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Life-Style Out & About with Miss Delish
T
hree girlfriends decided to have a sophisticated Saturday afternoon a few weeks ago. “Low key, not too much in the alcohol department” was the phrase I remember one of them saying. I couldn’t have agreed more and felt that an iconic establishment very close to my home had been severely neglected lately by my good self and suggested we make the short walk down the street and across the road to Riva. I can only describe the affair that turned out to be lunch as ironic. We were ushered to a table inside with a view of the moorings and then the usual social situation between three women unfolded as it always does. Pleasantries about the view, the weather and the venue were exchanged- The sneaky smile from one girl to the other as the nice looking waiter with the perky bum retreated with our drink order. And then it beganthe conversation turned from work and social planning over the next two months, to private lives. Lunching Lady number one- She was describing that she is ready for an ‘Eat Pray Love’ and booking a holiday where she is excited to meet new people and see new things. It was as though she had tired of the ”quiet surroundings” Melbourne has become to her. As she said the word ‘quiet’, she gestured to the deck over looking the water. This was because the large alfresco sea view area was nearly totally empty and at that moment, was unusually quiet.
St. Kilda, From the Bottom Up
Lunching Lady number two- waited patiently to hear out the plans of her girlfriend and suggested destinations to show her support and enthusiasm. And then her impending wedding became our new topic of conversation. We discussed dresses, menus, music and of course the husband to be.
Lunching Lady number three- discussed the fact that all the men in her life needed to be vetoed, and how could she gain some satisfaction from the fact that she had invested too much time and effort with a f#$! Wit? Disgraceful comments that had the underlying tone of a woman scorned followed and we set about describing nasty wishes upon the man in question, whereby, he would experience the same punched up feeling as she did. The St Kilda Sea Gods were obviously listening to our conversation that day and decided to take pity. Slowly but surely, the deck almost void of patrons one hour earlier filled up with seasoned afternoon drinkers and the buzz of the wooden boat house increased. We watched as a table of glamorous women sat around and drank with out paying any mind to the very tall group of good looking men that were their partners. It was only on closer inspection that we discovered we were in amongst a group of AFL footy players and their WAGS, having the customary weekend catch up. The irony began a moment later. We moved ourselves outside to allow one of us to enjoy the post-meal cigarette. In an instant, Lady number one experienced not one, but two, random conversation starters from easy on the eye strangers. I smiled as I realised that she didn’t really need the Eat Pray Love, but more a random day in a venue full of unknowns to capture her zest for something new. Another bottle of wine was ordered and I won’t tell you the ins and outs of how her Saturday night ended, suffice to say, it was random, new and apparently according to Sunday afternoon feedback, very good.
“You spend the whole evening drinking elsewhere and when it gets to one you come here.” We can’t flaw him there. Hospitality workers on this strip come to learn each others’ faces. He definitely knows ours.
full from a gig, Bigmouth and Veludos closed hours ago and no one’s game enough to set foot into the carpeted darkness of the Dalton so we anti-climactically end our night with idle change and no satisfying night cap.
He is also well acquainted with the fact that, upon clocking off on the tills and setting the security alarms after an arduous night scrubbing grills with corrosive poison and gladwrapping meat and lettuce, we routinely take our scant wages to another backpacker bar, further down near Barkley Street. It’s not personal, the swill at the other bar is cheaper, but he takes personal offence.
But when caught in the cyclical workaday of bum-end hospitality one can find solace in the fact that, with every awkward ending, there will be a new beginning. The next night, we will work the same six hours, clock off at the same time, give or take factoring in balmy night crowds or rain, saunter down to backpacker bar A and use our well adept eyes to spot an outside table. Like an infection we will continue to reappear.
The problem is that the latter mentioned bar closes an hour earlier, at one. The Scot who runs it is used to the nightly routine of rousing us to finish our drinks at twelve thirty as the lights go on inside and we are the last patrons on the outdoor tables, which we invariably have to fight the earlier crowds for. So we undertake the nightly progression from backpacker bar A to backpacker bar B, usually without obstruction, but tonight the manager has decided to make us pay for our infidelity. That’s the politics of post work drinks. To be fair they are closing, but it is obvious that he relishes turfing us out. We leave as a pod of thirty-somethings in tight dresses and their drunk boyfriends buy two jugs of cider. The Vineyard’s
Lady number three couldn’t have been more pleased. It involved two police divers, a water police boat, a winch and a very cross man standing anxiously at the top of the boat ramp. The crowd waited patiently, and whispers of what was to be pulled from the dark water filtered throughout the spectators. The Chinese whispers eventually arrived to tell the tale of an argument between a couple, where the female half of the equation had been left totally pissed off. To this day it has not been made clear exactly what transpired between them, but it mattered not. Lunching lady number three roared with laughter as she watched a grown man cry as his Range Rover four wheeled drive was ever so slowly recovered. She said later as the threesome walked home that it was a shallow, completely fulfilling moment to watch that unfold-“bugger me, I should’ve thought to leave a hand brake off”. So next time you are wondering where to spend your afternoon, a local venue in mind, and a little bit of organic drama to keep you inspired- do yourself a favour and have a late lunch at Riva. See you in the village.
