Dark Shepard: A Dinner in Timestamps
A Strawberry Toast Review of Dark Shepard
Tick. Tock. 💣
Tick. Tock. 💣
Tick. Tock. 💣
This is not a drill.
This is not a vibe.
This is a race against time.
The dinner where the stakes were high, the clock was ticking, and the cabbage changed everything.
You know those meals where the food isn’t just food, it’s a full-blown situation? Yeah. That was this.
It all began with one simple constraint: my uncle had to be at the airport by 7:30 pm. Which sounds fine in theory, until you remember how unpredictable restaurants can be.
One slow dish, one distracted waiter, and suddenly you're sprinting to the airport with your pants half-zipped and a takeaway box balanced on your knee.
So the plan — if you could even call it that — was to arrive at exactly 5pm, order immediately, eat efficiently, and be out by 6:45 latest. No detours. No drama. Just dinner with a hard deadline.
🕔5:00 PM — Arrival (Mine)
Naturally, I was the first to arrive, powerwalking straight from work.
Laptop bag flailing, mental tabs open, trying not to think about how much this entire plan relied on other people being on time. Specifically: my mum and my uncle — two people I love dearly but who also treat punctuality like it’s a polite suggestion.
I stared at the clock.
5:01. No sign.
5:03. Still nothing.
5:05 — a voice behind me, “Hello!”
And just like that, the race had officially begun.
5:05 PM — Arrival (Theirs)
A single syllable. A massive relief. They’re here.
Time of seating: 5:06pm.
Time until departure: 1 hour and 54 minutes.
Time until full-blown panic? TBD.
We slide into our seats, menus open but eyes on the clock.
5:10 PM — Dietary Diplomacy
We couldn’t order just yet. We were waiting on the sacred gluten-free and dairy-free confirmations.
You know how it goes — you ask the waiter, they ask the chef, the chef consults the scrolls of dietary wisdom, and eventually, hopefully, you get an answer.
Meanwhile, my internal monologue is spiralling into every worst-case scenario:
missed flight, wasted meal, dramatic airport goodbye scene.
All while my uncle says things like “we have time” and I pretend I believe him.
5:20 PM — The Order Is Placed
Finally, we lock it in. Orders placed, with explicit instructions: bring things out the second they’re ready.
No waiting. No theatrics. No course-by-course procession.
This is not a dinner for ambience. This is a dinner for survival.
And then — slowly, gloriously — the food begins to arrive.
The Dishes (Reviewed with Utter Urgency, in timestamped order)
5:44 PM — Woodfired Cabbage ×2
(Garlic, tahini, pistachio, soft herbs — sauce on the side)
This was the reason I came. The prophecy. The Instagram post that launched the plan.
And oh my god — worth it. Charred on the outside, soft on the inside, with this unexpected heat from the herbs that lingered just long enough to feel interesting.
The tahini sauce was maybe fine, but honestly? Who knows. It has dairy. I didn’t try it.
And who cares? The cabbage stood on its own. Juicy. Structured. Majestic.
It’s the kind of dish that makes you rethink everything you thought you knew about cruciferous vegetables.
I am their biggest fan though, so don’t take my word for it.
Take the “woah, they have skills” from my uncle — a rare, high-level endorsement.
5:45 PM — Kalamari
(Flash fried, turmeric, paprika sauce)
Fine. Standard. Maybe a little too doughy.
Not a showstopper
5:48 PM — Arnaki Rice
(Lamb stock, sultanas, soft spices)
I was fully prepared to hate this.
Sultanas in rice? That felt like a betrayal.
But then I took a bite, and it all made sense.
The lamb stock grounded it in savoury richness, while the sultanas did this cheeky little pop of sweetness thing that shouldn’t have worked but did.
Unexpected. Not flashy. Kind of clever.
Like the side character in a sitcom who quietly becomes your favourite.
5:49 PM — Woodfired Octopus
(Olive oil, fava)
The dishes are rolling in, and the tables are getting full.
