothed. it was just what the prickle in my throat needed.

i asked the tea delivery waiter if there were serving dimsum yet, and he hesitated. “um,” he said. “not yet.” he looked round the wooden wall into the open kitchen. “but soon!” he added, promisingly.

and really, within five minutes, a waitress came round with a tray of bamboo baskets. (and in ten minutes the volume of people in the dining room swelled like a wave. the tea house had clearly gotten its timing impeccably sorted; i was glad to be tucked away in my cosy corner.)

i picked the vegetarian dumplings from that first offering. they looked like glisteny opals with the multicoloured veggies glowing through the translucent skin. a healthy mix of carrots, turnips and shiitake mushrooms, which still retained a bit of crunch. in contrast, the dumpling skin was just the wrong side of mushy.

the king prawn dumplings, filled with coarsely chopped prawnmeat, and each topped with a whole prawn, suffered the same fate: the skin was flabby, and the prawns themselves missed the crystal crunch of the best har gows. in my basket, one dumpling was even missing its crustacean crown. (are fewer mediocre prawns than one is entitled to a blessing or a gyp?)

i took a breather and sipped my tea, and considered the possibility of another basket of dumplings. a waiter sidled by and proffered a trio in a most bewildering shade of mauve. it turned out they were roast duck dumplings. what the hell, i thought, i’m eating for two. as with the others, though the filling was generous and tasted of what was in the name (in this case, chopped duck meat, fragrant with cinnamon anise) the skin was left lacking. as was the presentation. look at how the dumplings have slid slovenly all the way onto one side of the basket. and, they’re purple.

by the time i got through my ninth dumpling, i was ready for a nap. i lingered a while by the tea display at the front of the shop — all open bowls of tea leaves and cubby holes of slick packaging — and asked if the tea balls were sold singly. turns out, no. but the smiling shopgirl was only too pleased to pack me a sample stapled up in a baggy, a most promising little orb of jasmin and lychee. “you had yumcha here today?” she asked. “how did you like it?”

“it was…” i paused. “ok. some of the dumplings were better than others.” i’d like to think i’d be back; the waitstaff are welcoming, the cafe setting an agreeable change from the usual oppressive chinese resto vibe. the one tea i had was quite delicious. but the dumplings… oh the dumplings.