skyring

The place

It's hard to imagine Canberra without Lake Burley Griffin. It was the main feature of the winning entry in the competition for the design of the new capital city, but it took fifty years for it to become reality. For most of its existence, Canberra was a sleepy little country town with a provisional Parliament House in a sheep paddock, and roads leading down to wooden bridges spanning the slow-moving Molonglo River.

Depression, World War Two and the fact that most of the public service remained in Melbourne and Sydney kept Canberra small, until the Sixties when rapid growth really began. New suburbs were laid out, the National Library and the Royal Australian Mint were built and the place just mushroomed.

In keeping with the modern buildings and their fresh architecture, money was poured into landscaping and parkland. The shores of the future lake were defined and built up, high level bridges over the Molonglo erected to complete the geometry of the Parliamentary Triangle, and Scrivener Dam raised in a narrow part of the river valley down past Government House.

Came the big day when the dam was complete, the band played, the Minister for Territories pressed the button, the floodgates were lowered and the crowd rushed to the side to peer over.

Go to A Table Somewhere or

Trouble was that it had been a severe drought for months, the Molonglo was just a trickle and absolutely nothing happened. Not that day, not the next, nor the week after. In fact, for months on, there was no lake. Just a dusty expanse.

Then there came a flood, just as the organisers of the long-scheduled inaugural Canberra Regatta were wringing their hands and tearing their hair out. Overnight the lake filled and has been that way ever since.

It completed Canberra. Made it into a showcase of parks and great buildings reflected in the water. An almost symmetrical body of water in an almost symmetrical city. The even-sided cone of Mount Ainslie rising over the long land axis stretching down from Parliament House.

On and exit ramps came looping off the two big bridges. Bowen Drive curls around under the Kings Avenue Bridge, following the shoreline east, gracefully curving off towards Kingston. Here is a little area of grassland, a toilet block, a carpark and a few barbecues. A place for weekend picnics and fishing. Swans gather to be fed, Cyclists whiz past on their exercise runs and lovers stroll hand in hand.

View Larger Map

The encounter

As a Canberra night cabbie, the locations of all the late night food vans are well known to me. Two in Philip, one each in Tuggeranong, Woden and Belconnen, and Civic has one that only ever operates during Summernats when the big yellow double decker bus permanently parked on Girrawheen Street comes to life.

I'll sometimes pull in at the end of a shift feeling peckish for a half bag of chips and gravy. A sinful treat of fat and salt. Passengers coming back from a night out direct me in, ordering burgers or chiko rolls. Junk food and coke.

So when I saw the red van in Bowen Park, lit up late one Friday night, I pulled in. There were a crowd of people lined up, and I studied the menu as I waited. Seemed a little sparse, and when I got to the front, I ordered "Just chips and gravy, please!"

[caption id="" align="alignright" width="240" caption="Brodburger red van in Bowen park"]

[/caption]

"We don't do gravy."

"Oh. Um."

"We do aioli. Homemade."

"Aioli?"

"It's a sauce, made of garlic and egg and olive oil."

The aioli and chips was okay, I guess, but it wasn't that salty, greasy gravy that instantly ruins a white shirt if you drip it.

Over the months, the little red burger van gained a devoted following. There would always be a long queue and a crowd. Not what a cabbie in a hurry needs for fast food.

The burger

My second meal at Brodburger came recently. That stage of the evening when the afternoon rush has died down and I'm thinking of dinner. Usually something quick and healthy. Subway, a burrito, a kebab. Maybe a curry on Friday, when it's late night shopping in Civic.

But I was on the way to Kingston, I glanced across, and when I saw only a couple of diners lined up for their food, I hung a U-turn and drew into the car park.

As it happened, about a month previously I'd driven Joelle Bou-jaoude to the van after she'd made an emergency dash home for more change. My cabbie heart went out to her – so many times I was down to just a few big notes and small coins, and one more fifty-dollar note would wipe me out!

She looks every bit as good in the flesh as she does in the logo, I'm here to say! She smiled as she told me they'd just introduced a new product: a Brod steakburger. "Best steak. Really popular!"

So, as I lined up at the window, I knew exactly what I wanted.

"Steakburger, please!"

"How do you want it?" The chap serving was Sascha Brodbeck himself. Gourmet chef running a little red food van.

[caption id="" align="alignright" width="240" caption="Joelle Bou-Jaoude"]

[/caption]

"Ummm, medium, I guess."

There was a snort of derision from inside the van. Well, I like my meat a bit brown on the outside, okay?

"What cheese would you like on it?"

"What are the choices?"

"Swiss," Sascha began. "Brie..."

Brie! On a burger! Oh wow!

"...or blue vein."

By now I was swooning. "Blue, please!" I stammered.

