I’m a spectacular daughter, so spectacular I decided Christmas holidays wasn’t the time to spend with my family. Poor Grace is still being dictated by Mango so she would’ve been rightly cranky not being allowed to spend the holidays with her preferred companion that is a glass of champagne. When Grace is drifting on bubbles, she’d hardly cares what gifts I’d bestow my niece and nephew with. Usually I’d give something useless, noisy and pulls apart into a zillion pieces but given she has to be sober nor can she see past the bump of Mango and her hormones are fairly schizophrenic, I’d be slashed and stuffed into a suitcase if she stepped on anything plastic. I take my Auntie duties very seriously but I’d rather not cop red ‘F’ in the sister stakes. My parents, well they love to berate me on still being single, yet to have a career and not gifting them with more grand kids. They already have two adorable, noisy and energetic mini homo sapiens whom they can barely keep up with now, a third is on the way. I often remind Mum that she neglected a pot plant I gifted her with last year. Orchids! Even I manage to keep those alive, but Mum let hers die a lengthy death of thirst and if she forgot to re hydrate orchids, imagine what she’d be like with grand kids? I’ve also been pointing out that Grace won’t be the only one making decisions on which retirement home they’ll end up in when I secure the proof that their selective hearing is in fact dementia. That threat didn’t shut them up, selective hearing kicked in, vocals turned up a notch and Jess was ignored yet again.
So this year I lied to them all, informing them I was housesitting out in Melton, a suburb closer to Ballarat than it is Melbourne and where neither my sister or mother would be caught dead in. However, I wasn’t stepping foot in Melton either, I secretly flew out of Melbourne. Why would I lie about that? Because I’d get berated for leaving the state during Jesus’s birthday party and my phone would continuously vibrate with half written messages from Mum, she gets so impatient with her point she forgets and gets send button happy instead of the space bar.
My bank account and I decided Adelaide would be the only option. The best wines come from Adelaide, it has an interesting history with criminals and the flight over there is short one. So come Boxing Day Corey and I sat on a plane for just under an hour and headed for the city of gigantic, reflective steel balls!
Thanks to Corey’s older brother, Louis, we saved a bundle not having to pay for accommodation and for that we shouted him lunch at one of Adelaide’s best eateries, Cafe De Villis in a suburb called Mile End which is next a suburb called Richmond but there wasn’t a footy oval, tennis court or any drunk sport fans in sight. Café DeVillis is one of Corey’s favourite places to eat and he was excited about nourishing himself up on a well-known South Australian dish called a ‘pie floater.’
“It’s a pie sitting upside down on a plate or in a bowl and covered in mushy peas.” Corey tapped his fingertips together excitedly as his plate was served to him.
“It looks like someone vomited all over that pie!” I told him, as I inspected it in disgust.
“This dish beats the pastry in France or Acland St or Hot Dogs in New York.” Corey explained, snatching up the utensils from beside his plate and began mutilating the arse up pie.
“Really?” Louis asked trying not to spit his coffee across the table.
“If a dish isn’t covered in mushy peas or tomato sauce it’s not worth biting into.” Corey reasoned shoving a piece of something questionable in his gob.
Louis and I opted for a more edible breakfast, refuelling on pancakes drowned in ice cream and maple syrup, garnished with sliced banana and berries. I love the smell of maple syrup and wish it came bottled as perfume. I’d wear it every day on the train and make those silly enough to board a train before eating breakfast so ravenous, they’d bite into their neighbouring passengers shoulder. I’d write a book about my experience titled: ‘How I created the Carriage of Carnivores.’
Our breakfasts occupied every corner of our stomachs and in between, to the point that we had to roll out of our seats. Determined to walk off our stuffed guts, Louis drove us to his local beach in a pretty suburb called Semaphore. We didn’t waddle far and ended up sitting on a patch of green grass because all the families and toned, tanned bodies of Semaphore had beaten us at getting their feet simmered walking across the sand. I was sleepy but was also half memorized by what looked like gem stones twinkling in the gentle ocean while the sea breeze did it’s best to refresh us from the motionless heat Adelaide had welcomed us with. I hardly go to the beach much as I don’t live anywhere near one, I am rather fond of Altona or Williamstown, however, Merri Creek is the closest I get to moving water these days. A gorgeous trail of water that flows alongside luscious flora and fauna beginning in the north and ending as it mixes itself into the Yarra River. But the ocean is endless and has bigger secrets like the freaky looking creatures that trawl the floors of the deep and bloody jellyfish, intriguing to look at but anxious riddled bastards of gel that get so paranoid, they figure every foot is out to kill them.
