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.

I had only heard of this place, few wooden huts by the lake, near the dark forest, and a famous restaurant. You must be an extravagant Arab prince, or a sultan of desert kingdom with  castles  and gold mines to afford a present like this. Our dinner, was more like an art form, a non-existing genre, that made my senses fail, or maybe the wine was to blame? Warm home made bread, first spring flowers on the table, colours and flavours of the Earth in the first weeks of spring, still shivering in wintry cold. We spend the night near the fireplace, extravagant you and I, watching the moon light make frozen air crystals shine. Pine trees tremble in the wind. Through sounds of rain I teach you all about the L'Art de Vivre. Late morning, the sun flooded our room with spring colours. No traces of winter and freezing rain. The Lake House , a place to loose the sense of reality, and find the sense of life. Confit ocean trout, compressed apple, apple cider vinaigrette, hor...

Going out for breakfast is one of those luxurious things I can only afford when life is not spinning out of control. When Monday does not bump into Friday, and a briefing session in March does not turn into the morning meeting in July. I stretch my hand out to get the coffee. Slowly, the aroma fills me with such happiness. Life is best lived in adagio. Carlisle Street in recent years has picked up the vibe from its neighbours along St Kilda beach, offering a whole bunch of places where breakfast, lunch or dinner is a treat. Where you want to take your time and savour the food. We are at the Grindhouse. A small courtyard covered with grapevines. Corn and herb pancakes, beetroot and lime–cured salmon with avocado. Spanish scrambled eggs with chorizo. And coffee. The aroma still lingers in my mind. Breakfast in adagio always smells like coffee.