Across the Border: Kings Cross: Bars: Fountain Cafe

I'm sub-titling this post as ''Bars'' rather than ''Food'', because I would definitely go back to the Fountain Cafe to drink but I wouldn't make a visit just to eat. I started drinking here only a few weeks ago when I discovered that it's loner-friendly and offers two drinks for the price of one until 9pm weeknights. That's about $7.50 for two beers, which isn't bad if you aren't in the mood for a pick-up pub.

It really is a good place to go for a drink when you happen to be on your own and thirsty, because you never have to fight for a table and its prime location on the bend, where Macleay Street and Darlinghurst Road meet, means there is lots of people- and car-watching to be done.

That voyeurism includes watching the countless tourists that like to photograph themselves in front of the El Alamein Fountain on the edge of Fitzroy Gardens:

So when my locally-based friend, Sapphire Tenzing (no relation of Sherpa), was up for a balmy summer evening drink al fresco last week, we chose The Fountain Cafe, because we had no energy to seek out a rare, highly coveted outdoor table at the Darlo Bar or Green Park Hotel. 

We began by ordering four glasses of white wine. As you do.
There isn't a wide selection to choose from on the happy hour menu, but the Rothbury Estate Semillon Sauvignon Blanc seemed like a better bet than the Lindemans. And the first two glasses went down quite well.

We decided to order food to soak up some of the alcohol, but I must admit we didn't have much faith in the kitchen, so it took us a rather long time to make a decision. The cafe is open from 7.30am to 11pm and serves breakfast, lunch and dinner. I will have to ask my friend, Ruby Molteno - The Queen of All Day Breakfasts - to try out their bacon and eggs, because I'm sure they would pass the test. The lunch offerings include sandwiches and burgers, while the ''all day'' dinner menu is made up of salads, pastas, pizza and ''Asian dishes''. We eventually settled on the grilled dory with chips and salad for me, and for Sapph, a Moroccan lamb pizza, which we had spied looking good on another table.

The fish arrived in a somewhat unpleasant, rich butter sauce. It was advertised like that on the blackboard so I only have myself to blame. I scraped most of it off and ate the fish, which was dry and unexciting.

The pizza, on the other hand, was quite delicious and enough for two people. The lamb wasn't chewy and there were refreshing blobs of yoghurt and rocket leaves scattered across the top.

I think we ordered about three or four more glasses of wine, but I don't recall exactly, because by that time night had long fallen and the Fountain Cafe staff wanted to close. 

We left a good tip before we were booted out on to the street and at that stage we probably should have gone home to ready ourselves for work the following day. Wise decisions are never made at 11pm, when you have had a few drinks. So we decided to kick on. 

We ended up at the Goldfish Bar in the Crest Hotel on the Darlinghurst Road strip. But it's probably best not to bore you with the drunken details and instead leave you with this lovely festive photograph of the fountain:

*

Fountain Cafe

18 Darlinghurst Road

Kings Cross NSW 2011

02 9358 6009

www.fountaincafe.com.au

Darlinghurst: My Story

I first moved to Darlinghurst in 2002. I had been living in share-houses in East Redfern and Surry Hills but so desperately wanted a place of my own. The reason for selecting Darlinghurst was because it had, and still has, so many more studio apartments than Surry Hills or Redfern, which have mostly terrace houses and one- and two-bedroom apartments.

I only looked at one studio apartment in Darlinghurst and I was smitten. It was at 7/40 Hardie Street, next door to Flash Auto Repairs - run by the charming Peter - and just a skip away from the Darlo Bar, Green Park Hotel and the 311 bus stop.

The picture above is one of the few photographs I have of apartment number seven and was taken on a special day (face flowered for privacy) and here is a photograph of 40 Hardie Street (to the left) that I took the other day:

The rent for apartment number seven was $170 a week and $5 less than I was paying in the share-house. It was small but I didn't know any better. The kitchen was an afterthought, the bathroom had a sliding-door and the windows looked out to brick-walls and a light-well, but I loved it because it was my own.

The 12-room apartment building sold for $1.56 million two years after I moved in and was purchased by three young, and very clever, men (Arthur, Lans and Sava). They were good landlords and never put the rent up. One of them even kindly came to remove a huntsman spider that had made itself a home in the corner of the room above my bed.

I lived at number seven for five glorious years, hosting cosy (squashy) dinner parties for six, befriending the local cats and falling in love with the neighbourhood.

