Last Friday night, en route to Tim’s ‘I’m-in-Sydney’ drinks at old stalwart the Cricketer’s Arms, Llew and I needed some chow. So we wandered along Crown St in Surry Hills (affectionately known as Slurry), and stumbled across a fabulous place that wasn’t there the last time we looked. It’s called Mille Vini, and it opened five weeks ago. Of course, five weeks is an eternity in a fad-obsessed town like Sydney. Everyone’s a hip whore here. It gets sooo tedious. Really, really tiresome. It’s been open 35 days and just TRY telling someone about it. Boy. And I thought I copped it last week when I admitted I’d only just been to the Old Fitz… that was nothing! Mille Vini, now there’s an old story! Yesterday’s news!
You can’t be the first to do anything or go anywhere in Sydney, not even if it’s Christmas. Actually, you can’t MOVE if it is Christmas, and you certainly can’t get a cab even if you’re giving out free blowjobs, so that’s probably not the best example. But stale and dated though 35 day old Mille Vini must surely be by now, I still loved it. Glorious exposed sandstone and brickwork, a great Mezzanine level, a solid list of wines by the glass, and a tempting menu of what can only be described (at least by me) as Italian tapas. Scrumptious experience from start to finish. But it does remind me of two other examples of the same achingly n-o-w nanosecond phenomenon: Table for 20 and the absurdly named bar Shh.
Table for 20: my friend Sheena told me about it, and I have actually been inside the joint with her, a while ago now, which I must consider an accomplishment in itself. We went upstairs for a drink, with Sarah, pre-SATC. Perfect. On the way upstairs to the bar, I looked at the two long tables set for dinner and thought ‘That looks so inviting and lovely, I would really, really love to come back here for dinner.’ Filed that thought, following a brief discussion with the others; we were in agreement. A couple of weeks ago, my friend Tamsin sent me a text: were we free for dinner at Table for 20 on X date? Shit yes, I said. But of course we’re not going. No one’s going. Nobody is ever going ever again because now Michael Fantuz’s mobile message bank is permanently full and his phone seems to be permanently switched off. His gorgeous little neighbourhood restaurant has been attacked by the Killer Cools. Never to be seen again, at least by me. I simply don’t have the energy to fight that hard for my street cred. You can have it. Seriously, it’s yours. Just take it and get it out of my sight, I beg of you.
Which brings me to Shh. Oh, you tools. If ever there was a great, fat advertisement for bringing back capital punishment specifically to do away with the rapidly expanding population of total nobs just because you want to see them suffer, this has to be it. Shh was the bar reviewed in last Sunday’s Sun Herald’s S section. It made me cringe. Totally leaving aside the fact that it’s called ‘Shh,’ of course it’s in the Cross, the epicentre of all worthy events according to most of what’s reported in the society pages (the rest of Sydney simply does not exist – didn’t you know? You’re in Social Siberia, have been for years), you need a daily-changing access code to get in, and the absolute twank who owns it is quoted in the review as saying something like “Everyone wants to come here, but they’re not part of our exclusive world, so they’ll never be able to get in.”
Uh huh… See, I don’t want to get in, you limp dick. I just want to burn your bar down.