Category Archives: Melbourne

Romantic Melbourne: Adelphi, Dessert Hotel

The Adelphi Hotel on Flinders Lane, Melbourne, has been transformed into a Dessert Hotel! Perhaps the world’s only one! That’s something new to be famous for, alongside its iconic swimming pool that overhangs the street.

The new Adelphi’s focus is to offer an ‘indulgent sensory experiences’ to guests and diners, and it’s kicking off that theme with its gorgeous new dessert bar and menu. There are a few savoury snacks for those without a sweet tooth (or with diabetes!) but otherwise it offers lush, luscious and complex desserts, dessert cocktails, dessert wines and pretty much is a sugar high waiting to happen.

Christy Angwidjaja is the head chef for the hotel’s Om Nom restaurant and along with Pierrick Boyer, the expertise chef at that restaurant, is responsible for the inventive, subtle and Oh. My. God. Amazing! menu.

Which included macaron trees at the launch. I kid you not. Macaron. Trees. Also little glasses of the tiniest, classiest trifles you ever did see, and wee chocolate mousses in pastry cases topped by jellied coffee and a gold flake. Well, if I’m going to die of sugar overdose, I might as well go out in style, right?

I was also captivated by the little slider burgers. They are pinned together with these little sauce-syringes. You squeeze the bulbous end and sauce is injected into your burger. It reduces mess and, better still, it’s an invitation for grown adults to play with their food!

The launch also showcased the bar’s fabulous dessert cocktails, including a lemon meringue cocktail and a sort of very alcoholic banana smoothie. Mmmmm. Talk about going out in style. I did rather incautiously invite the bartender who invented these things to come and live at our house. He wisely declined, whether for his sake or my own is not clear.

The Adelphi’s cafe in the foyer has a fun, 60s-ish ambience, and is a lovely place for an indulgent pre-show, after-dinner or for-the-hell-of-it treat. A high tea is on offer too. When I get a chance to try it out, I’ll report on it so you know what to expect when you take your honey (or your bestie) along for a culinary good time.

Visit the Adelphi Hotel’s website

Do you know of a romantic Melbourne experience? Let me know and I will selflessly explore it. SELFLESSLY.

Lost and Found 6: Miracles

Montreal Sept 2013The smashed crutch was found in Montreal, at the seedier end of Chinatown. The number of pieces indicated a particularly vehement dislike of the thing.

The popular image of a faith-healed cripple, tossing a walking aid jubilantly in the air as they skipped chirpily from the scene of their salvation was clearly inaccurate. The image conjured by this wreckage of a crutch was more one of vindictive rage. Fuck you, crutch, the pieces said, I always hated you. Fuck off and never come back.

If it hadn’t been for Rosy the Bag Lady, the whole shards-of-crutch incident might have gone unnoticed. But she told someone about the man she’d seen, hobbling along on one crutch. About the angelic little child who had appeared out of nowhere and held hands out to the man. The man had fallen to the ground with a cry, and the child had petted his legs, lifted the crutch, snapped it in two and fled, giggling, into a mist.

To be fair, the first person she told didn’t believe a word of it, because Rosy the Bag Lady was pretty famous among her set for seeing things. Celine Dion bickering with William Shatner over a poutine, aliens singing French karaoke, Jacques Cartier in a bearskin coat, and talking patchwork cats weren’t the half of it.

But by her twentieth retelling, the story had gained some credence, partly because it was being told in loops all around the streets of Montreal. It had been overheard and retold in a dizzy spiral of rumour and breathless hope from the Parc du Mont-Royal to the coffee houses of Mile End; from the biodome of St Helen’s Island and up and down the banks of the St Lawrence River; whispered in the plain corridors of the underground city and amongst the ripest tomatoes of the Jean-Talon market.

People began to visit the grimy street where the miracle was said to have happened. Flowers were left, and notes thanking god, fate, the stars, the mysteries for kindness given, and begging, of course, for one more, just one, gesture of grace. Someone yarnbombed a nearby lamppost with a colourful offering; graffiti of joy got painted over the corrugated iron and the filthy brick.

And a man came, who limped, and stared down at the pieces of a crutch, painted now with happy acrylic daisies, woven through with plastic ivy and rain-damped wool.  Like all the other visitors to this strange holy site of hope, he brought one question and left with new ones, although his new questions were unique.

If that little shit hadn’t tried to mug me, was his question, and broken my bloody crutch, and if I hadn’t finished the job on his thieving skull, would he have staggered off and fallen off the overpass onto the freeway? And does this mean I got away with murder?

Still and all, he gave thanks, and limped away on his newly healed broken ankle, and swore to live a better life.