Tag Archives: Malls Balls

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Mystery Pub: Corner Booth Reflections at The Elephant

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Friday afternoon and we’re strolling through the heart of the city ­­— on the edge of the weekend, the edge of gentle possibility, and the edge of restoration.

Claire and I pass the infinitely charismatic Malls Balls and enter Rundle Street before making a sharp left at, but not into, the Exeter.

Claiming a corner booth, I glance outside and consider the Elephant is that rarest of boozers — it’s not on a street but a pedestrian lane. In contrast to my previous visit in July of 1997, it’s now bright and airy as opposed to somber and gloomy, presumably in former imitation of a Tottenham tavern.

That was just prior to the Ashes when Mark Taylor and his team thrashed England, again. Back then a group of Kapunda chaps engaged in a Wednesday ritual called Schnitzel Club during which we visited over one hundred and fifty pubs.

At that point, the England cricket team was sponsored by Tetley’s Bitter Beer and as a British boozer, the Elephant had it on tap. To heighten the pre-Ashes anticipation, we ordered one each.

How was it?

It was tepid like Tibooburra tap water and stank (tasted is too generous a verb) of late-capitalism collapse, murky Yorkshire moors and Thatcherite despair. It remains the worst beverage I’ve ever put in my (chiefly) undeserving gob.

Tonight, gladly, I’ve the immeasurably superior Coopers Pale Ale and my imperial pint is only $9. Claire has a white wine. We discuss the usual suspects — work, family and how Escape to the Country might later unfold (with the scarcely disguised disappointment of the house hunters, the host, or most likely, both).

There’s a lively (non-suit) crowd in and the atmosphere’s propulsive. A DJ is on the decks and doing a fine job. He plays an underappreciated track by The Beatles in ‘The Night Before’ before spinning Steely Dan’s ‘Do It Again’ with its decidedly cinematic opening and Arabesque atmospherics

In the mornin’ you go gunnin’ for the man who stole your water

And you fire till he is done in, but they catch you at the border

Fireball Fridays have arrived, so Claire buys one (it may have been a double, Your Honour) with a squelch of ginger beer. It’s whisky with hot, spicy cinnamon and accordingly, the late afternoon sun bends in through the ample windows. It’s an immediate hit.

Our Mystery Pub fare (ye olde fayre) is sausage rolls with fennel, and arancini balls. The plates come with three items, so having had one of each we agree to divide the remainder. Claire says, ‘Which one would you like?’ and I reply, ‘I think you know.’

And she does.

Concluding our second cups, we press out into the sparkling evening. Our weekend’s underway.

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Meet Me at the Malls Balls: Life and Phones

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We talk about it every now and then. How, before mobile phones we’d make an arrangement with somebody and just have to stick to it.

‘Meet me at the Malls Balls at noon.’

Done.

‘See you tonight at the pub.’

Sorted.

Technology now allows us to break these agreements. Some might say mobile phones encourage rudeness. Or maybe they’ve made us more responsive to life’s twitchy demands. Is constant communication healthy? The social landscape has shifted.

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‘I’ll meet you at the finish line,’ I said to Claire.

‘About 9,’ she confirmed.

It was the morning of the City Bay Fun Run. Same as the year before, we’d a plan. Claire would be easy to spot in her pink jacket. I also liked to think that there’d be some mysterious, undeniable connection, a marital telepathy that would bring us together, despite the swarm of 25,000 runners and their innumerable hangers-on.

Exhausted, ruddy of cheek, and hands on hips, I was funnelled along Colley Terrace, peering about, trying to spot the pink jacket.

Where was she? Maybe over by the roundabout. No, she wasn’t.

Continuing to the race village in Wigley Reserve, I hunted among the marquees and food trucks and bibbed joggers. No luck. Back to the finish line. Same. No pink jacket.

What to do? That’s it! I’d borrow a stranger’s phone to ring Claire.

5AA had a MC at the music stage, and away he honked. He was pleased with himself and pleased with his voice. ‘Well done to all the participants. It’s been a great morning. Up soon we’ve got the Flaming Sambuccas who are going to play for you…’

I wondered if he might help me, but he barely drew breath, so I walked off.

A safety of blue-uniformed police officers (nice collective noun) stood at a display, chatting among themselves. Approaching an officer I said, ‘Hello there. Hoping you can help me…’

Now, we don’t usually need to remember phone numbers. Who knows anybody’s number, beyond their own? It’s a redundant skill. How would I call her?

On the friendly officer’s phone, I pressed the buttons. How had I memorised the number?

Claire’s the holder of the Dan Murphy’s membership and if I pop in late Saturday morning (as I sometimes like to do) the cashier will say, ‘Do you have a membership?’ to which I reply, ‘Yes, I do’ and then I recite Claire’s phone number.

I’ve now heard myself say this dozens of times; just like my Grade 5 class learnt by heart, ‘Mulga Bill’s Bicycle.’ There’s an everyday intimacy in it and it’s a little prayer. And what better place for this oration than Dan’s?

Shortly after, heading towards me I saw a pink jacket.

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Later Sunday I was at Adelaide Oval, while Claire attended day two of a conference at the convention centre on North Terrace.

The Tigers and Dogs were in a close one and I moved restlessly around the ground trying inanely to escape the foghorn chant. ‘U Dogs! U Dogs!’

Just after half time Claire called to say that her phone was about to die. What to do? We’d planned to head home together. Ordinarily, we’d sort this much later.

