A night in Pyrmont

Friday, September 28th. 5-ish.

I'm running across Sydney to meet up with Harry and running late, when I learn through my iPhone that a client's needs have changed. They now want two people on the project next week, not two weeks from now as originally planned.

I stand on the street outside the Pyrmont Bridge Hotel pub simultaneously tapping away at my phone and keeping an eye for Harry. I now need to arrange travel to Brisbane for Tuesday. Laptops need to be ordered. Where is the software? How can we get the contracts in place? I pace across with my head down or on the phone calling candidates we had in the pipe.

It is frustrating trying to get all of this information through on a phone where email history is limited, filling in forms or reading documents a major challenge. It's like working through the keyhole in a door.

Luckily Harry is running late. By the time he arrives and I explain about the change, and I only need to send one more email to feel I'm free for dinner.

 

The first floor room of the Pyrmont Bridge Hotel pub is a true working man's watering hole. A bar oval in the middle of the room is surrounded by open space and small shelves just big enough to hold a glass and a small plate. I'm reminded of the Toronto pubs I frequented in my twenties, such as The Cameron Hotel.

From here, Harry and I head to a small restaurant nearby, Cafe XXII. Tucked in century old cottage, with rough, exposed stone walls. The cafe has three wee rooms connected by a narrow passage. I love how you have to walk through a one-car parking garage and storage room to get to the one-room restroom. The menu blends French and Italian, as all European style cafes do here. Sometimes even the title of the restaurant will combine the two languages.

After dinner, we skip across the street a a very French pattiserie where I learn about the Australian cake, the Lamington. A block of chocolate sponginess, coated in coconut and stuffed with jam. It is excellent even if Harry says the traditional cake usually has more jam.

Harry notes that I'm not taking pictures of my food, grabs my camera and snaps a pic.

As the rain pours downstairs, we discuss the big tour Harry has planned for me the next day. We're touring The Rocks. Harry has a complete itinerary lined up, from the sounds which by the end I will be full of history, beers of various varieties and foods of Australian origin.