SuperWHAT?! (⊙_⊙) 💚

My boyfriend hops off his lime bike and there we see it. A great green smize. The queue is fantastic for such a fresh debut. Saturday morning kisses us with sunshine and makes us chatter our teeth in her chill. Due to August’s luck, we’re seated right at the bar. A lamp, mosaiced with the sea’s various colours. Dark timber bar, fuzzy stools. An open kitchen. A kitchen crackled totally and carefully open, snaking around the corner rim, neighbouring a view of pretty pilates ladies next door. Separation, to any degree, is removed here with care; no expected glass divides diners and cooks. It’s kind of emotional and we fall completely, completely in love. Of course, our order is immediately recited – slingshotting from the waiter’s direction to the kitchen like a playground swing.

Witnessing how efficiently Superfreak is operating so soon after opening is so beyond commendable. Totally collected, fingertips expectant and practiced; I so obviously gawk at the chefs. To engage in the act of creation is immensely sensual. It’s watching the theatre. I can’t help but applause every time the sandwich press releases, every time a flick of cultured butter lands so dreadfully perfect on the centre of the plate. I needed to stand for an encore when two dozen boiled eggs were revealed to be cosily laden in ice water within a stainless steel pot. Small suns all fast asleep.

A hypnotising wrist packs the ricotta thick on some chunky sourdough. The same hands sprinkle spiced nuts, which comfortably lodge themselves in waves of white. The next pair of hands carefully balance a half slice of syrupy golden poached pear against the sourdough, the fruit leaning on it  coolly like some kid vaping inside Burwood Station. Dgaf. Olive oil swirls to complete the assembly line. Morning toast! This belongs to lime bike boyfriend. I still beg to have some. The bread is satisfyingly hard and the creaminess of the ricotta is welcomingly disrupted by the crunch of the nuts. I really like whipped forms of cheese paired with olive oil.

My porridge! I saw it in all its conception as it trailed down the assembly line like a steam train. It’s lush. Clusters of brown sugar glisten like ballerinas on speckled-shell cat-coat colours of oat, rye and buckwheat porridge. A poached fuchsia of rhubarb makes friends with that perfect cube of butter. Call me Little Bear because this porridge was juuuuust right. Oat milk swarms the heap like a moat. It’s hug warm. Why did I start crying? The heat of the compote causes the brown crystals of sugar to soften. I mix and mix. The butter melts like a first kiss. The consistency of a breakfast so familiar, so accustomed to – begins to feel anew. Why am I crying about porridge?

I fiendishly swipe at the plate.

A soup of beans, chard and parmesan is handed to us by a chef herself over the bar. It cut my dramatics so quickly with its hearty bite and tangy broth. The sourness, I looked quickly to my right, is owed to the halved lemons stored in the tupperware – removed when it’s time to heat for service.  Damn bitch you seriously cried from porridge? The beans part easy against your bite and the pepper starts to cue a runny nose. Everything is so homely and temperate. Soup is so sobering. Parmesan is so melty.

If not for the name, then come for the food. Superfreak on Enmore Road is guaranteed for sure to make you finish. Simply put, its brunching cuisine that is radically fun and ravishingly experimental – clear cut with that innerwest Sydney, tongue in cheek campiness we so often adore.