So, again we made an arrangement. Two hours before hand! Then followed two hours during which we had no contact! I watched the footy and Claire did conference things at the conference.

It seemed pioneering and almost dangerous. But there we were in this psychological uncertainty, both adrift, both untethered. Miraculously, we just went about our afternoons. It was thrilling and magical.

We’d decided on a time and place to meet and after a gap of a few hours, we were going to have to honour it. Just like it was 1987 and we were meeting at the Malls Balls before going to Brashs to buy an Uncanny X-Men CD.

Leaving the footy a few minutes early, with Glenelg off to the grand final, I made my way over the sunlit footbridge, up through the majestic railway station, across North Terrace and into the Strathmore Hotel.

Just as planned, Claire was there. Sitting on a stool, smiling, with an espresso martini in hand.

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Sunday Morning in Adelaide’s Heart

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Stepping through the hotel lobby onto Hindley Street, I then creak into a trot. The stained footpath looks like a tangle of Rorschach inkblot tests. It’s Sunday morning.

Adelaide’s most notorious street is freshly circumspect after another torrid evening and moving east, I pass a café of breakfasters demolishing their eggs and bacon, their arms pumping up and down like fiddlers’ elbows. At King William Street the pedestrian lights blink to green so over I shuffle.

Until now, I’ve never run through Rundle Mall, and its reddish-brown pavers. It’s wet this morning so I’m cautious and wish to avoid splaying myself outside of Lush for the satisfaction of shoppers seeking locally-sourced, preservative-free stinky stuff.

Reaching Gawler Place, Nova FM is promoting this week’s tennis at Memorial Drive. A good-natured queue snakes across my path, Dads and kids spinning the chocolate wheel for tickets or an icy cold can of coke, assuming this remains the base metric for radio station giveaways.

Glancing south I see the Mall’s newest resident: a pigeon. Or rather a two-metre reflective metal sculpture of one. It’s curiously compelling and I could be in The Land of The Giants. The sculptor says, ‘I see pigeons as proud flaneurs (loafers), promenading through our leisure and retail precincts. They are the quiet witnesses of our day-to-day activities in the city, our observers from day through to night.’

I then note a store called Glue. That’s intriguing but why not call it Clag? That’s a word which is always funny, especially when you use it to secretly stick shut the pages of your Grade 3 friend’s exercise book, or their copy of Let’s Make English Live Die.

The Malls Balls appear in their enigmatic majesty. Fashioned by Bert Flugleman, they’re the nation’s most iconic pair of balls. I’ll leave it to you to insert a joke of your choosing.  

With another green light I scamper over Pulteney Street to Rundle Street before passing the distinctive green exterior of Adelaide’s finest pub, the Exeter Hotel. Inside it’s always the 90’s and our nation’s best wine writer, Philip White, is by the bar. Straining my ears, I’m disillusioned to not catch gliding up from the beer garden some ghostly wafts of Nirvana.

Taking coffee on the footpath are a clot of Sunday suits while over the road a rotund woman of Caribbean appearance is urging us all to, ‘Repent, repent.’ She’s sure our timeframe is only forty days. ‘Repent, repent’ she repeats. I best get on with it.

Over East Terrace sits the Garden of Unearthly Delights, the focus of the Fringe. Now it’s lush-green and empty. Next month it’ll be buzzing, and any surviving grass will be brown. To my right is Rymil Park, annual host of Harvest Rock. Again, it’s morning mass still. How these micro-cities appear and disappear! Despite their fleetingness, they shape our city in enduring ways.

I turn left by the brewery apartments and am halfway through my run. It’s both astonished discovery and a comforting repetition. The O-Bahn tunnel runs beneath me. Last week with Claire I first rocketed the twelve kilometres to Tea Tree Plaza on its clever, Germanic bus.

Drizzle smears the sky as the National Wine Centre swims into view. It appears as a Noah’s Arc for plonk. When those antediluvian rains came what if the 600-year-old skipper had to usher onto his boat two bottles of every wine varietal? Sorry, Grange, back down the ramp for you as we’ve already got some shiraz.

We know well our CBD, but there is something magical about staying in the city that sprinkles enchantment over the recognisable buildings and boulevards. I’m now on North Terrace by the Botanic Hotel. After 4th year English between 4 and 8 on Mondays my old friend JB and I would drive to the Bot while I would soothingly play her Bob Dylan cassettes. Sorry, JB.

I peer into Ayers House trying to recall how many wedding receptions I’ve been to there. I can’t and then above me stretches Adelaide’s tallest building, the Frome Central Tower One. Not tall by global measures but the skyscraper’s emblematic of Adelaide’s revitalised confidence. Claire and I went up there recently and gazed out over the eastern suburbs, spotting landmarks. Ah, there’s Norwood Oval!

I pass 2KW which is a roof-top bar. Are these elevated boozers the new Irish pub? Will we tire of these too? I often try to look at our city as might an overseas tourist. What would I think?

A compact, fetching metropolis, without the glamour of Sydney harbour or geographic clout of Brisbane’s river, Adelaide’s quiet beauty and ease of lifestyle would progressively reveal themselves. I’d be impressed by North Terrace’s elegant institutions and the Torrens and Adelaide Oval precinct. If I wandered in on for a beer, I’d love the Exeter and its eccentricity.

I ease up Bank Street and, in the hotel, click open the door to our twelfth-floor room.