Finding a (hangover) cure

I woke up with a hangover. A deep, throbbing, truly embedded red wine stinger. I thought I’d been well behaved. My best buddies had joined me for dinner and had brought over a couple of bottles to enjoy with the beef. I had obviously got a little carried away with my cooking confidence, thinking my delicate sips were in controlled fashion.

If I had of been in my twenties, kid free and frivolous, I would have slept it off; escaping my bed because I was sick of it by 2pm. Brunching late into the afternoon, eating avocado because I didn’t have a mortgage and reading a broadsheet newspaper from cover to cover because I had the room.

But not this time, not this decade, not in this current climate. My hangover was welcomed to Sunday with a hardcover Richard Scarry book wedged into my eyelid and a cry of a wet pyjama pant followed by demands for breakfast and Octonauts and Lego and activity. Ouch. It was 6.07am.

Trying to hide my disappointment in myself, I made pikelets and demolished them as best as I could just so I could shovel some Panadol into my body. I drank tea. I drank Nescafe. I had a sneaky cup of cordial. I was on a mission to destroy this heavy beast that was consuming my body.

It was now 11.30am. The sun was bright. We went to Williamstown Beach.

For someone who grew up in country North-East Victoria, I find it such a joy to live so close to the beach. I mean, you can ride your pushie to the water from where I live. However, on this day I chose to drive. I had promised my son a sandcastle and we had packed three Tonka trucks – and carrying those metal beasts anywhere is a commitment.

We arrived and set up our spot: towel, lunch box, Tonkas, buckets, shovels. We were set for at least a few hours.

And hell, if there is anything to rid yourself of a filthy hangover, it’s Willy beach on the cusp of spring. That fresh sea breeze off the water is enough to lift your spirits (and lift any spirits seeping out of your body). Dipping your toes into the freezing water is a spiritual release of any toxins trying to escape from your winter-fied toenails.

And if that’s not enough, tucked right at the tip of the bay is Kiosk D’Asporto; a delightful, sunny, super-happy café that will turn any hangover frown upside down. Cakes, donuts, milkshakes, gelato, pulled pork sandwiches, salads and seriously THE BEST fish and chips you can find westside.

On this particularly ‘difficult’ day for me, I was super grateful for the smiley, stunning owner handing over a small cup of red jelly to my son who almost wept with joy at the treat. It was a top distraction for the anticipation of the freshly fried lunch goodness that was coming our way.

We ate our treats and watched the footy players wade through the fresh water, the pooches splashing about with sticks and balls and a weird fish-looking thing and a couple of hotties on their skateboards proving that being in your late thirties doesn’t mean you can’t smash out a few grinds along the esplanade.

With the lunch in our bellies, the hangover well and truly forgotten (except for reciting it word for word in this column), we built a mega sandcastle, collected some shells and blessed the sunshine and sea for making us feel so jolly good. We headed back home to Yarraville, sand still between our toes and our jean cuffs damp and sticky from the ocean.

With tea well and truly on my mind along with the downhill slope to bedtime on the horizon, I decided to not be a parental hero and cook up a storm but instead give the new local pizza joint, D’Asporto, a go.

The same owners as my lunch time haunt of the day, the pizza – just like my lunch - was unforgettably gorgeous. Traditional in all the right ways, with toppings to top off any hangover day and a base so textured and balanced, it can barely be described, just illustrated with a fine tip pen in an archival document for future generations to study.

My son and I demolished two pizzas (as takeaway in the comfort of our own home), we bathed and were in pjs by 7pm. It had been a big day, but the seaside had reset it and our D’Asporto pals had fixed it. It was perfect.

Treat yourself to a double decker D’Asporto Day this week. You will be a better human for it.

You can find The Kiosk D’Asporto at 99 Esplanade, Williamstown and Pizza D’Asporto at 2-6 Ballarat Street, Yarraville (in the Village Green).

This article first appeared in the September issue of The Westsider.

Best weekends

Are there any other publicist / chef relationships out there? If so, please knock on my door and have a beer with me as I'd love to hear your stories of logistics, shift work, balance and options and how you find ways to pump up the jam.

Hubster and I totally pumped up the jam yesterday. We had a freaking RARE as fuck Saturday DAY AND NIGHT off together, but as we have an almost three year old, there was no sleeping in. Instead we pre-planned the night before a seriously rad beach trip.

Our favourite beach to head to is Indented Head because it has a funny name and one shop called a General Store and no phone reception. It's very cool.

