“I can’t laugh, it hurts. Arrghhhh.”
“I’m never doing that with you again.”
“Why? We should have stopped. Poor choices…”
“That was the worst idea you’ve ever had!”
“If you are feeling weary I can sing to keep you awake?”
“I’m so glad you stopped the car when you did. Something was pressing on my bladder.”
Usually when my butcher friend and I are in a car together the conversation flows like water from a garden hose on a summer’s day. Not tonight though as the events of two hours earlier have muted the conversation. Only the above phrases get uttered, some multiple times. Our words being conserved as we could not resist the offerings from the Pawpaw Café.

Some people watch a cooking show and think they can run a successful kitchen. But like a barnacle on a ship, only those that hang on for dear life and let the water wash over them survive. Today, the competition for the diner’s wallet is as competitive as ever, resulting in an explosion of gimmicky midweek deals throughout Brisbane, each attempting to convince you to ditch last night’s reheated leftovers and leave the house in favour of something more appetising. Tonight’s event is the monthly “All You Can Eat Bao” night, which shouldn’t be confused with the less popular and more deadly, “All You Can Eat Boa.” For the uninitiated, bao are steamed Asian buns. If done well they’re bite sized clouds of heaven, if not, you’ll think you are munching on an old pencil eraser.

It took roughly eight weeks to fully digest the tower of dumplings from the previous midweek visit to Brisbane. Now is the right time to stock up on carbs in preparation for what is predicted to be a bitterly cold winter. Surely the same principles employed in the animal kingdom by bears prior to hibernation would translate to humans?

During the ride down the phone was ringing constantly with the same question, “How many do you think you are going to eat?” Our response was always from the well worn script, “We are not going for quantity, it is all about quality and a fun night out.” Nobody seemed to believe us and gave their predictions prior to hanging up. Estimates ranged between ten and a redonkulous thirty-two each.

Every visit of mine to Pawpaw Café has been enjoyable. Whether it was a breakfast to cure a hangover after a night at the cricket, a first date or a Sunday lunch with friends, I’m yet to leave disappointed. Both anticipation and hunger are high. Before joining the queue for the 7.30pm sitting we decide to grab a drink across the road at the Australian National Hotel. Here we have a look at tonight’s menu on our phones – soft shell crab, beef massaman, pulled pork, crispy chicken, jackfruit and tofu. We pinky swear to taste every one of them and then see what the balance of the night brings. With the tickets being $45 for a ninety minute allotment of doughy mastication, there is no reason to gorge ourselves.

Seated at a table of two near the kitchen we tell our waitress to start at the top of the menu and work down. The first plates of softshell crab bao area knocked up in the kitchen and appear a few minutes later. The tasty introduction, with a pinch of Asian slaw and sriracha mayo, is eaten in a considered fashion and receives two nods of approval. Each time the waitress came back to collect plates she was keen to get our feedback. The first few times she would reassure us, “The next one is really good.” The beef massaman and the pulled pork were both enjoyable but not spectacular.

We were halfway through both the time and menu and were starting to get peckish, the kitchen struggling to keep pace with the relentless chewing by all on the other side of the wall. The couple next to us had only had one plate each, we assumed that must have been on a date because there was a lot of benign talking and minimal eating. Young people don’t know how to multitask.

Our fourth partner in this progressive food dance was crispy chicken, our waitress’ “personal favourite.” She was spot on the money. The mood of the night flipped after that first memorable bite. We smiled in unison and made a mental note to order this one again. On her return our waitress was tickled pink of our glowing review of the chicken, our shared love got her all chatty.

Having just come back from South East Asia I had my quota of jackfruit in all its forms so I knew what to expect and my butcher friend didn’t care for tofu. Who knows, they could surprise us, he was complementary of the tofu during our recent trip to Goodtime. We are men of our word. Bring them here and bung them down so we can get them in our mouths and crossed off the list.

After one bite of each we wish we weren’t men of our word. These were not pleasant and memorable for all the wrong reasons. The tofu was not marinated in anything, leaving it bland (in a bun that doesn’t have any flavour). Watching my friend force these down was like watching a dog swallow medication they don’t want any part of. The jackfruit was only a marginal improvement and we needed every drop of our drinks to wash the stain off our tastebuds. “Those two… never again”, was our feedback this round.

There was now twenty-five minutes to go and we hoping to order a couple of plates of the chicken to see the night out and banish the taste of the previous two. We had let it slip in conversation that we drove from Toowoomba to be here tonight and as soon as she heard that she abandoned us mid-sentence and returned with eight bao. Storing our feedback like the Amazon algorithm she bought back two lots of chicken, some beef and pork. “You came all that way for this? Eat these up and I will be back in a sec to see if you want another drink.”

It had been a decent way to put in a Wednesday night. This final order sitting in front of us will go a long way to overwriting the memory of the tofu. We had tried them all and were able to revisit our personal favourites before we head home, full and content. Whoever guessed fifteen bao each should get into the tarot card business as that was the magic number.

My eating companion was busy searching for his keys while savouring the last couple softshell crab when the waitress came out of the kitchen with a plate overflowing for the large table behind us. Wanting to see the reaction on their faces I turned around, puzzled to see the table had been vacated. “These are for you two, hope you enjoyed the night?” she said, slapping them down on our table with five minutes to go. We were still attempting to make a dent in the previous round. It would be rude to leave them there after her efforts to secure them but impossible for us to mow down the mountain that materialised in front of us. The next few minutes saw a mixture of amusement, disbelief, sighs of resignation and discomfort. The quality was hoped for remained but unfortunately the quantity bordered on a prank. Rather than eating fluffy clouds we had taken down a storm cloud full of hail, thunder and lightning.

Because words can’t describe the hurt that we were both feeling we have opted a graphical representation, complete with animal icons. If a picture paints a thousand words, a graph would have to be equivalent to seven hundred and forty-one?

As the last one was forced down our waitress returned with her exit survey. “Did you have a good time? Did you eat enough? How many did you end up having?”
“We had twenty-one… Thanks for your service tonight” my friend replying in a tone that sounded like his body had begun focusing all of its energy on assisting with digestion at the expense of his speech.
“Twenty-one between you, wow. That’s a great effort guys. I get some time now to have a couple of my favourites before I …”
“…We had twenty-one each….” and with that she made a beeline in the direction of the kitchen.
“The guys out here had twenty-one” she screamed, the clank of the kitchen door heard from our table. “TWENTY-ONE! That’s a new record!”

According to their social media the old record was twenty and was held by a gent named Michael. For our efforts we didn’t get a photo or mention in the media. It’s probably for the best, we had no energy to smile. But Michael, it’s time for you to move your butt off the top of that dais because there are two new sheriffs in town. And while you are at it hand that trophy over too while we search for an engraver.

The crazy quantities aside, we highly recommend the Pawpaw Café for dinner. If you can get to their monthly bao event make sure you start with the crispy chicken. If you are a fan of jackfruit and tofu you will adore them but we would much rather the non-vegetarian options.

Our waitress farewells us with, “See you next month.” It’s going to take at least that long for internal organs to return to normal.

Pre-Dinner Drinks: Australian National Hotel 867 Stanley Street, Wooloongabba

Dinner: Pawpaw Cafe 898 Stanley Street East, Wooloongabba
This is not a paid promotion. We paid for our ticket to Pawpaw Café.

Special mention to bianca_eats on Instagram who brought this adventure to my attention. Follow her social media to get further insight and nutritional inspiration. Her photos are much better than mine.