Free Portable Curiosities by Julie Koh Page A

contestants?
    â€˜Potential exposure.’
    G takes us through to his bedroom, which is dominated by a custom calf-leather bed shaped like a waxed vagina.
    â€˜I adore this piece because it goes right to the heart of the question: “Can art be commercial?” You have to sleep right in the centre of it, though, to be comfortable. Or you’ll roll over the edges.’
    On the wall is a framed spread he did for a Good Weekend interview. It shows himcurled in foetal position in the middle of the bed.
    â€˜Someone told me it’s outrageous, like sleeping in a little girl’s fanny.’ He shrugs. ‘Taste. You either have it or you don’t.’
    Out the back of the property is where all the real action is taking place. Connected to the main bubble by a glass walkway is a smaller bubble housing G’s experimental kitchen headquarters, a veritable temple for the worship of the ice-cream gods.
    There is all manner of stainless steel equipment. G’s crew – in chef’s whites, hair nets, face masks and gloves – is cooking up a storm. They’re hard at work bringing in trays of eggs, grating orange zest, shelling Sicilian pistachios, weighing saffron, unwrapping parcels of camembert, and slicing open vanilla pods.
    As part of what G calls his Multi-sensorial Method, the team listens to a mix of nature soundtracks and Sigur Rós while concocting new flavours to add to the more than 220 already in G’s arsenal.
    G has built his reputation on making seemingly impossible taste combinations work in complete harmony. Some have dubbed him the bad boy of ice-cream for attempting these edible highwire acts – madness for the tastebuds. One of his most popular flavours is sage, roast duck and single-origin cardboard.
    â€˜For that one we had to get the balance perfectly right,’ says G. ‘We had to keep in mind that the duck was the hero of the ice-cream, and things went smoothly from there.’
    G takes me over to a Carpigiani batch freezer, which is in the process of discharging newly frozen duck ice-cream. One of his assistants is collecting the ice-cream from the machine in a stainless steel pan, helping it along with a spatula. G dips a wooden popsicle stick into the pan and hands it to me.
    â€˜Give it a try. We’ve just switched to organic bullock milk for this flavour.’
    The ice-cream has a full-bodied, creamy mouthfeel unlike any other I’ve tasted. The duck is surprisingly punchy and unapologetic.
    Next, G opens a round metal tin for me. ‘Smell this. The rarest tea in the world. It’s made of soft down plucked from the pubic region of virgins and folded into twenty-four-carat gold dust. I use it in the Virginal – the most expensive ice-cream in our range.’ He runs his pinkie along the inside of the tin lid and shows me the tip, now covered in fine gold. ‘You can use it as make-up too.’
    The Virginal will set customers back a cool $1,000. It comes in G’s signature waffle cone, which is coated in dark chocolate and freeze-dried coffee granules. ‘The coffee adds an extra crunchy element to the overall ice-cream,’ adds G.
    For those who have less cash kicking around in their bank accounts, there is the Aspirational – half the price and made from Tahitian vanilla combined with the essence of Giza 45, the most highly graded Egyptian cotton.
    I laughingly ask if G has gone so far as to use drugs in his cones.
    â€˜Look, everyone’s done a weed cone,’ he says. ‘That fad’s over. We’ve been experimenting with a new substance for today’s venture – a secret ingredient that, fingers crossed, will pay massive dividends.’
    He points to one of his assistants, who is opening a cardboard box with a Stanley knife.
    â€˜That’s a new shipment of it.’
    I wander over and peer at the address on the box. The ingredient appears to be sourced from Bolivia.
    â€˜Come