Three Men and a Map

A trio of blokes with a Weekend to spare sample the treats of Melbourne

From our cafe in Centre Place we watch a drizzling Friday begin. Cafes with wide open fronts line both sides of the alley. On this chilly morning, the espresso machines are puffing like geysers.

Mike, Carlos and I have arrived for a long weekend, having wedged open a crack in our corporate schedules. Our agenda is simple: sensory leisure.

After a few coffees to quench our jet lag, we head off, snaking our way between the clusters of hip breakfast locals spilling out onto the pavers.

Twenty minutes later I am in a lounge chair with my head tilted back. Brown syrupy liquid oozes onto my tongue. It’s creamy and rich and sweet and it has an earthy fragrance. I swirl it around my mouth and feel the tingle of chilli. Mere drinking does not do it justice. I want to bathe in it. This is the ultimate hot chocolate.

In the corner of an unassuming arcade we have stumbled upon a small shop called Chokolait. Here you can drink cocoa from Uganda, Ecuador, Costa Rica, Papua New Guinea, Peru and Venezuela.

“There has been a growing interest in chocolate,” the grizzly man behind the counter says. “The market has gone like this.” His hand spears through the air on a sharp incline.

“This is the first hot chocolate I’ve ever had,” Mike reveals.

Carlos breaks the silence. “You know what? Let’s call this a Chocolate Moment.”

We are staying in a historic building that resonates with memories of early Melbourne. Our two-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment features high ceilings, wooden floors, thick stone walls, large windows overlooking Flinders Lane - and a kitchen.

Carlos has been planning for weeks to cook us his favourite dish - a Portuguese cod dinner.

We head to Victoria Markets. The cod needs 24 hours to desalinate, so to schedule the meal into our long weekend we need to get in early.

The meat and deli section is a bustling racetrack with stalls clustered in the centre and lining the perimeter. The stall holders squeeze their faces between the swinging meats and the condiments piled onto the counters, shouting mock insults at each other as they compete for buyers’ dollars. Kangaroo and vecchiet salami vie for attention with South African biltong, smoked poultry, smoked fish, delicate tenderloin cuts, rump steak and pickled octopus. Scampi crawl over each other and crayfish flail about, bound by string.

Carlos buys two bags of cod.

From vegetable stalls crowded with colour we buy smooth pale potatoes and green beans, the kind of green that inspires you to eat healthily for the rest of your life.

Back at the apartment Carlos carefully places the cod in a bowl of fresh water in the fridge.

Mike is looking at a map. He has discovered a place called Ofuro Ya, a bath house where you can wash, soak and steam Japanese style, and then indulge in a Shiatsu massage.

“It’s a ten-minute walk,” he announces.

Forty minutes later, we still have two blocks to go.

Carlos is apprehensive. It’s his first massage. He’s worried that his neck will end up like a corkscrew. We tell him that Shiatsu is delivered by trained Japanese masseuses who are experts in the art of applying thumb pressure to energy points on the body.

We arrive to find a slightly tarnished little place that could do with a bath itself. A banner fixed to the wall announces ‘Ofuro Ya 13 ANNIVERSARY 2012’.

Our host instructs us how to wash Japanese style. Sitting on low plastic stools surrounded by a gentle mist we soap ourselves, an abrasive pore-cleansing hand towel in one hand and a shower head in the other. Then, our skin somewhat pinker, we sink up to our necks in a prickly hot spa. It feels luxurious.

Other men move about the spa area. One carries a strategically placed water bottle while another takes the opportunity to place himself on display. Still others relax, unconcerned about their nudity.

Dressed in Japanese bathrobes we climb to the top floor in anticipation of our massages. We are greeted by our three masseuses - who are definitely not Japanese.

In the half light I am guided to a mattress. I close my eyes. Expert thumbs press keenly into my shoulders and neck. My muscles are still tingling from the spa. A long breath escapes me.

The next thing I know, I am alone. In a slightly awkward moment, I’m not sure if my massage is complete. After about five minutes I head downstairs.

Carlos is getting changed. “Very satisfying,” he grins. “You?”

“Fantastic. What I remember. I must have fallen asleep.”

The following day we queue at Flinders Station for tickets to St Kilda.

Stations around the world serve as catchments for people from all walks of life. An old man in a corner leans on a walking stick. A bent over Chinese couple walk linked together for support. High heels clicketty-clack on the terrazzo. The Indian flower seller stares absently into the crowd rushing by.

On St Kilda’s main shopping strip we are pulled to a stop outside Café 95. In the window is what appears to be a series of glass containers from a laboratory, heating water over a small bright orange flame.

“It’s siphon coffee,” the barista informs us.

Siphon coffee is a particularly sensorial experience. Grind the coffee. Add to the top vessel. Breathe in the aroma. Fill with water. Apply the heat source. Wait for a happy gurgling sound. Disable the heat. Watch gravity pull water through the grind.

Smell. Mmm.

Pour. Aahh.

Taste. More mmm.

The barista informs us that this particular brew has a long extraction process. It has, we are told, more flavonoids than wine. I’m not sure what flavonoids are, but it sounds impressive.

On the way back to the city centre our tram rumbles over the Yarra River. Carlos and I decide to hire bikes to ride along the south bank.

The wide boulevard is pulsating with life. People commune at cafes and restaurants, congregate in front of street performers, study the street art and gape at huge balls of orange flame escaping from a large granite plinth into the air with a gushing sound.

Melbourne is a people centric city whose heartbeat pulses in the spaces between the buildings. I am reminded of the quote, ‘We create our cities, then our cities create us’.

Pedalling under one of the bridges, my eye is caught by movement above. Climbing upwards is a huddle of teenage boys. They scramble onto large concrete beams. Then, one by one, they swing around to cling precariously to the outside supports of the bridge. Then begins a tentative shuffle to the other side above the brown fast flowing river.

“Did you do that sort of thing?” I ask Carlos. He just grins, watching.

I do a couple of shaky figures of eight and then speed off in front of him.

Mike is keen to see if we can score a table at MoVida for dinner. We’ve heard this is the place for tapas.

Despite the three-month waiting list we are lucky to be able to squeeze in at the wooden bar. Thomas, our waiter, guides us with confidence through the list of pretentiously Spanish sounding names, such as ‘Sestas Asadas con Jurez’.

When our first tapa arrives, Thomas leans towards us. “This, gentlemen, is hand filleted anchovy on a crouton base, topped with smoked tomato sorbet and dotted with capers.”

We nod appreciatively.

I take my first bite. There is a rush of sensations. The cooling sorbet, the rich oily anchovy and the sprightly capers. It is finished all too quickly.

Then there is the Caballa Ahumado: a smoky mackerel covered in a melting Gazpacho Sorbet and sprinkled with pine nuts.

And the ice cream, a delicious creamy mixture with olive oil and a pinch of edgy sea salt.

On the back of our receipt, Thomas scribbles Melbourne’s must-eat places, which I tuck into my journal for future reference.

The next morning we taxi out of the city towards the airport. I chat to the driver. He tells me he came to Melbourne when he was 18, looking for a better life. That was thirty years ago.

“Was it a good choice?” I ask.

“Oh, yeah. Great city, great city,” he says, slapping the steering wheel. He starts humming a Bollywood tune. He is delighted when I join in.

From the back seat a voice interrupts our performance.

“Oh, shit! We forgot the cod!”

End