We packed badly (only one nappy and no shoes for the kid + a broken beach tent) but it didn't matter. It was a pearler of a day and shoes are overrated in summer.

If you have never been to Indented Head before, it's time to try it. Especially if you have a toddler. There's a shipwreck, rock pools and sail boats. And it's just so goddamn quiet you can hear yourself think. Only about an hour and a bit from Melbourne-town too. Leave your phone at home.

But it came time to leave the beach and grabs some snacks which meant pick up some shoes for the kid thanks to the superbly hot ground. We could only source Haviana thongs in Portarlington for $25 a pop (kill me - for thongs!) which meant the extravagant lunch we had in mind turned to pies, Oak flavoured milk and jelly slice at the local bakery. Which turned out to be pretty excellent if you're into 1990s-style baked treats.

It's these weekends, half planned, half winging it that turn out the best. Flicking on the radio to hear Foreigner, spotting a pirate ship at the pier, grabbing a kilo of muscles from a boat, and my favourite, scoring freshly picked fruit at the local Williamstown Farmers Market and watching my kid sit on the ground and devour piece after piece after piece until all my coins ran out.

Happy Valentine's day to all the loved up people out there. May you be eating the food my man is cooking up today while he works or listening to the sweet sounds of the orchestra while I work tonight.

I hope next weekend is filled with just as much love, if not... .find yourself a jelly slice and discover love at first sight!

Second Best

The inner west certainly knows how to seek out trash and turn it into treasure… but are we the only region living and breathing this refreshing view on pieces of the past?

I purchased an original 1960s plant stand in South Melbourne during a lunch break this week. It was cute, well priced and I loved it straight away. I was with a bunch of work colleagues who giggled at me as I tried to get it on the tram to take it back to our Southbank offices.

There were loads of questions from everyone: “You actually paid for that?”, “Why did you buy that?” “What is it?”, “What are you going to do with it?”

No one really understood the plant stand or the fact that I had paid $20 for a ‘rusty piece of metal’.

I thought I was sitting on a pot of garden gold.

I carried the stand through Southbank on my way home, dodging the judging stares while trying to avoid cutting someone’s arm with the rusty leg. When I swiped my Myki at Flinders Street, I became an awkward mess as I juggled my laptop, handbag, magazines and lunch box with the plant stand. 

The Myki Man shook his head at me begrudgingly and let me through the wider access point.

I took the plant stand on the escalator down to the Laverton train platform and found a spot out of the way to stand with my retro treat. A kid kicked it accidently and kept walking like he had accidently kicked an empty can.

My train to Yarraville arrived and I hopped on with the stand and instantly felt eyes on me. A woman offered me a seat and asked me about the stand. “Where did I get such a fine piece?” she asked. A fellow passenger piped in, “how much did you pay, they’re worth a bit?” I told them my story and they both nodded in appreciation. The people around me were interested. One man even picked up the stand and inspected it closely. $20 wasn’t bad they all agreed. They were aware of plant stand love. I was on the right train home.

What is it about people of the inner west who love and adore vintage, recycled goods and self-made fare? I know it’s not just me.

Looking around our local suburbs are some of the greatest second hand lands from the classic favourites: Vinnies in Newport, Salvos on Koroit Creek Road, Savers in Footscray, Green Collective in Yarraville right through to the treasure hunters gem box: One in a Mill in Newport, The Lost Ark Restorers Barn in Willy, the kooky vintage store on the corner of Princess Highway and Barkly Street, just down from the grave stone maker, and my favourite, the eccentric Diamond Dogs vintage clothing store in Seddon.

But it’s not just second hand stores that are embraced by the inner west. Walking my pooch around the neighbourhood is like watching house porn. I take note of the recycled restored furniture on porches, the veggie patches thriving in front yards, the sound of chooks clucking in the backyard, the baskets hanging on fences offering free rosemary/lemons/limes/figs/oranges you name the season, there’s always something available. I look for the anodized planters, the metal trikes, the letter boxes created with recycled tin in the shape of a kookaburra, the church pews, the macramé hangers, the house numbers spelled out in letters, the vintage door knockers and umbrella stands. I love them all.

The Inner West Buy Swap Sell Facebook group now has over 20,000 members, most of which enjoy looking for a bargain or selling items to make money. There’s now even an Inner West Vintage and Retro Facebook group which offers great second hand treats at great prices, but you have to get in quick as someone’s trash is always someone’s treasure. Retro gems are picked up in seconds.

