The Bakery

Over in Haberfield, not far from where I live these days, is the superbly named Sunshine Bakery. In a neighbourhood known for its Italian patisseries, cafes, pizzerias, delicatessens, and, indeed, bakeries, the Sunshine is unique for the fact that it is actually Vietnamese.

At least we all seem to assume it’s Vietnamese. Now that I think about it this might actually be a case of racial stereotyping since, as any true gluten-eating Aussie can tell you, the Vietnamese are fucking awesome bakers. For the sake of brevity, and not starting an entirely different discussion, I’m going to continue assuming it’s Vietnamese, and if someone can confirm or deny the fact please let me know.

Anyway, the Sunshine Bakery is a bit of a landmark for those who’ve lived and continue to live in Haberfield. It hasn’t changed at all from what I remember of the first time I got sent there to pick up a loaf of bread fifteen-odd years ago (Christ I’m getting old). A little tacky, a nice smell, an easy place to get a cheap cheese and bacon roll or something sweet and mostly sugar. Good folk too, always very friendly, honest smiles.

Now, I want to be forthright here: they do not make the best bread and pastries in Haberfield. Honestly they don’t even make the best pastries on the block. But their meat pies mate, their meat pies are the best in a fifteen kilometre radius. The pastry’s soft without falling apart and flaky on top, with the right sized chunks of meat and fresh-as-can-be ingredients, all kept at the perfect eating temperature and sold at a very reasonable price (three-fifty for a steak and mushroom! I’m bloody laughing mate). There’s nowhere within a reasonable distance that sells as good a pie, and nowhere even further out that sells’em at a non-extortionist rate (which I will still pay, because I will do a lot for a good pie), making the Sunshine Bakery an absolute gem.

I feel like there’s a metaphor there: Asian immigrants in a primarily Anglo-Italian neighbourhood producing an iconic Australian cuisine. A good metaphor, I reckon. The kind you can staple to an Australia First Party member’s racist face.

I’ll think of it later, right now I feel like a pie.

Any good pie shops near you?

Irrational irritations and other unnecessary issues (11/8/2015)

Today’s topic is people who don’t tuck their chairs in when they leave a table.

This may not seem like a big issue, but working in a bar/restaurant it has become something I see all the time. All the fucking time. And it is annoying. Someone finishes their meal and leaves the restaurant, ducks off to the washroom or heads out for a smoke. Doesn’t tuck their chair back under the table. Just leaves it hanging out there, in the middle of the space where customers have to walk. More importantly where me and my co-workers need to walk. Carrying full trays of drinks and arms full of plates full of food which we really don’t want to spill over our otherwise lovely and discerning customers (I generally try and avoid glassing patrons or breaking plates over their heads as well, if it can be avoided), the risk of such happening going up exponentially when some inconsiderate person leaves a goddamn tripping hazard in the middle of a regularly traversed passage.

I mean, we spot and avoid these metaphorical icebergs easily enough most of the time (though there’s been at least one occasion where I manoeuvred around a knot of departing guests only to stumble on a chair and narrowly manage to avoid spilling hot water all over a customer by reversing direction and taking the literal scolding myself). Point is though we shouldn’t have to. Seriously, what the fuck un-chair-tuckers? It takes all of half a second and no real effort to slide a flimsy bit of varnished wood across another bit of varnished wood so it sits neatly beneath a bit of varnished wood. It’s not a fucking palanquin. It’s not made out of stone. It’s not that goddamn difficult. Quite frankly, you should have learned how to do it in fucking primary/elementary school.

So please, for the love of god and to be a less of a pain in the arse for the rest of humanity, tuck your bloody chairs in when you leave the table.