A Newtown night, a Courthouse and
the rain.
It’s Friday night. My wife and children have flown out to visit my parents interstate and I’m at a loose end. It’s like being a teenager again. An amazing city lies on my doorstep. So many things I could be doing. So many places, events, experiences waiting to be had. And here I sit, on my sofa, with decision paralysis. If this were my first night in Sydney I would do what I usually do in a new city: walk. But I’m not doing that because this is home, and I have the lens of familiarity blocking my path.
OK. Shake it off. Do something. Anything. Hoist the anchor. Then all of a sudden my phone rings — a friend I have not seen in too long. “Get off the couch.” “20 minutes. My place” he says. Michael is a very unique individual. He’s captain spontaneous, the enemy of sitting still. We first met when he was an account executive at an agency I used to work at. He was the self-proclaimed “worst suit in history’. But that never stopped him. He brought enthusiasm, humour, lashings of inappropriate behaviour and not just a little disorganisation to the world of advertising. He built a culture that introduced ‘Death Threat Thursday’ and ‘Best Friend Friday’ into the agency’s lexicon. Days that lived on well after he’d left to pursue a woman, and a job at Cossette in Canada.
I lept off the couch and began the 2 km walk from my front door to his. It’s cool, and I remember thinking that I should probably wear more than just a shirt. More on that later.
As part of my commitment to see my city with fresh eyes, I avoid main streets, opting instead for a longer, but ultimately more interesting path through the backstreets. The more I walked, the warmer and more curious I got. Streets too narrow to accommodate two-way traffic, dim alleyway galleries full of expression and commentary. A near collision with a flock of girls, already ticking along quite nicely. The moon played hide and seek behind some clouds with intent. The cold chill of the night was just enough to prevent me from stopping.
I arrived at Mike’s door a little before 7, and was greeted by a cheeky smile and an inappropriate salutation wearing a leather jacket. I enter the house and I’m immediately in the lounge. He leads me down a long hallway to the kitchen which lies at the back of the house, past a large internal courtyard. His housemate Jessie sits at the breakfast bar of the spacious and modern room, rolling a cigarette. He’s immediately familiar and within five minutes, we are great old mates. Then it’s one beer, two beer, three beer, let’s roll — my favourite pub in Sydney is a mere ten minute stroll away.
There’s a wonderful dischord happening. I’m with a familiar old mate and his suddenly familiar housemate, sitting in a completely unfamiliar kitchen in a house I’ve never been in before, about to walk another maze of new streets to my favourite pub in my old neighbourhood.
Then my phone rings again. James. Yes, yes, beers. Courthouse hotel in 15? OK.
The second we step out of Michael’s front door I regret not grabbing that jacket before I left home. It’s raining. And considerably colder now than when I left home two hours ago. Never mind. We duck and weave from overhanging branch to verandah, zig-zagging from one dry spot to another as we make our way to the warmth and shelter of the pub.
We arrive to the usual crush at the bar, and as I get the first jugs of beer organised, Michael grabs a table in the courtyard. Then my phone rings again. Greg. Yes mate. Beers. Courtyard of the Courty, see you shortly. The rain has eased slightly, and the huge umbrella that sprouts from the centre of the long table almost keeps us dry. Just as I finish pouring out the first jug, James arrives at the table. With two more jugs. Then ten minutes later, Greg does the same. The girls next to us peer suspiciously at the voluminous amber vessels in front of us. So we share the beer. It’s the right thing to do.
The rain starts becoming a little more insistent, diving toward the pavers and not just falling. Small, crystal missiles that explode into puddles. There’s no shame in a strategic retreat, so we fall back to the pool table, and safety.
One of the many things that makes the Courty the best pub in Australia is it’s ‘no wanker’ policy. It’s not so much a written rule as it is a naturally occurring state of being. I have never encountered an aggressive, annoying or arrogant person here. I’ve never had to deal with rude queue-jumpers at the bar, or cue-wielders at the table. The tattoo-covered, pierced, blue-haired exist in perfect harmony with the shirt and tie set. The country as a whole could learn a lot from this close to Utopian microcosm. Another thing that makes it awesome is the universal attitude of fairness.
Take for example, Jessie losing his wallet in our shift from bar, to courtyard, to bar again due to wet weather. He went looking under the table outside — nothing. He looked at our table inside — nothing. He ran home, thinking he may have left it there — nope. But he walks back into the bar 20 mins later, and the bartender recognises him from his license picture and hands back the wallet. A Courthouse (honest) punter had found it and handed in — with all the cash still inside.
James slaps a dollar coin onto the cushion of the pool table, marking our place in line. Michael, Jessie and Greg share a table with an older bearded gay couple, beers and conversation flow. Then we’re up, it’s our break. Our opponents are a guy in his early 30s and his date. It’s obvious by the way they scan the room that it’s the first time for both of them here.
CRACK!
The balls break, and so does the ice. Three shots in we are laughing and drinking together, critiquing each other’s shots and talking like we’re old mates. I’m playing terribly, which is OK because James is three sheets to the wind and in superb form.
A round of high-fives later and it’s time to get some food.
Out into the night we venture. The glittering lights of King Street, Newtown surround us. The rain had turned the road into a rough black mirror that reflected the lights of the many bars, clubs and restaurants that line this inner west strip. Someone suggests Earl’s Juke Joint for whisky. As you know, whiskey is my preferred drink, so it’s quite probable that I suggested Earl’s. We stagger past Dean’s Diner. And it occurs to us that none of have eaten a thing since this whole night began.
There’s no better late night burger joint than Dean’s Diner on the south end of King Street. It’s a real Aussie burger joint. Nothing fancy, but great, cheap burgers. Perhaps because of it’s proximity to the famous old Sandringham pub (now Newtown Social) which used to be the live music stalwart of the inner city, Dean’s has played host to AC/DC, The Hardons and You Am I (to name a select few) for the very same late night soak-up we’re looking to get. Tonight it’s just us, a group of barely coherent 20-somethings and a handful of people heading on to the next place, or just heading home. No famous heads pop in. 15 minutes later, we barrel out, bellies full, spirits raised for the next front — Earl’s.
Bunnahabhain 12yo. Neat. Warm. Earl’s is loud as always. The glow of the amber bottles at the back of the bar like a crystal palace of whisky. We are laughing, slapping each other on the back playfully and talking about everything and absolutely nothing at the same time.
It’s time for me to walk home.
As I again rue not bringing a jacket, the wind picks up and the balmy night at once becomes icy. Then two blocks from my front door, the heavens open. Vertical sheets of rain accelerate toward me, and rather than run, I stroll. There’s a comfort in inebriation and rain. I’m going to get soaking wet anyway, may as well enjoy it.
When I arrive at the front door of my home, the automatic light springs to life, turning the facade of the white terrace into an architectural marvel. The black door closes behind me and I leave a pile of wet clothes by the front door.
To think I didn’t know how to spend my night.