In the days before my innocence unwound, I’d regularly drag my parents down to Blackrock Beach and gaze curiously at the shipwreck of HMAS Cerberus, still wedged on a sandbar this very day. Although the angle it sits at shifts regularly, the last time I visited the top half of the wreck was poking above sea level while the rest of its body corrodes underneath the salt water. I had such a fascination with ship wrecks back then and today I still find myself utilizing Google Image from my not so comfortable my desk instead of getting off my cushy butt and heading out, looking for them or meeting deadlines. I must reconnect with the HMAS Cerberus upon my return and attempt to find that tourist map I kept, somewhere in my room illustrated with dots along the coast of Victoria.
Evening hastily came by and we proceeded into the city, I was introduced to a drinking institution called the Crown and Anchor. An endearing pub reminding me of The Tote or a bigger form of The Old Bar. Louis has been living in Adelaide for nearly 10 years, this is the first pub he was introduced to and it was love at first sight.
“I know they love their footy teams here but the real heroes of Adelaide are the Yiros House and this place!” Louis enlightened us with his local commentary.
“And George Donikian!”
Corey reminded us. Corey and I have quite the soft spot for the handsome newsreader with an instantly recognisable deep voice dishing out the news. He is the original Andy Lee. You should have seen two grown adults who could have been mistaken for giant children, high on fairy floss and creaming soda, bumping into George in Port Melbourne and he kindly let us have a selfie with him. The photo of us three takes pride on our fridge amongst the bills we ignore but I happily greet Mr Donikian every morning.
“Oh my, I’m in the same city as Eddie!” I recalled another handsome South Australian devil.
Corey rolled his eyes and sighed heartily as I got distracted by my regular day dream of running into Mr Betts, capturing him with my looks and whit.
“That Eddie is a gun! Carlton must still be kicking themselves over evicting him!” Louis agreed with me while hunching over table, leaning on his forearms as he flicked ash from his cigarette into a shiny metal ashtray in the middle of the table.
“Our Eddie is on to bigger and better things, moving on up,” I assured Louis lifting my chin out of my hands as I was segued back to reality.
Mind you if he still played for Carlton, I’d have more luck in my delusions coming true if he was back in Melbourne.
“Give me the heads up if we spot him tonight. I need plenty of time to perfect my posture, suck the gut in and raise my shoulders so the girls look perkier.” I informed my wingmen.
Regrettably I never ran into Eddie although, I found myself chatting amongst locals who were lapping up the Happy Hour specials while slightly boring me with their devastation of Melbourne winning full custody of a certain car race. Apparently the people of Adelaide really loved that Grand Prix and 20 years later they’re still traumatised about it. Being handed a brand spanking new race (Clipsal 500) to stop the tantrums and sadness has done exactly the opposite. The Clipsal 500 is loved, cherished and celebrated but won’t ever live up to its kidnapped sibling. I assured them the entire population of Melbourne never wanted the mosquito race and they’re welcome to have it back. Jeff Kennett was the only individual celebrating once he ensured the auction and the rest of us headed straight to The Espy to enjoy St Kilda / Albert Park before the smog turned the beautiful lake into apocalyptic remnants of Mad Max. Well that’s how I pictured the future of Albert Park. Turns out, the over-beefed jocks you see at Sterosonic also like car racing as do the attendees of horse racing. I was on the receiving end of a rather perplexed expression from the chap still mourning the Grand Prix when I reminded him all Darwin is in possession of are mango trees and instead of stamping their feet claiming to be forgotten about, they got on with life and learnt how to make daiquiris. When life hands you fruit, blend them with rum!
We made one more stop before heading back to Louis’s house and that was via the West End Brewery., taking in the very last moments of Christmas sparkling in an array of light displays as hot cross buns began appearing in supermarkets. I’d been warned to keep my distance from the beer that was produced in this very brewery but I figured I couldn’t visit a city and not try the local menu (apart from the retch pie, I was staying well away from that one). So I went against everyone’s best intentions and tried it. I thought it tasted just like Melbourne Bitter which is my choice of beverage back home anyway, so I continued to drink tins of West End Draught for the rest of my trip.
The display of statues, props and hundreds of fairy lights were beautifully set up along the Torrens River. Fact: A mass grave of shopping trollies was uncovered thanks to an accidental drainage of the Torrens, solving one of the oldest cold cases Adelaide had on record. I know what you’re thinking, how does a river get mistakenly emptied? When one mystery has closed another one opens.
