Bite-size Stories

I was having breakfast at 12:30. On a Wednesday. My God, I love a late breakfast. Is there anything worth enjoying before nine in the morning? Not by me. Of course, I know this road leads to a cruel reality: sooner or later, I’ll be back to dry toast and scorching coffee with my eyes closed at 6:30 a.m. Inevitably. But for now, we’re in the “Walk, Don’t Run” kind of mood. Literally — that’s the café. A bit Japanese, a little posh, like most things in Armadale. Everything on the menu is “activated” or “cold-pressed,” the Melbourne gospel of health. I never bother with either. It feels rebellious enough to order plain eggs in a place this pure and polished. My companion, admittedly trendier than me, chose the porridge — quinoa, almond milk, poached pear, rhubarb, pomegranate, goji berries. Seventeen dollars and a halo. I’m not judging. I just hope we can stay friends after that. And maybe, on the way out, I’ll ask for a deconstructed coffee — if only to smooth over the quinoa betw...

The sun loves Melbourne. In summer it is a harsh and demanding lover, but in autumn, its tender light spills gold from the trees, leaving the town half-naked for winter. I am off to Sahara, Melbourne in autumn, dressed as Morocco. Melbourne in autumn. A narrow stairway leads to a room scented with spice, warm with Moroccan charm. Tagine, kofta, wine. We talk of life, faraway places, the past and the future. The wide window lets autumn in. Faces, food, and stories steep in Moroccan spices, glowing in golden light. Autumn sun loves Melbourne the most.

This story is not about how we met at +39 Pizza Bar on a bustling Melbourne laneway for the love of pizza. It is not about how too much food was ordered. Food restraint is not my forte. This time I blame it on the Italian accent—perhaps rehearsed, but still, not helpful when it comes to saying no to a plate of bruschetta. Neither is this a story about the bottle of red we shared. I am not even going to mention how it had a grape-stomping party in my head the morning after. This is a short story about moments of life, little stills stitched together by the thread of time. Moments like these are the brightest threads in that thick, strangely cut fabric.

Cashmere coats and Armani suits abound. Office people uphold their importance with expensive good looks on the classy side of Collins Street. They rush around the Mamasita sign, treating their afternoon meeting agenda like a life-time commitment. Me too, very important. My meeting agenda included a salt-ringed glass of margarita and char-grilled corn cobs in melted cheese, paprika and mayo. Keen Melbourne crowds queue just to get that. The word on the street is that Mamasita is an adventure. No, I do not like to queue, but I am always up for an adventure. I trick the crowds, and get in just before lunch time. Braised goat tostada, a few margaritas and an icecream covered in popcorn. We do not need an agenda to have a killer of a meeting Mamasita and I.