An inner city mix bag

My partner and I are at the Kings Cross Markets. It’s a Saturday morning and as we stand in line for coffee, I feel like the triumphant Autumn sun is defrosting my body from the inside out. An array of fluffy white lap dogs prance by with owners, whom they share a disturbing resemblance to and a bearded homeless man asks me if I can spare him some change. I lie and tell him I can’t.

The Kings Cross Markets are held every weekend in an area known as Fitzroy Gardens. It’s a paved urban park, which is a little rough around the edges, but as Australian author Delia Falconer  puts it, is “fundamentally good natured”. Consisting of planter beds built from original pale convict bricks and clusters of Chinese elm and palm trees, the garden’s main attraction is the El Alamein fountain. 

Built in 1961 as a memorial to soldiers who died in 1942 during the Second World War in two battles at El Alamein, Egypt, the fountain was designed by Australian architect, Bob Woodward. Having featured in the 1999 film Two Hands and the 2010 television series Underbelly: The Golden Mile, it’s an Australian icon in itself and somewhat resembles a robotic dandelion shooting water from its tips. Seagulls and pigeons – who are responsible for the droppings splattered across the garden’s pavement – can often be found frolicking in the fountain’s tiered levels below. While, Kings Cross Police Station, which looks it’s some sort of 80‘s style terra-cotta bunker, serves as a watchful eye over all proceedings, both day and night. 

Geographically, the gardens are located just north of the pedestrian traffic lights where Darlinghurst Road ends and Macleay Street begins. Right on the cusp of sleazy Kings Cross and trendy Potts Point. It’s a borderline marked by not much more than a subtle bend in a lively street, but that slaps you in the face with its sharp societal shift.

It’s a point where if you go just 50 metres north or south, you get the feeling that you have stepped into an alternate universe sharing nothing with the former, besides the 2011 post code. And yet within the gardens, particularly on the weekend, you feel as if you’ve been thrown into a sociological melting pot consisting of equals parts poverty, equal parts excess. It’s the type of place where some strut by with their dry-cleaned business shirts and others stagger along, carrying all their worldly possessions in a torn plastic bag.

Heading down Darlinghurst Road and into the infamous Kings Cross area, better known for its strip clubs and neon lights it’s not long before you are met with society’s misfits; the homeless, the mentally ill, the drug addicts, the prostitutes and the other shady characters who loiter on the peripheral. Institutions like the Wayside Chapel, which have been operating in the area since the 1960s provide a sort of refuge for these people offering them food, clothing, counselling and above all, a place to finally belong.

With shop fronts filled with everything from global mobile carriers to raunchy adult books and budget beauticians to crotchless pants and plastic whips, a sense of eccentricity and unpredictability loiters in the air. Adding to the theatrical nature of the scene, is the perennial impromptu performances by the neighborhood’s local stars. I’ve seen an African-American drag queen, clad in a red-leather mini skirt and disheveled blonde wig, sing Roy Orbison’s Pretty Woman to a straight-faced corporate on her way to the train station one morning. And my partner, up early and on his way to the gym, came across a businessman wearing nothing but a suit jacket, chasing after a younger man in a tracksuit, while shouting and waving a beer bottle above his head.  

 By night the main drag, known as “The Strip” is inundated with hordes of 20-somethings who share one common purpose; partying. And with a variety of obliging venues at their disposal, it’s a rare occasion when this goal is not achieved – supplying local police with a steady stream of raucous business.  

I started going out in the area when I was 17 years old and have rather fond memories of trying to get into the hot spot at the time, Mansions, or as we used to refer to it, “The Big House”. And even now I tend to see “The Cross” as a place which I have long been aware is full of crime, poverty and seedy undertakings, but which I’ve never really felt unsafe in. 

In asking Constable Gillian Thomas*, a NSW Police Officer who began her career at Kings Cross Police Station in 2006 if she thinks the area is dangerous she says; “I don’t think the strip is dangerous, unless your mixed up in some sort of dodgy business. It’s off the main street … I think if you’re wandering around there, then you’re more likely to get robbed or something … but on the main street, generally, unless your picked on by a drunk guy I think it’s pretty safe because there’s so many people, and so many security guards and so many police.” 

At the other end of the strip and the spectrum is Potts Point’s Macleay Street. An area renowned for its chic restaurants, boutique wine bars and gourmet delis. An inner city location where it’s not unusual to spot Oscar winner Geoffrey Rush having breakfast and where, on more than one occasion, I have seen a cat walked on a leash. 