Arms folded, the manager of a reputable Ackland Street bar frequented mainly by backpackers gives us a royal greasing off.
Not tonight boys, says his dead pan stare. This is reinforced by the belligerent Irish barman behind him whose golf cap, pointed red sideburns and dumpy silhouette make him look like he’s in the horns section of a two-tone ska band. He knows us too.
Meanwhile, lady number two’s little eyes lit up as we watched two wedding parties arrive for photos on the lawn. Both brides were vastly different, as were their bridesmaids, grooms and guests. Do you ever get the feeling you can pick where some people are from by the guests that attend their wedding? It was an entire preview of what to do and what not to do, of who to invite and who not to. So happy was our blushing bride to be that she didn’t notice the brilliant show going on at the rear of Riva that day.
Not everyone hates us. The Dutch guy who brings us drinks always greets us warmly by name and we promise free chips. We ran into him in the street once. He was drunk and had been stood up by a girl. “Where are you guys going? I’m coming with you,” he queried emphatically before realising the awkwardness of the situation and demurring apologetically.
Final Days (the year St. Kilda lost). We have sat through the rattling and hazy anecdotes from the passing fleas of St. Kilda’s grainy underside. We have met the oddballs, bought roses off the rose man, taken part in forgotten conversations and been accidently pissed on at the urinals by drunk backpackers, and hit on by ageing German gays. This may not be the tourist’s St. Kilda that we read about, with its pristine beachfront esplanade and the giant face and ice cream and cake shops. Neither is it the music fan’s St. Kilda with its international acts passing through the Palais and the Espy and that is dotted with grassroots singleman-and-guitar venues such as Claypots, the Vineyard and Pure Pop. Or the food critic’s St. Kilda from the high end Cicciolina to bean sprout and pine nut pizzas, Spudbar and Lentil as Anything. This is the working man’s St. Kilda. That all becomes clear to us one night when we run into the grouchy manager at (local bar, name withheld). He’s shitfaced and trying to build a tower out of empty glasses. By Thomas James Lee
Retrospectively, the nightly knock-off drinks converge into the one experience. We have witnessed from afar the various paddy wagons wheeling past following drunken street brawls on Australia and Grand
St Kilda Farewell The sun sets over another sleepy Sunday in St Kilda, Three friends sit at the Vinyard polishing off pints, and reminiscing on the past two years they have lived, worked and loved in their adopted home. Adam (the most outspoken of the three) is a hip hop lovin’ Irishman with a bad liver (due to a penchant for hard liquor) His Scottish accomplice Kyle, is a coffee making prodigy with an eye for photography and last but not least, Mat (Aus) a cocktail making, self proclaimed ‘man mountain’. Your humble writer has had the Pleasure/ Misfortune of knowing the three ‘lads’ over the past few years and I can safely say that not only will they leave behind a large group of friends, they also leave a trail of devastated pub owners, soon to see their profit margins slide dramatically (this of coarse excludes all the fine establishments where the three have worked, they will not doubt witness the opposite, along with a noticeable lack of water in their spirits).
they’ll live for the indefinite future, but not before stopping in the land of Thai to ‘soak up the sun’ for a few weeks. Anyone to ever meet the three will recognise this as a complete lie! The words ‘sex tourist’ immediately come to mind, it will of coarse be a miracle if all three don’t end up in jail or engaged in some late night game of Russian roulette ala ‘Deer Hunter’. In closing, I’d like to wish the boys a very happy journey, we’ve had many a messy night on the town together (dry you eyes Kyle) and your presence will be sorely missed in the multi-cultural tapestry that makes this sea side suburb so great. Bon voyage Mon amis. Mike
The boys leave for Edinburgh next week, where www.stkildanews.com
St Kilda Newspaper