This one arrived looking humble — just tender pieces of octopus with a whisper of char. But oh, the flavour. Smoky. Chewy. Rich.
Everything you want from octopus without the “are we eating a rubber band?” regret.
The sauce (fava, I think?) was mild but creamy. It tied everything together like a very subtle bassline in a jazz song. It didn’t steal the show, but it kept the rhythm going.
5:51 PM — Woodfired Sprouts (No yoghurt)
(Brussels sprouts, orange, garlic, leeks, olive oil, honey)
These little guys came out looking like caramelised soldiers.
No bitterness. No weird cabbage energy.
Just soft, sweet, perfectly roasted brussels sprouts that had clearly been kissed by some form of ancient Greek honey magic.
The absence of yoghurt didn’t matter. The flavour was all there.
This is what sprouts want to be when they grow up.
5:52 PM — Rib Fillet (400g Angus, sauce on the side)
This… was a bit of a letdown.
I asked for medium, but what arrived felt like a steak in existential crisis.
Some bites were grey all the way through. Others were just okay.
The fat distribution was fine, but there was no real joy in it.
Maybe I’m just not a steak person. Or maybe the cabbage outshone it too aggressively.
Either way, it wasn’t the redemption arc I needed.
5:53 PM — Taverna Salata
(Tomato, cucumber, Dodoni feta — ours came without the feta and olives)
Listen. I know Greek salads are supposed to be simple.
But this one crossed the line from minimalist to mildly offensive.
What we got was essentially two vegetables — tomato and cucumber — tossed in enough olive oil to qualify as a skincare routine and aggressively seasoned with salt.
That’s it. No depth. No tang. Not even a whisper of herbs.
Just cucumber, tomato, and a whole lot of audacity.
For $30? I expected at least a flirtation with complexity.
Or a better tomato. At the very least, a feta decoy.
5:55 PM — Red Potatoes
(Red sauce, tomatoes, herbs, olive oil)
Despite the misleading name, these were white potatoes absolutely drenched in rich, red sauce.
And honestly? They were amazing.
Soft. Stewy. Comforting — like the kind of thing you’d eat beside a fireplace while a storm rages outside.
Or in our case, on a breezy patio while pretending it was winter and we had somewhere dramatic to be.
They melted in the mouth, like they’d been simmered in a slow-cooked family secret.
No notes. Just bliss.
We are now officially in the flow — the table is stuffed, the plates are rotating like a carousel, and we’re feeling good...
...until the lights go out.
6:00 PM — The sun sets.
Suddenly: click.
The lights above us go dim.
My uncle immediately sits up straight.
“Is this an emergency? Do we need to run?”
He’s serious. The vibe has shifted.
We are no longer at a restaurant.
We are at a moment.
Because you know you’re early for dinner when the mood lighting kicks in halfway through your sprouts.
The rest of the restaurant is just starting to fill.
For them, this is the beginning.
For us, it’s the final lap.
6:20 PM — Plates cleared.
We’re down to the final sips of sparkling water.
My mum is nibbling the last remnants of octopus.
I’m mentally checking every to-do item off the list like we’re defusing a bomb.
My uncle casually checks the time and says, “Alright. We’ve got time.”
And suddenly, the tension melts.
He’s going to make the flight.
No takeaway containers. No sprinting to the car. No guilt-ridden chewing.
Just... success.
6:25 PM — The check arrives.
Paid. Signed. Done.
I lean back in my chair.
The lights are twinkling now, properly romantic — like we planned a sunset dinner and not an anxious eat-and-run.
Other diners are just starting their first bites.
And we? We have survived the gauntlet.
6:27 PM — We leave.
Bellies full. Schedule intact. Flight not missed.
And me?
Still thinking about that cabbage.
Because while the mission was “Feed the uncle before 7 pm,” the real story was a race against time, told in bites and timestamps.
And the moral of this story is clear:
Never underestimate the drama of an early dinner.
Especially when the lights turn off mid-meal and someone yells “Is this an emergency?” like they’re about to pull the fire alarm.