We all gazed and sighed at the illuminated bon bons, mini Ferris wheel, a creepy looking snow man, a ballerina bravely dancing on top of a dragon but my favourite was an old English style cottage lit up amongst the greenery. It looked like the house Hansel and Gretel naively wandered towards before eating parts of it. I’d be an angry witch if human termites made structural damage to my house! Sure I’d call up the insurance company or the cops rather than capturing them or threaten to eat them. You never know what a juvenile has taken if they’ve hallucinated a house being made of lollies, actually I’m beginning to think the insurance company may also accuse me of being slightly blitzed with a claim made that bamboozles ate my house. Santa was typically plonked in a sleigh led by reindeer, I would have had him surfing a slab of draught if I was involved with the visual merchandising but it looked like I missed my calling, or perhaps they didn’t want to be responsible for injuries caused to the yet to evolve little humans attempting to ride the waves of gravity on a slab of beer just like their gift bribing hero and let’s not think about the lost tears from their parents if entire cases crashed to the ground. Tsking note of the lack of Christmas decorations in the city (unlike Melbourne that was saturated in Santa’s, tones of red and green splashed here and there, a hypnotic fragrance of gingerbread wafting from bakeries and the town hall where the gingerbread display was exhibited and drummer men and candy canes all stood tall next to entrances at most doors), Adelaide City Council saved it all for the Brewery and being that South Australia was on electricity rations, I think it a wise idea to lure everyone to the beer castle.
I couldn’t sleep that night as I was excited about the location next up on our itinerary. A Spiritual Retreat I’d discovered a few years ago laid waiting for me to gain peace, calm and wine! I first came across Wirra Wirra Scrubby Shiraz when I purchased two bottles for $25 in a bargain trolley located next to a point of sales display at the local bottleo. It was the finest tasting $15 wine I’d guzzled. I should point out that all students should be taught about the lad who built the winery that Wirra Wirra occupies. Ladies and Gentlemen may I present to you, Mr Robert Strangeways Wigley.
“Now what makes him more special than Tony Modra whom you’re yet to mention in this blog?” I hear you all ask while I point out to you I haven’t mentioned Anne Wills yet either, but I’ll get to them after this quick history lesson. Mr Wigley was busted for stealing a local pie cart and taking it out for a joyride. He was charged and for punishment he was banished to McLaren Vale, a small town is about an hour’s drive from the Adelaide CBD. Hate to imagine how long it took via horse cart but out of boredom he built a winery and created recipes of bottled majestic and liquefied grapes. If I knew of hooligans who were arrested for stealing and drag racing pie carts that lead to them becoming successful wine makers, I would have had someone to aspire to during my days as a student and who knows what I might have wound up being? Maybe soaring through the sky in a Crows Guernsey only to end my outstanding career out West about 2 hours behind but donned in a fetching uniform of purple and green as Mr Modra did or I could have won a shitload of Logies thanks to a 50 year formidable career in TV and Radio like the gorgeous Anne Wills? Nah, I’m thinking big, like a spokesperson for Four N Twenty pies. Just like those women from AAMI or The Ford ads but instead of a free car, there’d be an endless supply of pies in the freezer, ensuring future breakfast, lunch, dinners and snacks.
Whizzing past the vineyards adjoining the property of Wirra Wirra my tastebuds dreamt of being bathed in treasured lotions of Savvy B, Scrubby Shiraz and a Church Block blend. As Louis’s car drove through the gates Madonna and her choir of hand claps crept through the speakers, most likely a coincidence since we were listening to Corey’s iPod but I choose to believe Mads had a message for me, I was going to leave a Wirra Wirra muse. Just like a prayer your blend can take me there. I wasn’t disappointed! The retreat was stunning. A small path led to an ancient dwelling of stone that Robert meticulously cemented together with many of windowed doors wide open welcoming us all inside. Entering what was obviously the ‘Healing Room,’ furnished with polished cider floor boards and a therapy bar with similar trimmings that was stocked with bottles of Holy Liquid. I’d already found salvation before ingesting any wine! As we approached the bar, one of the saints smiled, and queried which blend we’d like to begin with.
“We’ll start with the Sauvignon Blanc.” I smiled at her, she picked up the bottle and tipped chilled Savy into our glasses.
Corey observed the other attendees swirling their servings and getting a whiff of it up their nostrils.
“What are they doing?” He quietly asked with an eyebrow arched. Corey isn’t a wine drinker. If he isn’t imbibing beer his liquor of choice is gin and so he slammed the mouthful of wine back, gave it a nod of approval but his pursed lips gave away what he really thought.
