- 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.
- Welcome to the Hyde Park Tavern.
- What is the answer to the ageless dilemma: hot chips or wedges? Tonight, it’s the latter.
- 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?
- Do we love the pavers that compromise the southern section of King William Road? Are these uniquely elegant or annoyingly pompous?
- 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.
- 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.
- 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.
- It’s true: it really is a blessing to have somebody who’s interested in all the stuff that runs through your head.
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