THURSDAY
Embassy Cafe
547 Spencer Street, West Melbourne
1am, three jugs of draught and a glass of red. When you work in an office, the worst psychological trauma you can inflict upon yourself is paying witness to the lives of your co-workers outside of business hours. My initial reluctance to attend after-work drinks on Errol Street has been vindicated by the bleak display of corporate sexuality in the beer garden: my line manager is talking enthusiastically about his plans for a weekend orienteering expedition while the girl from HR strokes the inside of his thigh. There will be generous lashings of tea room gossip and snide emails tomorrow, but for now, it’s time to make a discreet exit.
A sign taped to the till of the Embassy Cafe cautions that any threatening behaviour or an excess of loud swear words will lead to an immediate phone call to summon the constabulary. I must say I’ve never seen someone get taken down with capsicum spray inside the premises – by day the cafe usually caters for taxi drivers from the local depots and families in team colours on their way to Docklands Stadium, by night it’s council shift workers in high-vis stopping off for a stubbie and a steak sandwich on their way to the western suburban nether-regions. It’s fairly close to the Eastern Promises end of King Street, so it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that they occasionally have trouble with groups of men wearing matching aquamarine T-shirts coming down off a testosterone frenzy from the nearby Men’s Gallery. The best early morning burgers on this side of the city, but for the sake of your bowels, stay away from the souvlaki and the breakfast menu.
FRIDAY
Real Greek Souvlaki
315 Brunswick Street, Fitzroy
3:30am, four stubbies and two thirds of a half-size bottle of Chivas. A party at my friend’s house on Nicholson Street in honour of his housemate, who is soon to head off overseas for Wimbledon. I momentarily forget that he is a sports journalist and ask him if he’s planning to find gainful employment as a ball-boy while in London. This is tragically misinterpreted as a homophobic slur and after an uncomfortable 45 seconds it is made clear that my presence is no longer welcome. Souvlaki time!
On the strip of Brunswick Street between Bar Open and Cafe Nova, there are four 24 hour souvlaki joints facing each other. The fact that none of them are suffering in want of more business goes some way to explaining some of Australia’s more disagreeable social phenomena, like how Dave Hughes has a wildly successful TV career and why John Farnham reunion tour announcements are greeted with excitement. The public are sadly devoid of taste, and late night doner kebabs are no exception. Real Greek Souvlaki is a cut above the rest, and also exposes the contradiction at the heart of late night cuisine: if your store had 60 slobbering idiots barely on the cusp of adulthood looking like they’re about to puke all over the bain-marie in unison, you’d think this would reduce your commitment to providing quality food – and yet where others fail, Real Greek serves up an impeccable souvlaki every time. Highly recommended is the Stan the Man, named for champion kickboxer Stan Longinidis, which is your regular lamb souvlaki rolled up with chips, feta and tzatziki. I know that sounds a tad incongruous when I’ve just accused you of having no taste, but you’ll look up to the heavens and thank me when you’re weeping tears of joy.
SATURDAY
Cafe Romantica
52 Lygon Street, East Brunswick
3am, six pints and six glasses of scotch. At the Tote to see The Nation Blue’s first show in forever, where it seems that the lady I’ve been talking to in the beer garden for the last hour has taken quite a shining to me, and she doesn’t seem to mind that my clothes have the smell of someone that hasn’t bothered to change for the last 72 hours. By this point I’m quite hungry and ask if she’d like to accompany me to Cafe Romantica. Unfortunately, this is misheard as “would you like to have some Carnal Romance with me”, and soon I’m bleeding quite profusely from the left nostril. Undeterred, I soon hop in a cab and hightail it to Lygon Street on my own. After some sharp words about whether leaking nose blood all over the dashboard warrants me forfeiting a $50 soilage fee, soon I’m bleeding quite profusely from the right nostril as well.
Cafe Romantica’s appeal is a sit-own meal in well-groomed surroundings, providing a means for the hopelessly shitfaced to slowly reintegrate with civil society after a night of debauchery. With a 24 hour licence and gluten free options for all the pizza and pasta on the menu, the wait staff are stern enough to let anyone know with a sharp stare that any loutish behaviour will be met with swift retribution, possibly involving pool cues and knuckle-dusters. This strict regime has its benefits; it’s a rare treat for a man to find a toilet at four in the morning that isn’t soaked top to tail with urine and other unmentionables. Post-meal carbs can be worked off with a round of pool or a quick burl on the ubiquitous deer-murdering arcade game by the toilets out back. It’s not the best pizza in Brunswick, but it’s as close as you’ll get to ambiance and a pleasant place to eat when the sun’s about to come up.
Sunday
Alasya
555 Sydney Road, Brunswick
7pm, a solemn promise to never imbibe a drop of alcohol again for as long as I live, followed by two jugs of Coopers. The last four days seem have taken their toll. There is no milk in the fridge, blood all over my sheets, a kilo’s worth of 20 and 50 cent coins in my front pocket, and even after a long afternoon nap I still don’t have the mental clarity to think of a compelling excuse for why I texted my line manager a picture of my penis in the middle of the night while he was on his orienteering sojourn.
Alasya had an unfortunate food poisoning scare six years ago, but much like lightning never striking the same place twice, my logic is that after getting shut down by the Health Department once, surely they’d be doubly vigilant in making sure it never happened again? Clearly I’m not alone in my reasoning, because even at this early hour the place is full up out the door. If you can stay conscious long enough for a sit-down meal and you still have at least one friend who hasn’t been arrested or abducted by street toughs, $15 per person banquets will let you sample an obscenely large platter of meat and dips. Should you be fading, the takeaway boreks are the way to go, and taking home a second one to reheat the next morning is a great’n’greasy way of consoling yourself about the years you shaved off your life expectancy over the previous four nights.
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Sean Gleeson
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