It all started on our second day in Sydney. Things had started off pretty great. We enjoyed a lazy morning of room service (still swooning over how great room service is) and decided around noon that we needed a milkshake in a very serious way.
Now, I had heard about these legendary shakes from a buzzfeed article several months back about some of Sydney's finer milkshake establishments. Number one on the list was Foodcraft Espresso, the holy mecca of Australian ice-creamed beverages. EVERY article I look at showed this as the hands down choice for a milkshake craving. The only problem? It was an hour walking distance from our hotel.
Undeterred, and feeling ambitious, we thought, "Let's do it! What a great way to see Sydney!"
What ensued was an agonizingly hot sojourn through Sydney's seedy underbelly. The journey's only redeeming experience was finding this random photo of Edward, staring up at us from a dirty sidewalk. You can almost hear his broody, vampiric voice telling us to turn around... alas, we didn't hear it.
We arrived, dripping with sweat and eager for the glorious dessert that was about to be ours. We ordered two nutella milkshakes and took a seat outside. The waitress arrived with a lukewarm water (should have been a sign), which we sipped-- gratefully-- while we waiting.
Then HOLY MOLY the things came out. Topped with a doughnut and everything!
We grabbed them and greedily took a giant gulp.
AH!
What was this crap I'd just put into my body?! First of all it wasn't a milkshake, certainly not in the American sense at least.
I should just preface the next part by stating I love nutella. I'm one of those grab-a-spoon-and-go-to-town type of girls. But this "milkshake" was the wrong side of nutella, the DARK side of nutella. It was as though they'd taken milk and a rancid glob of nutella and just shaken it up, to a foamy nightmare, then topped it with a stale doughnut.
I looked at Jon, he looked back at me. We tried desperately to take a few more sips, but couldn't bear it. It was too much.
Angily, I then made it my mission to watch the "milkshake" guy behind the counter to uncover what misguided horror they called a recipe. As I studied his method, I watched him take out a gallon of milk, then a literal tub of nutella. He put a little milk and a whole lot of the tub-tella... then he blended to its frothy consummation.
As expected, not one ounce of ice cream.
Sacrilege.
When we paid, Jon pressed the cashier about the recipe, "So, what ice cream to you use?" She hemmed and hawed and finally lied straight to our faces saying, "oh uh vanilla?" Like it was a question WE should answer.
We left disappointed, still craving the milkshake unrealized, and made our long trek back home.
We polished off the day with a trip to the Botanical Garden and a couple of photos for posterity.
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