Tag Archives: espresso martini

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Five Sentences, in Reverse Chronological Order, about the Queen’s Head

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Vamoosing from our front-bar nook, we carry the lamentable lettuce cups out with us and I then drop Claire at the Gov, where she’s interpreting for Josh Pyke, who — recalling what she told him at his gig in April — offers a heart-swelling shout-out about our wedding and the role played in it by his exquisite song Sew Your Name.

Pausing our celebration amidst the pubbish murmurings, Claire does a gallery walk around the bar studying the sepia Adelaide Oval Test-cricket photos, and as we speculate about life a century ago for these bowler-hatted, stern-faced types, I try to orient the oval for her by pointing at one grainy image and saying ‘That’s north,’ which proves unhelpful when she replies, allegedly, ‘You know I find compass references troublesome.’

Devolving ever deeper into late-capitalism, a telling symbol of this is that the only youngsters in pubs are often those pulling the beers; tonight is no exception, though our barkeep is convivial as we order a bowl of wedges — gladdening and homely in their aroma — and a delicious-sounding plate of lettuce cups.

Returning bar-side, the aroma of deep-fried calamari wafting past our noses, we claim our second and final drinks — Claire’s now-established espresso martini and my Pale Ale — and linger over them at a secluded table beside the — is November 14 premature? — Christmas tree; before this, we’d opened our night with a white wine and a pint of Heineken, which I always forget is essentially European VB, though without its charismatic nose or middle-palate length.

Ambling through the brisk air into the Queen’s Head (my choice for this month) past a footpath table of chaps relaxed into their late-Friday residency, having parked our RAV4 on gently undulating, village-like Kermode Street after a ten-minute automotive crawl up Montefiore Hill — itself preceded by collecting Claire from the ghostly TAFE on Light Square — we begin the sixtieth edition of Mystery Pub.

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Mystery Pub: The Absorbing Music of Our Thoughts

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  1. The word ‘tavern’ may have comforting ye olde worlde connotations of open fires, and stables for your fatigued horse, and roast beef, parsnips and Yorkshire pudding but in contemporary Adelaide it often translates to a bland boozer with less appeal than a particularly bleak Big W.
  2. Welcome to the Hyde Park Tavern.
  3. What is the answer to the ageless dilemma: hot chips or wedges? Tonight, it’s the latter.
  4. Can it really be called a happy hour when there are thirteen beers on tap, but only two begrudgingly make the cut—and one of them is West End Draught?
  5. Do we love the pavers that compromise the southern section of King William Road? Are these uniquely elegant or annoyingly pompous?
  6. The Hyde Park Tavern is God’s waiting room, and the next black bus is coming in a minute—I can hear its brakes squealing now.
  7. As is now tradition, Claire enjoys a cocktail—actually a pretty good cocktail— an espresso martini despite the crushing absence of either Bryan Brown or Tom Cruise.
  8. I had a golden hour, easily the loveliest of the week, as in our warm cocoon we wove together the slight and sizable detail of our lives and relished the absorbing music of each other’s thoughts, apprehensions, and cheerful, radiant hopes.
  9. It’s true: it really is a blessing to have somebody who’s interested in all the stuff that runs through your head.

It’s always a time for contemplation, the pub.

Happy Hour proudly brought to you by John Howard.

Cold, metallic, impersonal.
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Mystery Pub: The Hotel Royal

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She was one in a million
So there’s five more just in New South Wales

This is from the song, ‘Up Against the Wall’ by The Whitlams and stick with me as I connect it arithmetically, if not desperately, to The Hotel Royal in the Adelaide suburb of Torrensville. On Henley Beach Road, of all places.  

So, nationwide, how many Royal Hotels are there?

As Deane Hutton used to say on The Curiosity Show, ‘I’m glad you asked’ and I can tell you in Australia there’s roughly 240. In the 19th century even Bendigo had four such pubs: Royal Duke, the Royal George, The Royal and the Royal Mail which made bewildering the generalised if earnest invitation, ‘Let’s meet at the Royal.’ Especially if all communication was by telegram.

On this 26-degree winter’s afternoon (weather both welcome and existentially troubling) Claire and I navigate through this renovated pub to the Back Pocket sports bar. The roof’s open, there’s chirpy folk about, and a girl’s strumming a guitar and applying herself to some Friday tunes.

Having secured our corner table, I set off bravely to buy booze and returned in minor triumph with a Sauvignon Blanc (never to be described on this website as Savvy B. Oops, failed.) and one of my preferred occasion beers, a Stone and Wood Pacific Ale. However, while at the bar I had this conversation.

Me: I’m unsure what beer to buy.

Barkeep: Hahn Super Dry is only $9.

Me: It’d still be over-priced if it was a dollar.

Barkeep: Oh.

Pleasingly, our chosen drinks were comforting if unspectacular. Festooned across the walls on the TV screens, Fox Footy talking heads ‘provided’ pre-game ‘content.’ Mercifully, the sound was on mute.

On the ceiling were some electrical appliances which rank highly for me. Yes, I know, the accurately and funnily named, Big Ass Fans. While these were still, it was of considerable comfort to see them sitting above us with quiet majesty. Next time you’re at the Adelaide Oval (or in The Hotel Royal) check them out for these are truly Big Ass Fans.

With, ‘I was tired of my lady’ the singer then played ‘Escape (The Pina Colada Song)’ which despite its depiction of a largely grim marital situation, I always find amusing. I do enjoy some aural pub nostalgia, and this ranks highly on my list of 1970’s one-hit wonders.

I’m not much into health food and I’m not into champagne so it was timely that our plate of wedges then appeared. Like that first opening of your motel room door, the delightful arrival of food’s one of hospitality’s petite joys.

I tried to order the wedges (Wedges? We don’t need no stinkin’ wedges!) using a QR code but our table number wasn’t included so I had to walk upwards of seven metres to the inside bar and place the order by actually speaking to the barkeep. I thought of sending a telegram but this wasn’t on the app. No-one was harmed and you’ll be relieved to learn, I did recover. Can’t life in 2024 be tricky?

They were, I’m thrilled to report, most succulent spud segments.

The bacchanalia continued with Claire then buying me a second beer and an espresso martini for her kindly self. Our corner table now resembled Caligula’s palace on a most raucous Thursday (well, not entirely). What an hour we were having!

With that twilight moment arriving when the afternoon folk depart and the dinner crowd’s still in transit, we took our leave. Mystery Pub was done for August.

We had things to do, and in front of Escape to the Country with its reception rooms and chickens and ruddy-cheeked village lifestyle, I was scheduled to take my obligatory Friday nap.