Mountain Grill is located in a cluster of shops on the westbound side of Bells Line of Road in Kurmond. The shopfront is an eye-catching bright red, but in the helter-skelter of traffic it’s easy to miss.
My advice? Don’t miss it.
After a morning photographing fungi in the Cathedral of Ferns and wildflowers at Red Hill near Mount Wilson, I was craving salt.
Luckily, the only scientifically-approved way to stave off imminent hyponatremia is with a generous serve of hot chips!
It’s always a good sign when there’s a queue at 11:30am.
I don’t like queues because apparently I am impatient, so when the servitor eventually greeted me with something that sounded like “guddaymatewhacannadoyadudday?” I was ready.
Anybody who remembers Con the Fruiterer (The Comedy Company c.1988) knows where he draws his inspo.
But my “Burger with the lot and medium chips please” elicited “barbecuesaucechickensalt”, which seemed more declarative than inquisitive, so I just nodded and hoped for the best.
And maybe so far it is the best.
A very generous serve of chips wrapped old-school, which I tore open to breathe (and devour) in my car.
I opened the burger to check and everything seemed to be there, including bacon! Bacon! On a beef burger!?
I said it before, its just wrong.
Anyway, the chips were the usual square-cut standard, with good salt and crisp. I found myself chasing the remnants as I drew near to home, even though I was full. That you want more even when satiated suggests a good chip.
And/or an eating problem.
Chips 7.5/10
At home, I tucked into the burger after the chip-berg receded a little.
Beautifully layered, excellent soft-yet-firm bun, not greasy but moist, the fillings pleasingly consanguineous with no one ingredient barging to the fore. Which is what you want–and expect–in a beef burger with the lot.
Burger 8.5/10
Before I pulled out of the parking lot I noted a Bottle-O in the complex and figured, I’m still on holidays, why not?
The youngish male attendant registered my entry with an odd mix of confusion and anxiety, but after a minor dispute about what reasonably constitutes “the middle shelf” he was able to point me to the gin I was after.
I paid and waited for him to put it in the ubiquitous brown paper bag, but no. So, like some squalid warb, I carried my booze out under my arm, hoping nobody would notice.
She did, though.
A tidy blonde mid30’s stopped on the footpath just before the Bottle-O with a keep-cup in each hand. Frank Green, I’d guess. In tight jeans with designer rips and that ‘no make-up’ look, I was between her and the white Mercedes SUV her hubby was now leaping out of in a manly way.
“All good babe?” he called out, flexing in his athleisure skivvy.
But I was also wearing a tight shirt (albeit a sweaty old Icebreaker with moth-holes and fungus spores stuck to it), Fjallraven’s with a split in the ass, muddy hikers, and a get-the-fuck-out-of-my-way expression.
So he backed off.
And she saw him back off.
Total Score 16 / 20
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