Market Eating House — Restaurant in Bunbury

Unfortunately for my wife and myself we were spoilt while away in Scotland recently with both the quality and service of food that we experienced.

Upon receiving our voucher for the market eating house as a wedding present and then checking the reviews for the market eating house we were quite keen on using our voucher and having a meal there .

From the moment we walked in and were waiting to be seated I thought that it was rather crammed , rather dark and from the first words that were uttered by staff really pretentious even down to their tone.

My wife ordered fish which was barramundi and I ordered roast lamb .

I tried my wife’s fish only to be stopped dead in my tracks by bones that I had to remove . From my mouth .

Then to my dismay the lamb roast that I ordered was actually lamb neck .

Having worked in restaurants in my uni days and even culling lambs and sheep on my grand parents farm in my formative years I had never seen or cooked a lamb neck as a roast .

My initial thoughts were to send it back but as it was a voucher from our wedding I decided to keep an open mind and try it out .

After the meal I realised exactly why I had never had a lamb neck as a roast .

By the time I removed the trachea and oesophagus from the neck and then the neck bones there wasn’t much left and what was left was strong , fatty and not a roast by any means.

A roast is a lean meat from the leg area of the animal that it is taken from, and a succulent morsel that should really taste quite exceptional .

Further to that I felt sorry for the next person that ordered the lamb roast as if it had been advertised it as roast lamb neck I would not have ordered it .

When we sat down I was shocked as to how close people were seated . I tried to move the table a two inches away from the people next to us only to be quickly told not to move the table as the waiter needed access .

To my dismay another customer was told to push his chair in as the waitress needed to get in to the tables .

When we finished our meal the table next to us was vacant so we moved to the corner table as it was brighter and we thought we would give the staff room to tend to our plates and cutlery . The waitress told us that we could not move as the table was booked for someone else who was due in 10 minutes . She then told us that our table was also booked for someone else and seeing as we were only going to have dessert we should have enough time to finish it . This establishment reminds me of the eating places that popped up In Perth in the 80’s where they were portrayed as fine dining but really they were snatch and grab places that were put up to lure people in and pay over priced meals for food that really wasn’t what it was made out to be .

The classic of the night was when the man at the front counter said I hear that you had issues with your meal .

My wife tried to put her point across but he did not want to have a bar of it and after she said I am going to give you 1 star on trip advisor he replied we do not receive bad reviews thank you and turned his back on her .

I think that they should rename this place megalomaniacs eating house and trying to act upmarket and pretentious is not a case of charging ridiculous prices for the food that you provide but more of a case of quality of food and service which sadly was not there .

My dinner repeated on me the whole way home as it doesn’t matter how you roast a lamb neck it is still fatty and quite mutton tasting hence they use them in stews and clean the fat off the top of them as they cook them .

After it repeated on me for the umpteenth time I looked at my wife and asked if she would like a baskin and Robbins so as to get the taste of dinner out of my mouth .

Thankfully she said yes and while eating my ice cream I thought to myself that the great thing about baskin and Robbins is that they never disappoint which is more than I can say for the market eating house and I will never return for a meal or...

Who would have expected this understated Bunbury storefront facade (with hooded windows and geometric cornices) to open its doors to one of the most impressive meals to have blessed this planet? Upon our entry, my friend and I saw the sacred congregation of customers peppering almost every available table and countertop. We disparagingly asked, "Guess you don't have room for two more?" It was met with the shine of a server's smile and the promise of "We'll see what we can do." Within moments we were beckoned to a small table off from the bar that seemed to have been conjured by magic, the sorcerer ready to wine and dine us for the best meal of our life. Surrounded by a Brooklyn-style exposed brick wall with suspended bare-bulb filament lights, we turned to each other and agreed, "We're in safe hands here."

We scanned the menus, instantly landing on the Aleppo pepper spiced roasted pumpkin dip, the barbecue hellim cheese, the fried Brussel sprouts, and the duck fat potatoes in such swift synchronicity, it was as if we were both possessed to order the same perfect combination of taste sensations. After whispering each dish to one another in unison, we decided it best to order some drinks. I procured an old fashioned and my counterpart a gin & tonic, both of which came within reasonable measure and primed our gullets for the experience we were about to have.

The food arrived just as our server explained, with what could be (to an untrained chef) haphazard dishes one-by-one, but in the skilled timings of our evening, everything arrived just when it should. Each dish became a leg-up from the previous, and each brought with it its own path of decadent enlightenment.

