Two Little Pigs Charcuterie and Grind

Never was there a more aptly named eatery for this Mother-Daughter duo than Two Little Pigs Charcuterie & Grind. The brainchild of a pair of cousins looking to combine their love of coffee and pork, this spanking new installment on Sydney Road delivers – dangerously so – on both fronts.

Simplicity and nods to nonna’s house reign in this café-deli hybrid with white-washed brick walls, cheery yellow saucers, tiles that wouldn’t look out of place in the Brady household and a string of drying meats hanging from the brick arch. The menu announces Two Little Pigs’ arrival as bacon big wigs; you’ll find no ordinary oinkers here. Instead expect thick and mouthwatering cuts tempting enough to seduce even sometime-vegetarians off the vege-train and into a plate of perfectly rendered pork. A must try for carnivores and herbivores alike are the Doughcakes – only available on Tuesdays – the love child of doughnuts and fluffy hotcakes. Spear your knife into the middle of these cakes, as fluffy as they are big, to find hot jam, lemon curd or Nutella; some even come with candied bacon icecream. No, that wasn’t a typo. There is such a thing as candied bacon icecream and it is brilliant.

I like to think I have a sixth sense when it comes to pork belly; I can sense when it’s on the menu and swoop faster than a magpie to a bottlecap. In reality, I’m just a speedreader who darted through the menu and called dibs on my choice before Mother got the chance. It was long before my (carefully planned) forethought paid off; never have I seen such a swanky version of green eggs and ham. A slab of succulent pork belly, swimming in a pool of velvety green veloute, was indulgent and rich; a thin layer of come-hither crackling gave that sought-after crunch and had Mother reaching across the table to swipe a piece. A pair of poached-to-popping eggs sat to one side, the yolk oozing into the veloute to create a soup-like sauce; a pinch of julienned dried angel hair chillis added a stringy mouth-feel and a hint of heat. It was difficult to mop up the veloute with slices of already-juicy pork and gooey egg; the wedges of buttered sourdough – some of the best toast I’ve had – sopped up some but not all.

Mother looked up from her freshly delivered breakfast saying, ‘I might need a torch to eat this,’ – not because the portion was small, but because the plate and its contents were so dark. On a earthy brown plate sat a dark slice of rye toast, slivers of cured jamon and a splodge of deep purple cabbage; the poached eggs and cascade of creamy hollandaise stood out like beacons against a shadowy backdrop. The intense colour of the sweet cabbage was matched by its intense flavour; it dominated the other elements on the plate and overpowered the salty serano. When paired with anything else, the sticky cabbage braise took control; to combat this Mother was compelled to push it to one side and savour each element individually. Tucked beneath the beautifully runny eggs were the thin shavings of jamon – one of Mother’s favourites – which immediately had her back in a Madrid tapas bar. Mother loved the intense meaty flavour from the jamon and was disappointed there wasn’t more. The apple cider hollandaise was thick and slightly tart. Mother was only able to stomach little smears of the sauce as it quickly became too rich for her palate. Likewise, Mother was unable to finish the dense rye.

Two Little Pigs boasts an impressive coffee line up with a single origin, pour-over and filtered. They also have their own signature house blend. My strong café latte was lovely, creamy and the perfect temperature to be nursed as I seriously debated ordering a serving of the Doughcakes. Mother’s long black had a good crema and while it wasn’t particularly robust, it was smooth with delicate notes.

Straight from the Mother This little piggy will be trotting back to Two Little Pigs – with or without Daughter. If I was to have the jamon bene again though, I’ll have to ask for a sharper knife: there were moments where I thought my meal would shoot off the plate and onto the table as I struggled cutting into the cured meat and bread with a not-so-pointy bread knife.

 

Two Little Pigs Charcuterie and Grind
146 Sydney Road, Brunswick
(03) 9939 4042

Milkwood

Behind its unassuming shopfront and white-trimmed front door, Milkwood is a compact-come-cosy space where loyal locals seek nourishment from a menu sporting everything from hotcakes and house-made lamingtons to sautéed mushrooms and lunch baguettes stuffed with punchy flavour combinations.

With a Brunswick postcode, it wasn’t unexpected that Milkwood’s staff had a laid-back, nonchalant vibe as they scurried about delivering lattes and clearing tables. What we hadn’t anticipated however, was staff who offered no greetings, no smile and no acknowledgement of their new customers for ten minutes. Not a particularly warm first impression. The twiddling of our thumbs had one small upside: taking in Milkwood’s farmstead fit out. Think a soaring pitched barn-roof, white washed brick walls, splashes of green detailing and shelves laden with baked goods and preserves made on-site.

Having read titterings of Milkwood’s broad bean smash – with pea, mint and poached eggs – any breakfast brooding was cut short. Slathered over two slices of garlicky, toasted-to-perfection sourdough was a thick blanket of crushed peas and mashed-to-a-pulp broad beans. The smash was smooth, creamy and studded with pea halves; though not the most attractive colour – perhaps from the use of canned peas rather than frozen or fresh – the dullish green contrasted nicely with the crisp white eggs. I would have liked a hint of mint in the smash, rather than just as garnish, to add a zingy burst. My googs were also overcooked with only a dribble of yolk spilling onto the pea-y paste when popped; a stream of rich, oozy yolk would have melted into the smash, adding a gooey, sauce-like boost to the topping and given the dish a oomph that it took it from nice to cracking.

Mother’s breakfast was plucked from the same kettle of fish as Daughter’s: warm cannellini bean and rosemary mash, topped with slices of soft green avocado and sprigs of parsley. A liberal smear of the chunky spread lay languidly over two slices of sourdough with dark flecks of rosemary speckled through the bashed beans. The strong, pungent herb dominated the dish, overpowering the cannellinis and swamping the palate. No other element on the dish – the lemon oil, avocado, parsley – could compete with the rosemary; Mother commented that such herby heavy-handedness would best suit a roast dinner, not a breakfast. A wedge of lemon, a handful of leafy rocket or something that could have stood up against the rosemary would have made the breakfast less of a one-flavoured affair.

Straight from the Mother Before I’d even had my first bite, Milkwood had put a bad taste in my mouth – and it had nothing to do with the food. Perhaps the staff had forgotten their glasses the morning we visited; how else can you explain three servers ignoring two customers, sitting smack-bang in the middle of the small, and definitely not full, café, for ten minutes? I wasn’t particularly taken with anything from Milkwood’s menu and although my final choice wasn’t dreadful, it was underwhelming. Any future inklings of returning to Milkwood will be swiftly squashed – I still have the chills from the icy reception our last sojourn received.

Milkwood
120 Nicholson Street, Brunswick East
(03) 9380 4062