With its wide, tree-lined streets, Victorian terraces and proximity to the city, Potts Point is a suburb with a hefty price tag. With median property prices in the area just over a million dollars, securing real estate in the area most probably takes a lifetime’s work. And perhaps that’s why residents are so adamant that you don’t confuse their suburb with its drunk neighbour up the road. 

Having once thought of the two areas as much of a muchness, I once falsely accused a co-worker of living in Kings Cross. She was quick to clarify, “I don’t live in Kings Cross! I live in Potts Point.” It wasn’t until I moved closer to the area some years later, that I fully understood the reproachable glare that followed her correction at the time.

Back at the markets, coffee in hand, we’ve made our way to a set of four park benches in a square formation, each facing outward to a different scene within the park. In front of us is the games area, where a middle class couple are playing Connect Four with their toddler while their newborn sleeps in an adjacent pram. 

On the bench to the left of us, two old men discuss life’s great issues; legalising drugs, social etiquette, the price of bananas. To the right of us hungover hipsters try to piece together the night before over bacon and egg rolls while lycra-wearing exercises spring by sipping on freshly squeezed juice. 

Behind us, one shabby homeless man hands a lighter to another who expresses his gratitude by breaking out into Burt Bacharach’s, That’s What For Friends Are For. Before long the other joins in and they sing in unison. About five minutes later a thin bald man in a grubby tracksuit comes along, crouches down beside the two crooners and asks in a low tone, “How much for a gram?” The smaller of the two seated men tells him to, “Bugger off.” But he doesn’t. 

Sitting here on an average Saturday morning I’m reminded that diversity was one of the main reasons Constable Thomas told me she started her career here: “Because I could deal with lots of different people and issues from mental illness to drugs. Then you’ve got the very wealthy, so there’s robberies and break and enters down at the mansions. So I thought I’d be able to establish a lot of different skills.” 

And in looking around Fitzroy Gardens this morning, I’m quite certain there aren’t too many other locations in Sydney offering a training ground as assorted as this. 

*Name has been changed. 

Living La Dolce Vita – Adriano Zumbo profile

Waiting for Adriano Zumbo in his Rozelle cafe, known as The Lab, I am fixated by the view behind two large glass panels, which form the centre piece of the awkward L-shaped room. It’s a long rectangular industrial kitchen lined either side with stainless steel bench tops, cake tins, fridges and ovens. Amongst this, Zumbo’s uniformed staff – which he affectionately refers to as oompa loompas – hurry around piping, chatting and shifting tray after tray of multi-coloured macarons from one place to another.

Watching them work, I feel like Charlie with the golden ticket, who’s been given access to somewhere, which under normal circumstances, is out of bounds. Not feeling one hundred percent welcome, I’m compelled to avert my eyes every time one of the oompa loompas catch me staring, lest they break out into song and turn me into a giant blueberry.

When Zumbo does appear, staff and customers know it. He seems to be in a hurry, as if he was on his way somewhere else and turned up here by accident, but he is polite about it all the same as we are introduced. Sporting black trousers and a white chef’s jacket, splattered with a few stains from the day’s work, Zumbo appears in real life, much more affable than he does on T.V.

Born and bred in Coonamble in the New South Wales central-western plains, Zumbo is the son of Italian immigrants. His father came to Australia in 1963, his mother followed in 1969 and together they ran the local supermarket, where Zumbo says he developed his sweet tooth by indulging in the store’s lollies and lamingtons.

With two older sisters, he is the youngest of three and even though he’s lived away from the country for almost as long as he did, he still hasn’t lost his rural accent and mannerisms; cutting words short, throwing in the occasional f-bomb and looking me straight in the eyes the whole time we speak.

Zumbo first came to Australia’s attention through MasterChef – Network Ten’s ratings juggernaut, which puts wannabe culinary kings through a rigorous crash course of cook offs and pressure tests, till one is declared the winner. Appearing on the show’s first series in 2009, Zumbo became a household name after terrorising contestants with a towering croquembouche.

He returned in 2010, introducing Australia to the macaron and his eight layer V8 cake, with the mere mention of his name inciting fear into the the bravest of competitors. The media were quick to give him the sadistic “evil man” persona for his lack of smiling and serious attitude towards pastry, while the Australian public were quick to develop an insatiable appetite for all things Zumbo made.

Matt Preston, food journalist, restaurant critic, and MasterChef judge says Zumbo is one of Australia’s best new generation pastry chefs and describes his food as, “Accurate, crazy, twisted, delicious, beautiful.” Throughout our interview, I soon learn that Preston’s description of Zumbo’s food could aptly be applied to the man himself.