“I don’t know.” I whispered back to him as I swirled the wine around my glass until it resembled toilet water whirling around before being sucked down the dark pipes never to be seen again. This actually put me off connecting my lips with the wine glass for a second until I mindfully shoved that image out of my head and savoured those small mouthfuls of Savvy B beginning its journey down my oesophagus and the descent to my belly and soon followed on with Moscato, Riesling, Rosé, Shiraz, Cab Sav and a few specialities. My muscles felt as though they were reclined on banana lounges as neurons leisurely floated around my mind on lilos when we exited the bar and continued to the Café. I cleansed my interiors with a Shiraz coffee and refilled my stomach, inhaling a pie full of Shiraz and lamb which met Corey’s approval, he looked as happy as a beetle crawling in dung as opposed to the cranky granny in the tasting bar. If it was legal to marry pie or coffee I would have happily entered a polygamous relationship that afternoon and I wondered why Melbourne didn’t have a Wirra Wirra Spiritual retreat of its own. More temples added to the likes Chandon, Zonzo and Rockford would be more beneficial than ridiculous high rise buildings encasing doll house sized apartments! Those woeful establishments are so tall I swear they eventually lead to beanstalks. I think I speak for the people of M-Town when I say we’d rather cheese platters, crackers, bread sticks and grapes over beanstalks. Before anyone retorts “We don’t need more places handing out liquor!” I have already resolved this issue by including a 711 in all havens for emergency bags of Burger Rings, pies and hotdogs for soakage.
Eventually it was time to leave my place of happiness, it was a moment of sadness but I staggered out feeling warm and flimsy, like I’d been kneaded by a massage therapist. So zen was I, I napped in the back seat of the car missing the scenery of Vineyards and big hills which came to my attention on our way up but too distracted to immerse in and I’ll certainly make a journey back to fix that mistake.
Before we went to dinner, Louis took us for a sneaky pint at another pub called The Austral, he figured we’d get the drinking out of the way with since Corey and I decided we wanted to eat a Yiros from the Yiros House for dinner. We’re classy like that, stuff sitting at tables with 3 different sets of cutlery when you could consume a souvie from a bag. We were also doing our bit for the environment by binning the bag full of grease instead of wasting water.
“What made you stay in Adelaide after your break up?” I quizzed Louis.
He’d moved over with his girlfriend when she got a job here and Louis wasn’t sure a move to Adelaide was the right thing to do but a long distance relationship wasn’t too appealing either.
“My Ex went back to Melbourne right away so I thought I’d stay here a bit to avoid running in to her.” He explained, sitting out the front of the pub enjoying our pints and inhaling puffs of cancer. “But once I grew accustomed to the retro hand me down buses, the laid back lifestyle and cheap rent, I decided Adelaide was home.” He shrugged lifting the half-filled pint glass to his mouth.
“You’re quick to come home when this place is swarming with Bogans,” Corey pointed out. “Car racing is all that happens in Adelaide.”
Louis shook his head, “Nonsense! There’s WomAdelaide, Semaphore Festival, Beer and Wine festival, The Crush Festival. Heaps! We keep these little secrets so they don’t get over run by tourists as the races do.” Louis laughed, letting out a few of Adelaide’s best kept secrets out of the bag.
Eventually we made our way to the Yiros House. A yiros is what the rest of Australia call Souvlakis. Something Louis learnt the hard way. He figured since he couldn’t locate a Souvie bar he had no choice but ending up at Hungry Jacks after a night of excessive alcoholic benders. I doubt anyone could settle for a city without Souvies! But it wasn’t long til a local explained it to Louis and he ate his weight in Yiros’ at the Yiros House. The Yiros I ate was divine and it didn’t need to be 3am to appreciate it. The tender meat, mixed impeccably with the tzatziki and hummus, the lettuce was fresh and the Turkish bread wrapped it beautifully. I was determined to get the whole thing into me but due to a bloated stomach nursing beer and wine I failed epically and had no choice but to bin the most incredible Souvie / Yiros I’d eaten! It broke my heart.
Due to an early flight home the next morning we decided to head back to Louis’s place for a quiet night in before retreating to bed rather than being stuck on a plane with thumping heads. Look at that, Adelaide! You have Corey and I making wise choices, something we don’t usually do!
Adelaide was a surprise. After all I heard about everything being closed during Christmas and New Year’s all Corey and I needed were the bars and food places to be open and raring to go and they didn’t fail us. Shopping we could do at home and I certainly wasn’t going to partake the nutty sales. I did that online from the cosiness of Louis’s couch and a computer. I’ve also heard this darling city referred to as the City of Churches and Murders but I hardly saw a church nor did I see any dead bodies littering the streets, not even vermin like I see scattered along the train tracks at various stations back home. I can see why Louis isn’t in any hurry to return to Melbourne. Adelaide, is a delightful little city, isn’t busy like Sydney, old dwellings are still standing in the CBD so the sunshine is constantly making contact with your skin, contrasting to the direction Melbourne is headed for with patches of high rise buildings springing up all over the place creating nothing but shade! The laid back-go at your own pace is refreshing from the vying for a spot of footpath and I fell in love with the beaches! Clean, cosmopolitan not a back packer in sight. I’ll most certainly be back Radelaide, just not when the car racing is on. I can attend one of those at home. Not that I would.
The Chronicles Of Jessica Spinster. 