From the first bite of the spiced roasted pumpkin dip, spread over grilled Lebanese breads, we proclaimed the night a hit. "Every other restauranteur, take note." "Pack it up everyone, we're done here. No other patron can have this." As the delusions of how incredibly glorious the food tasted bettered our judgement and bloated our righteousness to own every future serving. But there were more pleasures for our palates that we could not have foreseen if it wasn't for our order being cast moments prior.

We sliced into the barbecue hellim cheese and playfully stacked various combinations of bread, cheese and dip. In exultation we danced in our chair and intertwined our glasses to drink in unison. In that moment we were the happiest we'd ever been. A night too good to hold to ourselves. One to share with our loved ones and future grandchildren.

The brussel sprouts elevated me to ecstasy as the duck fat potatoes grounded me, limp to my chair, unable to comprehend what had just occurred. My neurons lit up like New Year's fireworks and my tongue craving more even though my stomach was telling me it had hit capacity.

I took a sip of my friend's blood orange gin & tonic and I couldn't lay captive to my tongue any longer. I couldn't help but vocalise, "that's gorgeous. That's actually gorgeous."

Legs shaking from climax, we proceeded to the counter to split the bill. A measly $65 each. Many would pay much more for a few hours of sensual sensation and probably leave feeling far less satiated than we did that night.

A zest in our step, having discovered ourselves and that all we are is everything within and without, we strode into the night, passing another man leaned against the front facade. "Impressive, isn't it?" He said to us. For he too knew what we did. That tonight we dined in heaven, and the only sin that bore our future down, was the sad acknowledgement that we couldn't extend our stay to experience...

Who would have expected this understated Bunbury storefront facade (with hooded windows and geometric cornices) to open its doors to one of the most impressive meals to have blessed this planet? Upon our entry, my friend and I saw the sacred congregation of customers peppering almost every available table and countertop. We disparagingly asked, “Guess you don’t have room for two more?” It was met with the shine of a server’s smile and the promise of “We’ll see what we can do.” Within moments we were beckoned to a small table off from the bar that seemed to have been conjured by magic, the sorcerer ready to wine and dine us for the best meal of our life. Surrounded by a Brooklyn-style exposed brick wall with suspended bare-bulb filament lights, we turned to each other and agreed, “We’re in safe hands here.”

We scanned the menus, instantly landing on the Aleppo pepper spiced roasted pumpkin dip, the barbecue hellim cheese, the fried Brussel sprouts, and the duck fat potatoes in such swift synchronicity, it was as if we were both possessed to order the same perfect combination of taste sensations. After whispering each dish to one another in unison, we decided it best to order some drinks. I procured an old fashioned and my counterpart a gin & tonic, both of which came within reasonable measure and primed our gullets for the experience we were about to have.

The food arrived just as our server explained, with what could be (to an untrained chef) haphazard dishes one-by-one, but in the skilled timings of our evening, everything arrived just when it should. Each dish became a leg-up from the previous, and each brought with it its own path of decadent enlightenment.

From the first bite of the spiced roasted pumpkin dip, spread over grilled Lebanese breads, we proclaimed the night a hit. “Every other restauranteur, take note.” “Pack it up everyone, we’re done here. No other patron can have this.” As the delusions of how incredibly glorious the food tasted bettered our judgement and bloated our righteousness to own every future serving. But there were more pleasures for our palates that we could not have foreseen if it wasn’t for our order being cast moments prior.

We sliced into the barbecue hellim cheese and playfully stacked various combinations of bread, cheese and dip. In exultation we danced in our chair and intertwined our glasses to drink in unison. In that moment we were the happiest we’d ever been. A night too good to hold to ourselves. One to share with our loved ones and future grandchildren.

The brussel sprouts elevated me to ecstasy as the duck fat potatoes grounded me, limp to my chair, unable to comprehend what had just occurred. My neurons lit up like New Year’s fireworks and my tongue craving more even though my stomach was telling me it had hit capacity.

I took a sip of my friend’s blood orange gin & tonic and I couldn’t lay captive to my tongue any longer. I couldn’t help but vocalise, “that’s gorgeous. That’s actually gorgeous.”

Legs shaking from climax, we proceeded to the counter to split the bill. A measly $65 each. Many would pay much more for a few hours of sensual sensation and probably leave feeling far less satiated than we did that night.

A zest in our step, having discovered ourselves and that all we are is everything within and without, we strode into the night, passing another man leaned against the front facade. “Impressive, isn’t it?” He said to us. For he too knew what we did. That tonight we dined in heaven, and the only sin that bore our future down, was the sad acknowledgement that we couldn’t extend our stay to experience...