Breakfast in Newtown

Something I really like about Sydney is the breakfast culture. As so many other things, we don't have this in my old country. In Newtown, where I live, every Saturday morning is great! It's usually sunny, and heaps of people go out to eat breakfast. There is also a small market in front of the Town Hall where people come to mostly sell the stuff they don't need any more, although you can sometimes see belly dancers, magicians, and of course, Goths.

Pass the market, you enter the main part of King Street where most of the restaurants are. I wanted to have a breakfast, and one of my usual places, Corelli's was full, so I went on, and found a seat in this place I haven't been before. I have to say, staff was really professional, great service, great coffee, and while I was sipping it, I was waiting for my great breakfast. One of fairly standard orders in Newtown is Big Brekkie, a plate of poached eggs, grilled mushrooms, hash-browns, baked beans, sausages, and omnipresent bacon and salad or variations thereof.

mmmm, breakfast!

It finally arrived, and it was big, all right! Everything looked perfect, and tasty too. The eggs perfectly poached, several pieces of perfectly toasted toast, beans baked to perfection, grilled mushrooms with oregano, bacon and sausages crispy as it should be, and plenty of butter on the side. I was chewing happily when I encountered an unfortunate resident of the baked beans. A small cockroach was obviously drowned [if not cooked] in the beans.

What? I don't remember ordering extra proteins!

So, there were two things I could do. I could stop eating, which wouldn't make much of a difference since I was already half the way through my plate, or, I could pretend nothing happened and continue with my breakfast.

I carefully placed the cockroach carcass on the side of the plate, and proceeded eating other animals' carcasses. I have to admit the breakfast did not taste as good as it originally did, but I was really hungry and it was good enough, so I finished with the meat, and left the tainted beans on the plate.

A waiter came and asked if I was happy with my meal. I told him yes, but I would be happier without this extra serving. I also asked him to warn the cook to be more careful for the sake of other, less sensitive patrons. He looked honestly shocked. I don't know if it was because of the roach in their food, or because I ate almost the whole thing despite of it, and was still kind to them.

A minute later, he returned embarrassed and apologising as if he farted during a dramatic pause of the theatre play, and said that the breakfast is on the house. Well, I said, thank you, fair enough. He also gave me another coffee for free and then we parted ways.

This little episode will certainly not diminish my passion for Saturday breakfasts, but will definitely make me think about where do I eat them.

A new kind of hustler

The other day I went for a lunch break. I was really hungry, and was kind of late for lunch, so I was in quite a hurry. As soon as I left the office building, just a few steps outside, I saw this guy, a Sikh, looking, no, fixating on me. I averted my eyes but he stopped me by my arm, and said:

- Excuse me sir, do you have a minute?

He held a small notebook in his hand and I thought he wanted to ask for directions, so I said, sure, tell me.

- I'm sorry sir, but I looked in your eyes, and I can see that you are a kind person.

There we go, I thought...

- I should introduce myself, he said, I'm Birdjangawandharangharamadarikanwi [or something], and I am from India...

Yes, I thought, I figured that much...

...and I would like to tell you a few things about YOURSELF if you don't mind.

This got my attention. Normally the people who approach you on the street in Sydney are beggars, middle-aged yuppies asking for a cigarette because-they-quit-smoking-you-know, and-this-is-just-one-because-I-had-a-very-bad-day-at-work, or tourists asking for directions.

- No, I'd like to hear what you have to say, I said, please continue.

- I'm sorry sir, he went on, but I'm from India, Kashmir [again] and I studied yoga with Great Master Rambamputrarashiwanimanekarandaharghawa [or something], and I see it there [pointing at my bald forehead] that you shine a light.

Wow, I thought, my sweaty brow in Sydney sun, no wonder...

- If you allow, I will tell you that you have three fortunate things coming up for you in January, but don't under ANY circumstances cut your hair or nails on Tuesdays. Please remember this sir, it is very important, DO NOT cut your hair or nails on Tuesdays, any Tuesdays.

- Ok, ok, said I, I won't, can we please go on?

- I'm sorry sir, can I ask you what is your name?

I told him my name, he tried to write it down in his little black notebook.

- ...and what is your job, sir?

I told him what my job was. He could barely fit it into his notebook.

- Okay, sir, now, do you have a favourite colour?

Red, I said, he wrote it down.

- And what is your favourite number?

Ehhh, gee, let me think... ummm, maybe... 26?

He wrote it down. Then he ripped out the paper with RED 26 on it, squashed it into a ball, stuffed it in my palm and closed my hand into a fist, and said.

- Please sir, hold on to this for a while, hold tight, don't let go...

Then he went on again how he is a yogi and knows this stuff, and was telling me things I wanted to hear about money and happiness. Then he said:

- Ok sir, now, take this paper i gave you and do like this [he took my paper with three fingers, put it on the back of his head, then on his forehead, and then blew in it.]

In this very moment, a strange thing happened. A yuppie approached us carrying a huge portfolio, and said:

- Sorry mate, can I buy a ciggy out of ya?

- Sure, I said, here you go.

- Oh, cheers, thanks mate, good on ya, see I quit smoking but I've had a very rough day....

Mr Birdjangawandharangharamadarikanwi was not very happy with his interruption, and he kind of turned his back on him, throwing him occasional spiteful look over his shoulder. The yuppie understood this body language and scuffed away with his clumsy portfolio.

"I've had a very bad day at the office"

Regaining his composure, Mr Birdjangawandharangharamadarikanwi continued. He gave me the paper and I repeated his moves.

- Now, please sir, open the paper and read it.

Before I opened it, I knew it was going to read RED 26. I opened it, and it was true, RED 26, clearly.

Ok, I asked, very good, how do you know his stuff?

- I'm sorry sir, but I'm from India, Kashmir, you know about Kashmir? And I studied yoga with Great Master Rambamputrarashiwanimanekarandaharghawa [or something], and I can tell you much more, for a small fee.

Oh, there we are, I thought, at last...

He carefully looked around and conspiratorially opened his little black notebook. There was a small white card there. It read:

100$ 200$ 300$
POOR MIDDLE RICH

WOW, I thought, you stop a guy in the street and you ask him for NO LESS THAN 100 BUCKS!!!! This is a whole new kind of hustler, I thought.

- I'm sorry sir, he said, but you're not poor, I believe the middle should do fine.

- Nice, I said, you stop me in the street, show me a magic trick and ask me to pay you 200$, do I look like an American housewife?

I assure you, my hair is nowhere near that thick.

- Sir, please, I am from India, Kashmir, this is not too much for you to pay.

- Yeah, thanks for the trick mate, but I'm not paying you 200$.

He was now looking rather displeased, murmured something and then left. I was left standing amazed in sudden realisation that the yuppie did not pay me for the cigarette as he said he would.