Are residents inspired by each other? Or are there other people out there like me who enjoy the hunt, the storytelling and the surprise of finding such a cool, unique item that means so much straight away?

For me, it’s always about the hunt. When I step into Diamond Dogs I’m immediately attracted to a pattern or a style that stands out and I hope and pray that it’s in my size (there’s never two when it comes to vintage, unless you find bookends).

When I case my local op shops, I head to the crockery looking for small indoor plant pots (my latest obsession). In the past it was vintage trench coats and mod dresses, nowadays it’s Richard Scarry books and bib-n-brace.

It doesn’t matter what your second hand treat is, whether it is a chair, a pouffe, a cane magazine holder or a cement frog statue, the best part about a retro find is how you came to find it. Perhaps you brought it home on a train in peak hour.

I’d love to know your favourite retro hang out.

Fabulous photos by Paul Large.

This article first appeared in The Westsider December 2015 issue.

More Than Just A Milk Bar

It doesn’t matter which store you enter, they all have that familiar soft bell chime the minute you push open the door.

I find it fascinating that even today, in our world of online shopping, fast food, cheap milk and bread, and Status Quo waving big foam hands around, we can still find the classic milk bar on the corner or a corner nearby. And I encourage you to discover your local!

The inner west is filled with classic corner stores boasting shop counters and shelves filled with interesting items from coloured pens to raspberry licorice, mints to hair ties, toilet rolls to onions, the item you have gone in to find is usually there. Milk Bar owners, most likely living above or behind the store, seem to have a knack at having the right ‘last minute’ items you need ready in stock. 

Perhaps it’s because they live and breathe the store 7am-8pm, 7 days a week.

But besides from the highly sought after milk, bread and newspapers, these familiar stores can offer so much more, you just need to pretend you’re a child again.

Stepping into one of my favourite inner-westie milk bars located opposite Williamstown Beach train station, I’m always thrilled to purchase one of the homemade dips or other Lebanese goodies from the counter: cabbage rolls, dolmades, tabouli.  Add to this a sweet treat such as a baklava, Queen’s Finger or a Bird’s Nest and you have yourself a pretty impressive beach picnic. You can’t go pass the kebab though, the spiced minced lamb delight complimented with pinenuts and a dob of this Milk Bar’s special hummus is something to keep going back for.

The Milk Bar on the corner of Ovens and Stephen Street in Yarraville is just as special. This local gem has a glorious display of freshly packed mixed lolly bags placed in a neat grid-like pattern on the counter. There’s 15 lollies in every bag (choc buds, freckles, snakes, teeth, pineapples and milk bottles) and it’s hard to resist picking up a pack for your pocket as you purchase your paper.  

It’s touches like this that make every Milk Bar unique. A point of difference, whether it is the homemade goodies for sale, the ‘vintage’ Tazos on display behind the counter or the brilliant retro-esque signage screaming Mirinda, Kirks, Tarax, Tab Cola, Gobbledock, Ruffles, Smiths, Peters. 

There’s something fun about rediscovering candies from your youth that would make your eyes pop: Big Boss, Fags (now called Fads), Zappo, Hubba Bubba (remember when bubblegum used to be 50c and you’d get a free tattoo?).

Milk Bars are still a step back in time – the worn linoleum grey-marbled tiles, the timber and glass counters, the signs unashamedly advertising tobacco, the cans of Tarax lemonade in the fridge. Next time you walk past one, look up and check out the sign display most likely stating that ‘Tobacco’, ‘Cigarettes’, ‘The Herald’ or ‘The Sun’ can be found inside. Take a peek at the fonts used in the familiar words MILK BAR. And poke your head inside, there’s treasure to be found. Grab yourself a Killer Python and a can of Pasito to snack on after your Saturday afternoon lawn mow.

My favourite Milk Bars

Zac and Jenny Take Away Milk Bar, 74 Railway Crescent, Williamstown

Forget lugging an esky on the train, pick up awesome Lebanese goodies for the perfect beach picnic.

TT Milk Bar, 204 Somerville Road, Kingsville

Great selection of Kirks drinks to align with your fish and chips bought next door.

Milk Bar, Corner Ovens and Stephen Streets, Yarraville

Cheapest toilet paper and tissues around.

Milk Bar, 87 Anderson Street, Yarraville

Excellent lolly counter.

Photographs by Paul Large.

This article first appeared in The Westsider, October 2015 issue.