IN this post-gender age, the sausage has become a phallic throwback to simpler times—when men were Paul Hogan and women were Linda Kozlowski.
I’m proud to embrace its naivety and Run Amuk is one of the best purveyors of sausage in town.
When the eatery opened in 2012, word spread of a hip joint on South Terrace that was serving killer Bratwurst hot dogs and locals queued out the door.
I decided it was time to revisit Amuk and see if it was still flying the flag for the humble banger, as often restaurant standards slide or they’re taken over and slip into a culinary bog.
I’m happy to report the decor is still quirky: drum-stool seats, Where’s Wally? table covers, a toy car mural and a vibe that is somewhere between kitsch 50s diner and a Willy Wonka wet dream.
The staff are still friendly too and a lady with a curly mop and thick English accent brought over menus as we sat down.
Amuk’s concept is simple: top-quality bratwursts and rolls, with an ingenious range of tongue-in-cheek toppings that keep you coming back for more.
I like things classic and went for the entry-level Brat ($9.50), while my wife went for the Jezebel ($14) topped with pineapple and crispy bacon.
We got the kids puppy dog meals ($8)—not a dead chihuahua in a bun, but a small hot dogs and chips with optional cheese ($1).
The staff were accommodating and said they could split an adult milkshake ($6) into two cups for the kids. Nice, as some cafe owners are about as maternal as Myra Hindley.
My bratwurst was smokier than a Cuban cigar in heat, had a firm texture and was devoid of gristle or fat. Perfect.
The roll was nicely toasted and a perfect foil to the caramelised onions and waves of mustard adorning the banger’s summit.
My wife said the pineapple on her Jezebel was a refreshing antidote to the smoky bacon and cheese, while the sweet chilli mayo and red chilli salsa livened things up. An ingenious twist was the shredded coconut, which looked incongruous but elevated the dog to pooch nirvana.
The classic fries were skinny and salty and I could imagine James Dean cramming a pile into his mouth while fantasising about Jane Russell.
The kids wolfed down their fries and made a noble attempt at finishing their dogs, but aged four and with a belly full of chocolate milk, they raised the white flag.
Thankfully there were toy cars to play with and a speccie virgin to find on the table cover while ma and pa finished their meal.
Run Amuk has not dropped its standards and is still as good, if not better, than I remember.
Go there and reclaim the sausage.
by STEPHEN POLLOCK
386A South Terrace,