For starters, when I ask him why he got the Willy Wonka tattoo found on his bicep, his black eyes light up as he explains, “He created the dream you know, he’s the dude. He had a chocolate river, he had this factory, he created this far out stuff. He was a kooky dude that had this sweet wonderland. I kind of always wanted to be like that kooky dude in wonderland.” I am grateful that Zumbo takes it as a compliment when I suggest that he’s getting there.

He goes on to say, “That would be mad having a lab like that – having all the machines and doing this crazy shit, it would be like this hidden place where people get the chance to go into, that would be the best feeling ever, you know. A chocolate river, like that’s just nuts you know.” I can’t help but agree.

From the outset, I am surprised by Zumbo’s authenticity. Listening to him speak about Willy Wonka as if he’s a real person and describe what he does with such childlike passion, you can’t help but get wrapped up in his enthusiasm and start wanting to believe in the Easter Bunny again.

The other notable thing about Zumbo is that although his life might now involve regular overseas trips – including chocolate conferences, in Brazil nonetheless – television appearances and an abundance of acclaim, it hasn’t always been this rich.

When Zumbo was 15 he left Coonamble for Sydney, landing an apprenticeship at Dobinson’s Cakes in Rose Bay. In the years that followed he had a stint at George’s Restaurant in Double Bay, before moving to Neil Perry’s Wokpool. Looking back on his early working years Zumbo credits his time at Wokpool as one of the most significant saying, “It was probably the best experience of my life. To me, caramel slice was like the bomb until I went to Wok Pool, where I was using fresh produce and quality cream. It was a big changing point in my career.”

Wokpool was followed by a short stint at Aqua Dining, which Zumbo was fired from as he explains, “I went out partying and I didn’t come back. And then I rang in sick to work. I was living with my sister at the time and my boss rang her and said, ‘Is Adriano there?’ And she was like, ‘No I haven’t seen him in three days.’” Zumbo laughs as he recalls this adolescent folly and I get the feeling that this pastry chef, come celebrity chef may have been quite a wild one in his younger years.

Zumbo finished his apprenticeship at Victoire in Balmain where he worked for the next five years. In 2003 he headed to Paris to compete in the Pastry World Cup and stayed on for two months to, “Study and eat cake”.

In 2005, when he was 24 he went through a difficult personal period, which saw him leave Sydney for Cairns. “I was just like a mess. Got engaged really young, got disengaged really young.”

Zumbo’s openness can be quite shocking at first, but his sage reflections and acceptance of his past, make you feel that his previous stumbles were just an organic part of his food-filled destiny.

“I was having really bad anxiety problems, probably from all the stuff I took as a kid …. Then all the stress kind of just came into one. I was just going from doctor to doctor, couldn’t find out anything that was really wrong. So my life hit a low, a big low and I just lived off my family I guess.”

Ten months later, Zumbo returned to Sydney, believing it or Melbourne the only place he would be able to do what he does, and have a market for it. He began working from home supplying a few local cafes and in 2007, after a “kick in the arse from a few mates”, he opened his first patisserie in Balmain.

Zumbo credits his business as getting his life back on track saying, “It was just so much work and my mind went to that and it blocked out everything else and everything else just went.”

Having started off with three staff members, including himself, he now has 56. In four short years, Zumbo has managed to make a mountain out of macaron and the speed at which his business and profile has exploded has been hard to keep up with, even for the 30 year old himself; “It’s been like a fog… you kind of can remember it, but you can’t. It’s just been so fast and there’s been so much going on that you just don’t remember it, cause your brain’s just clicking clumping over.”

Today he runs his cafe in Rozelle as well as three patisseries, one in Balmain, another in Manly and a third in Sydney’s Star Casino which opened at the end of 2011. As far as television goes, in 2011 he appeared in a 6-part documentary series, Zumbo, which aired on SBS along with MasterChef Series 3. On top of all this, he had a book released in 2011 and continues to run a variety of cooking classes.

In describing how he gets all this done, Zumbo says, “I guess just having a great team. I wouldn’t be able to without a great team. It’s one name, but it’s many people behind it.”

When I enquire if he ever worries that the business is growing too fast, he’s quick to reply, “No.” However, the more we talk on the subject, the more he begins to reveal that there are in fact a few underlying concerns, “It does worry me a bit to get too big and lose it, but that’s why I want to keep a limit to six stores here in Sydney and then move interstate with another kitchen. So then each kitchen’s not getting bombarded, not producing 30 stores out of one kitchen, which is just crazy, you know. I never want that because I’ll lose the boutiqueness, I’ll lose what I can do.”