But my book and dress collection was steadily growing and it was clear I needed more space, so when the apartment next door - number eight - became available, I asked if I could have it. The following week I carried all my possessions about 2m to the place next door.

Number eight was a dream. It had beautiful windows that looked out on to Hayden Lane and to the rear of French restaurant Sel e Poivre, so that the kitchen staff's musical Gallic accents came floating up into my home. Another positive was that the apartment also had a bathtub.

Here is a picture of number eight:

I loved that apartment to death and even had it painted a gorgeous shade of yummy, rich clotted-cream before I moved in. I also installed a paper blind in the kitchen and thick-cream, light-blocking curtains in the main room. Sadly I wasn't to stay there for very long.

After just six months of living in luxury I accepted a job far, far away and in April 2007 moved out of Darlinghurst and gave up number eight for someone else.

Here is a picture of my last day at number eight, when I had to hand over the keys:

To be honest, I was actually glad to be moving out of Darlinghurst and Sydney. I was frustrated by my job and needed to move away from the stinky city I had grown to hate. I especially loathed the excessive planting of Plane trees, which shed fine, pollen-coated hairs every Spring and cause so much grief for my poor throat and nose. I was tired of hearing about rising property prices and the fact that every time I stepped out the door, life seemed to cost me $50.

So I moved to the seaside where I had ocean views, a car-space and a verandah for only $170 a week - 1990s prices!

For the first 18 months I was fine. I returned to Darlinghurst and the surrounding suburbs regularly to see my then lover-boy and other friends and it was almost as if I had never left.

Almost. After that first honeymoon phase I began to miss my old neighbourhood. I missed walking the streets at night, the noise and the characters.

There was one particular scene of the neighbourhood that I would replay in my head. It was walking home at dusk from Taylor Square and then alongside the National Art School, towards Burton Street. There would be a sense of peace about the neighbourhood as fruit bats in their thousands flew overhead from the Royal Botanic Gardens to search for their evening feast, while the city's workers also made their way home for dinner.

The strongest, most memorable image of that walk though, is of a large gothic-looking house on the corner of Forbes and Burton Streets, which would be in silhouette against the dying day. I loved that house at that time of day. It thrilled me for some reason. I'm sure I have a photograph of it somewhere too. (I was pleased to see today that the house is still there. Although it looks like the Caritas psychiatric hospital across the road is soon to be demolished to make way for a fancy apartment block - more on that another day.)

So anyway, I missed old Darlo and badly wanted to be back in number eight, as if the whole move out of Sydney had never happened.

I set about plotting my return and in September last year began looking at Darlinghurst studios and discovered that rents had gone up by $100 a week in the 2.5 years I was gone. It was sad, but there are worse things to spend your money on.

I trawled through the rental ads on Domain.com every waking hour for weeks and it was on a Saturday morning when I finally found what I was looking for. I am very picky. It had to be a 1930s-40s build, so that I would have high ceilings and none of that porridgey stuff they started spraying on ceilings in the 60s. It also had to have light: don't want to be depressed. And polished floors. A built in wardrobe (I don't want to own another piece of furniture). And a bathtub would be dandy too.

The place on Royston Street appeared to have everything. I dashed to the real estate agency as soon as they opened up shop and put in an application, which was approved by Sunday night and on Tuesday I inspected it and the keys were in my hands.

Here is a picture of Royston Street:

It is not the greatest street in Darlinghurst. One has to hike up Oporto Hill (or Vomit Hill, as it appears on Sunday mornings) to reach it, and it is surrounded by the dastardly plane trees, but it will do for now. Secretly, I still want number eight back.

Here is a picture of the view from my sunroom across the rooftops of Paddington with St Vincent's Hospital to the right:

Here is a picture of the view from my kitchen window, down to Rushcutters Bay and over to Darling Point. I can actually see the Moran family's mansion, Swifts.

Happy, happy to be home...

UPDATE: October 2011: I am now employed by the City of Sydney and feel that I should declare my interest here in case I should ever by accused of bias.
I have just left an industry that I loved for 10 years to embark on this new adventure and I am very excited about my new position at Town Hall, especially because I will be able to pop down to the City of Sydney Archives in my lunch breaks. And hopefully this can only be a good thing for my My Darling Darlinghurst.
Opinions, thoughts and adventures will remain my own and I still make no money from this blog; it has and always will be a labour of love.