Jesus Ate My Parma

One of the peculiarities about Sydney is its lack of appreciation for the Chicken Parma. As any Melburnian will tell you, a chicken parma (that's a parmagiana for you stuffy formal types) is a chicken schnitzel slathered in a napoli-style tomato sauce and melted cheese. Fancy parma-pubs will dazzle with the addition of a slice of ham. A parma traditionally comes with a serve of chips and salad.

A Fancy Parma - includes the addition of fetta

South of the border the parma is a pub standard, a classic across the board. Every Melbourne pub worth its drip tray will have a chicken parma on the menu, and people will flock from miles for a good one (ref www.superparma.com). Many pubs will do a $10 parma and a pot (beer) deal one night of the week - an egalitarian meal for all!

So what is it with Sydney? Since re-locating north I have had incredible difficulty finding a decent parma. Most pubs will have a chicken schnitzel on the menu, many will also have schnitzel with mushrooms and/or gravy. But no cheesy, tomato-ey goodness. One time upon ordering a parma in a cafe on Oxford St, I was so disappointed when placed in front of me was a piece of grilled chicken covered in some diced tomato and a sprinkling of grated parmesan. What is wrong with these people? It makes no sense.

So why the dearth of parma in Sydney? The only possible rationale is the typical Sydney obsession with the body beautiful. Sydney is a physically beautiful city. It is blessed with a gorgeous harbour, stunning beaches and magnificent weather. Its residents like to cavort and prance for one another, often barely covering their pink bits. Perhaps because of this the typical Sydneysider appears to have an unhealthy obsession with their appearance. Not only is a parma deep-fried, but it's crumbed (CARBS!!) and slathered in cheese. One parma would mean a week of penitence - carrot sticks and 10k runs.

Up until yesterday I still held out hope. I have wandered past the Catholic Club, in the city, a number of times, eyeing off its menu board which proudly boasts a chicken parma. Thank God for the Catholics!

Yesterday some colleagues and I decided we’d give it a shot. Being a good Catholic I was ushered right in, whilst my colleagues were detained and questioned (what is it with having to sign in to clubs in NSW? You sign a piece of paper and then take it with you – they don’t even keep your details. Makes NO SENSE people!).

As an aside, the colleagues mistakenly headed up the stairs rather than down towards the club/restaurant – they were swiftly intercepted and sent on their way. Apparently God lives up there and was not to be disturbed during his lunch hour.

Finally inside the confines of the Catholic Club, we discovered that the place was full of old age pensioners who openly stared at our brazen youth and lack of reverence for their religion. Forgive us father, for we have sinned. I ordered my parma – assuming that God was finally smiling on me. I was excited. A parma was coming my way!

Then the order arrived. A schnitzel. No cheese. No tomato. A plain, dry, BORING schnitz. I was told they “ran out of parmas five minutes ago”. How do you run out of parma? All it requires is the addition of cheese and tomato sauce. How hard is it? And why, exactly, did I see an (obviously Catholic) senior citizen wander by five minutes later WITH A PARMA?!

God must know my secrets.