Throughout the interview Zumbo seems to find it hard to concentrate on any one topic at a time. You can almost see his mind flicking between thoughts trying to hold on to one long enough before it pops like a bubble gliding through the air and disappears forever. It’s at this point that I wonder how the creative genius in front of me operates in the business side of his business. “I don’t get too involved. I mean, I know all about it kind of thing, like I don’t know how to do bank recs and all that, but I know what’s going on and how much money is in the bank.”

And when asked if he ever has to sacrifice creativity for commerce he laments, “Yeah, totally. You’ve got to be very smart when you’re creating, because anyone can create a crazy cake you know, but is it viable?”

Among Zumbo’s many goals, he is keen to raise the profile of the pastry industry in Australia stating, “I want it to be a passionate, bigger, more cultural, tighter industry.” Then there’s his desire to create a sweet wonderland, “It’s kind of like chasing dreams you know, you got to have a dream. I have a dream and my dream is to caramalise the nation.” Though inspired by this statement, I’m a little confused to its actual meaning, but Zumbo is eager to elaborate: “It’s pretty much putting pastry into another dimension in Australia. It’s getting people to stop buying finger buns, cream buns and all that crap shit …. It’s just to open their eyes to what it is – it’s such an artistic, fantasy sort of industry. And it’s also nurturing the young pastry chefs when they’re coming up. They’re the future and if we don’t bring them up now, we’ll never caramalise the nation.”

In asking his Operations Manger, Charlie Gosselin what he see as Zumbo’s appeal he says, “He creates something different and sweet. It’s fun and it brings smiles to people’s faces.” And I guess it’s as simple as that.

With future plans that include everything from heading interstate to overseas, to starting a professional industry magazine, cookware line and even mention of a hotel, it appears nothing’s off limits in Zumbo’s mind.

And whether it’s the sugar high or Zumbo’s relentless ambition that keep his brand and business driving forward, it’s kind of nice to know that there’s someone out there, so intent on making the world a little sweeter.

New year, new you… but is it all really necessary?

On the cusp of every new year comes the considerations of how, where and with whom will you be welcoming in this New Year. This year that is bound to be better than the last and will be the year when things really happen for you. That’s right, 2012 is going to be your year. So it’s only right that you should greet it in a style that’s James Bond meets Kate Moss. I’m talking summer, champagne, poolside, bikinis, lavish debauchery, sunglasses at night, well okay, maybe just the champagne.

And we secretly hope that when that clock strikes twelve all of 2011’s sins, stresses and struggles will be wiped out and we’ll all receive a fresh start, a clean slate, a second chance… Call it what you will, but there’s something quite seducing about the idea of a new beginning, and the hope, uncertainty and anticipation of what lies ahead.

And there always seems to be more expectations on this one night of the year than Barack Obama has had on him during his first year in office. And without playing the cynical party pooper in my experience, more often than not, this one night can be the biggest anti-climax of the entire year.

Generally the night revolves around crowds, lines, outrageous waiting times for bathrooms and cabs, overpriced drinks and cover charges and every man out for himself. In short, it’s a sh*t fight. And we haven’t even talked about getting home yet. In my opinion, this is the one night of the year where you need to be strategic i.e. you need to have a plan or you need to stay home.

But the high hopes don’t stop with the new years eve festivities. Each year I have higher expectations than Dickens’ Pip of what the year ahead will bring and where I will find myself at the end of it. I often wonder if I’m not setting myself up for a fall greater than Charlie Sheen. I mean, I wonder if last new years eve he ever considered that 2011 was going to be the year his life fell apart, that he made headlines around the world while completely off his head and quit the job that made him the highest paid actor on TV.

I think not.

The majority of us look forward to the coming year, with a sanguine outlook that things will be better, or at the very least remain the same.

Leading up to and throughout the New Year’s period, it’s likely that you will be asked what your resolution is. Each year I wonder whether it’s even worth verbalising to the world, or if it’s better to just keep it to myself and lessen the impact of the inevitable fall that it will bring when I don’t loose those three kilos, commit myself to regular charity work or just be a better person in general.

This year, however I’ve decided not only to lower my expectations of the coming year but to go down the more practical resolution route and resolve to claim my tax back from my time working in the UK. I’ve been back in Australia for over four years now and just haven’t seemed to get around to doing it, though it’s one of those things that regularly plays on my mind and one job I’m keen to wipe off my ‘to do’ list.

So there it is, no outrageous statements, no unrealistic ambitions, no great expectations. Simply one resolution and one year to achieve it, piece of cake right? Well I’ll let you know this time next year.

