Located on Adelaide’s connective West Terrace, we’ve all crawled past this pub countless times. Some twice daily. Its looks are dire. Beige, daggy, less architectural interest than a toilet block.

I vowed that it’d never feature as Mystery Pub.

This doesn’t mean I haven’t patronised it. Its drive-through bottle shop is my port of call for a triumphant sparkling ale for the trip home (express lane) following a Glenelg premiership. That’s three now. And last year a consolatory beer when defeated by Sturt.

We wedge into the carpark’s last spot. Inside a boisterous and dedicated crowd is in the front bar. The dining room seems expectant in a country pub way. There’s good stuff such as Schnitzel Night (under fifteen bucks), comfy booths, our promptly arriving hot chips. A well for watering horses is below glass on the bar floor. Claire investigates. The abandoned Kings Head was another with a well.  

By the rear entrance Hump Day, Rump Day is promoted which could be an over-promise. Dusty ceramic elephants grace the salad bar. Above our booth is a photo of Zip Zip Aray, winner of the 2002 Goodwood Handicap, posing at the finishing line.

There are men; large men, anchored at the bar, as men sometimes are. Many modern venues don’t accommodate this. They appear to be on chairs over which they’ve claimed sovereignty. This might be a diminishing sight. It’s suggestive of a former, black and white era. I can imagine Don Dunstan sipping awkwardly at a schooner while cameras flash.

On the distant wall of screens, the first at the Dubbo trots is run and won. There is a Happy Hour and each of the eight beers on tap has a unique price. The barman is agitated that he can’t recall these. In his world Rowdy is West End Draught and Dave enjoys a Carlton. I’m tempted to ask for a butcher of Southwark. Claire’s white wine comes in a 1970’s glass. No goldfish bowls here.

We talk of our days, my new (old) job, our autumnal trip to Italy and Greece. After our allotted hour, I’m reluctant to leave this so clearly beloved hotel. I jettison Claire in Victoria Square for the opening ceremony of the Tour Down Under. She’s interpreting the proceedings and later reports how teenage girls screamed as the jockey-like European cyclists were presented to the throng. Phoney Beatlemania hasn’t bitten the dust. I head beachward along Anzac Highway.

How happily wrong we were about this beige, daggy pub.