A koala and her joey at Cape Otway, Great Ocean Road, Victoria, Australia. Seth Rosenblatt (c) 2005.
While in Australia, I saw several koalas, including this one and her joey. I also saw an echidna, a couple of spiders that have the odds in their favor of being lethal, and several hundred screaming galahs.
I saw two kinds of kangaroo, as well: the ones hopping madly away from the car, and the ones on my plate. Kangaroo meat is, simply put, delicious. I find it strange that in California we have all kinds of Aussie imports, from the Rupert Murdoch-run Faux News to the occasional jars of Vegemite to what seems like several billion eucalyptus trees. Yet we don’t have any kangaroo farms.
Kangaroo meat is lean, 97 percent so. It is redder than a country town in Kansas. And it is the juiciest, most tender meat I’ve ever had. I can do things to fish that’d turn the most avowed carnivore into a pescetarian, but kangaroo is this magical mystery meat. Marinate it or don’t, all it needs is a bit of searing on each side to convert a lifelong vegetarian to the dark side.
Healthier than beef, tastier than chicken, smarter than pork, the only disappointing thing about ‘roo is that it’s actually not as easy to find (or afford) in Australia as you’d think.