Sascha warned it would take a while, so I wandered off for a look around. The van was connected to the electricity and water via a temporary arrangement at the rear. Beside it was the concrete toilet block. A few metres away a flock of swans gathered on the water, grey cygnets floating warily between hungry parents. I resolved not to eat at the water's edge, lest a long swan neck reach up and grab my meal!

A pricey snack at $12.50, or $9.00 for a normal beef patty burger. But when I got mine, it was well worth it. Easily worth a couple of Whoppers.

Several slabs of steak, beautifully cooked tender and tasty, dripping with melted blue cheese and aioli. A generous allowance of rocket, tomato slice, red Spanish onions, chunky tomato relish. All on a soft golden bread roll.

No plate, no tables. Just a paper bag and a liner. I photographed the burger on the cab bonnet, and settled down in the front seat to consume my handy feast.

Some burgers rely on quantity for their value. Or the variety of ingredients. Much as I like pineapple, bacon, cheese, pickles, tomato and egg piled high for a huge calorie fix, my Brodburger was exactly right on the quantity and variety. Not too heavy, not too unwieldy.

Just right. The perfect mix of homemade ingredients, freshly prepared and simply presented. I was licking the last juices from my happy fingers when my next radio job came in, and I was on the road again.

I'll be back.

The rage

Canberra is a city of public servants. All the government departments moved their central offices into purpose-built headquarter buildings during the Sixties and Seventies. In the decades since, the increasing power and centralisation of the federal government has seen a massive increase in population and government jobs.

Canberra is also a city of politicians. Initially administered by public servants, the place prospered. It was intended as a planned, garden city showcase, and when I arrived in the mid-Eighties, it was a true wonder. The world's ultimate suburbia, the houses were all on big blocks, freeways connected the satellite towns, there were generous stretches of parkland and nature reserve, each suburb had schools, shops, churches and apartment blocks in the centre.

People complained it was all very sterile, but I was enchanted. I had found a beautiful city full of educated, cultured people that wasn't crowded and busy. Peak hour, people said, lasted a minute. The government built the infrastructure first, before the residents of a new suburb moved in. My father-in-law, a civic engineer, was amazed at the high standards. "The cycle paths," he exclaimed, "are built to the same specifications as one of our highways. They will never wear out!"

It was a grand place to live. Then the politicians decided that the city would be best served by self-government. Instead of various federal departments running the territory, the residents would elect politicians to a Legislative Assembly, raise taxes and pay for all the services.

Twice the residents rejected a referendum on self-government. The place worked fine just as it was. Why should we pay for a bunch of politicians, their staffs and a whole new layer of government?

But the feds forced it on us. The first few elections were shambles, with the No Self-Government Party attracting a lot of support. Sadly, not enough support to form a government. The Sun-Ripened Warm Tomato Party was also popular.

The predictable result has been a top-heavy administration. A State government to run a city. A smallish city of 350 000 inhabitants today after two decades of growth since self-government. Standards have fallen, money is wasted, taxes have risen.

The all powerful National Capital Development Commission has vanished, replaced by the local government planners. The essential federal lands of the Parliamentary Triangle are run by a rump: the National Capital Authority, which is more like three men and a dog seeking relevance.

Right. So when Sasha Brodberg wanted to set up a gourmet restaurant on wheels, he applied to the local government and was granted a hawker's licence, like those given to the other semi-permanent food vans. These vans might shift their location once a decade.

He settled on the otherwise empty Bowen Drive. A heavy flow of passing traffic, a pleasant park by the lake, access to amenities. A good site, and the steady increase in customers was testament to his wisdom.

One day the National Capital Authority woke up to the fact that he was effectively permanently camped on land they controlled, and his little red food van wasn't quite the structure they wanted to see there. They served him notice to decamp.

Technically speaking, they were in the right. The cinder-block public convenience beside the van was fine. It had been planned and built to a solid, if unimaginative, standard. The van itself, if it was to be a permanent fixture, wasn't suitable for the national capital infrastructure.

But the Brodburger van is a finer fixture than any of the other six late-night food vans. It's neater and cleaner, a gourmet food outlet serving the nearby yuppies.

It's far more useful and sightly than the so-called Aboriginal Tent Embassy, a nearby eyesore in the heart of the Parliamentary Triangle denying a solid slab of prime parkland to the general community for the past twenty years. But that's political, and no government body wants to evict a bunch of squatters.

Far easier to attack the popular and useful little red food van. Notice was served, and the final eviction will be mid 2010.

Community outrage against the bureaucrats has been strong and heartwarming. Everybody loves the Brodburger van and wants it to remain precisely where it is. A petition with about a bazillion signatures is available for signing, there have been letters to the editor, debates on community forums. Even the Chief Minister, scenting the public mood for an upcoming election, has lent his support.

I'll update this post in due course. Will the bureaucrats triumph? Or will common sense prevail to keep the best burgers in the Australian Capital Territory available to an adoring public?

–PeterMac