What are your thoughts on New Year’s resolutions and expectations? Yay or nay?

Hello world!

Hope you are well!

As you can see, today is my first day on WordPress.

I’ve started this blog as a way to collate and store my written work – most of it’s articles I have written either for uni (I’m currently studying a postgrad course in Creative Writing) or for a few different publications I have done work for.

Occasionally I’ll post some of my own musings on life’s mysterious ways, more for my own entertainment than anyone else’s… but humour me if you will. And feel free to comment on, laugh at, or take umbrage with anything I write.

After all, that’s the whole point of putting it out there, right?

Ciao for now. x

Reality TV killed the brain of me

Alright. I admit it. I have a serious problem. I’m obsessed with the drama, hooked by the outrageous lifestyles and in awe of the lack of personal shame. I have to have it almost every night and when I’m not reveling in delight from its consumption, I’m thinking about where the next hit will come from.

That’s right, my name is Emily and I’m addicted to reality television in all its forms and carnations. With it’s blatant disregard for high-brow culture or any type of intellectual stimulation, I know it can’t be good for me, but I just can’t seem to stop. And what started out as innocent indulgence and easy watching, has over the past four years, spiraled into glutinous excess of mind-numbing, dumbed-down viewing. I now find myself in a situation where my addiction is now not only taking up valuable time spent from family, friends and study, but more frightening still, I’ve come to believe my addiction to reality TV is actually making me stupider. Somebody call Dr Phil. Stat.

I guess I have always been predisposed to fall victim to such paralysing health conditions. Looking back, perhaps the signs were there all along. As a kid I would spend hours and hours watching shows like Young Talent Time and Rage, and as I moved into my teens it was shallow soap operas like Home and Away, Dawson’s Creek or Beverly Hills 90210. But when I reached my twenties, Big Brother simultaneously reached the sliver screen. Having not initially warmed to the idea of watching everyday people repeatedly make fools of themselves on national TV, it wasn’t till a few years later when I accidentally stumbled across Laguna Beach that my love affair really began. I mean these kids, so young, so tanned, so unaware of poverty or life outside of California with such bright white teeth. Now this was something I could really get into.

And so it began. It started out slow, maybe one night a week, though I should have known there was something amiss when right from the get go, I was quite secretive about my new habit. I didn’t want people to know about it and would make up excuses to leave the pub early just to make sure I was home in time to watch the love triangle between LC, Kristin and Steve unfold. But when the weekend marathon sessions started, the cognitive activity quickly ceased. And from Laguna Beach there was a natural progression to The Hills, and from there it was a slippery slope to The Simple Life, The Girls Next Door, Keeping Up with The Kardashians, The City, Bromance, Tori & Dean Home Sweet Hollywood, America’s Next Top Model, Project Runway, Models of the Runway, The Rachel Zoe Project, X Factor, So You Think You Can Dance, American (and Australian) Idol, Miami Social, Masterchef and as embarrassing as it is, the list goes on. Did I mention Girlicious? OMG right now.

But it was one morning recently when I was eating breakfast and came across an episode of The Real Housewives of Atlanta that I just couldn’t bring myself to turn off and which subsequently made me late for work, that it really occurred to me that I may have a real problem on my hands. (In my weak defence, Kim was recording a pop song called Don’t be Tardy for the Party with Kandi while wearing some type of ridiculous milk-maid’s outfit. Like most reality TV, it was as disturbing as it was entertaining.)

It was around this same period that I also realised that I didn’t know the name of our nation’s health minister, but could roll off the name of every Kardashian family member plus all their current and ex boyfriends without even thinking. Chemical imbalance? If only. Not only that, but my half read copy of Wuthering Heights seemed to keep saying to me each time I chose NYC Prep over it, “If you paid as much attention to me as you do to Spencer Pratt’s crystal collection, you’d be a lot smarter right now, maybe even smarter than a fifth grader.” And touche Emily Bronte, perhaps your mocking book has a point after all.

So what now? Well they say that admitting you have a problem is the first step, the second as far as I can gather is saying no to Toddlers & Tiaras and yes to Q&A. I can’t say I’m ready to go cold turkey yet, but with The Hills having just wrapped up for good this season, it seems like a good time to cut back my intake, lest I end up like Heidi Montag – past the point of salvation and literally unrecognisable to family and friends. So the ultimate goal is to one day not know who Lauren Conrad is dating and to understand what the hell happened to K Rudd and his prime ministership. And my strategy involves baby steps of intake reduction, till one day I’m reality free, more informed and maybe just a little bit smarter for it. Fingers crossed…