The Sun-Herald

Saturday, September 29, 2007

Giving girls a bad name

This week I've been disillusioned by my gender. Maybe I've had too much exposure to the sorry tale of serially-humiliated Simone Callahan/Warne, or it could be the result of hearing a friend protest - yet again - that she can redeem her charmless villain of a boyfriend. Perhaps it's another girlfriend's workplace battle against a scheming, undermining female colleague to whom the word 'sisterhood' means something to do with convents. All of the above serve to remind even the most ardent feminist that we're all too capable, all too often, of being our own worst enemies.

Even science is conspiring to confirm our shortcomings as a sex. According to a study by Edinburgh University's Timothy Bates, we're dumber than men. His new research shows there are twice as many males as females in the UK's most intelligent two percent of the population. And when you see the likes of Kate Moss selecting mess-in-a-vest Pete Doherty over every other straight male on the planet, and my bad boy-loving buddy, (whose current flame makes Doherty look like Gandhi), it's hard not to wonder if we really are the sillier sex.
On closer inspection, the Bates study is pretty weak: an all-male team, a small sample, and he's talking solely about academic achievement in times when we know there are many other ways to define intelligence. It's also worth noting that he found twice as many males as females in the country's dumbest two percent - which, if the UK is anything like Australia, accounts for the country's major decision makers.
More sobering is research from Dr Andrew Clark at Bristol University, which claims to prove once again that women are hopelessly susceptible to bad boys. His study says the biggest rogues flirt harder and turn on the charm to hide their inner bastard - and we're suckers for it.
No surprise there. Jane Austen knew it centuries ago when she wrote all her heroes as taciturn, surly introverts and her villains as eloquent, sweet-talking peacocks.
And yet we fall for it. Worse yet - we see through it and still fall for it. The major flaw in this study is that there's actually no need at all for bad boys to conceal their black hearts with pretty words, because bad is lady-catnip. Always has been. Show us a guy with cloven hooves who leaves a whiff of sulphur behind him, and we're hooked. Most of us grow out of it eventually, but some never do. This is why Shane Warne will never run out of eager bedfellows. It isn't just the money that lures these women - it's the incorrigibility of the man, the naughty little lost boy in a grown-up body and the possibility that you'll be the one who can fix his flawed soul.
I do know men who fall for mean women, but they number a fraction of their female counterparts. The theories about why we do it are endless but my favourite explanation is that one of our sex's greatest attributes is to blame. Generally, women are the creators, the fixer-uppers, the ones who make things better. It's just that we're prone to wasing these powers trying to improve irreparable men.
In that giant gap between what a man is and what we'd prefer him to be lies confusion, disappointment and devastation. The sooner we learn that, the better. Then we can focus on changing something easier and more useful, like the world.

• by Amy Cooper at 05:20 PM
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Saturday, September 22, 2007

Give our bar stars a stage

One glance around the room at this week's 7th Annual Bar Awards illustrated the current debate about Sydney's bar scene better than any of the rhetoric: the tables filled with Melbourne bar workers were a study in eclecticism and self expression, each a quirky little planet inhabited by the eccentric, the exotic as well as the understated.

And while the Sydney tables - housing some of my favourite people in the world, I hasten to add - were burgeoning with expertise, they just couldn't match the diversity of our southern cousins.
I'm such a critic of Melbourne, its dingy weather and up-itself attitude that I'm even known to the tourism authorities there. Every time I diss Melbourne in print I receive sacks of hate mail from its resident black-clad miserygutses along with endless warnings never to darken their doorway again. So it infuriates me that there's one argument with them I can never win: they can claim irrefutably that their bar scene wees all over ours. Until we change our liquor licensing laws, it always will.
I wholeheartedly agree with fellow blogger Dom Knight, Clover Moore and the armies of others who desperately want to see the NSW liquor laws liberalised. The arguments in favour are so compelling that only a yob who frequents Sydney's pokie palaces and AHA boss John Thorpe could possibly disagree. In fact to a dedicated drinker I reckon the freedom to enjoy a diverse bar culture which includes smaller, character establishments is more than just a matter of where you buy your beer: it's a human rights issue.
The case for liquor law reform has already been expressed eloquently by Dom and others so I won't repeat it here, but the Bar Awards provided even more evidence in support.
What struck me most as I watched Sydney bartenders and bar owners beat off competition from all other states to collect 10 of the 20 national awards was that despite its limitations, the hospitality industry here boasts an embarrassment of talent.
We have smart, passionate operators such as David Evans and Justin Hemmes, who've changed the landscape of Sydney nightlife over the last decade. Last week I toured the site of Justin's new George Street development, Ivy, and when you witness the scope of the project, with its laneways, poolside bar and boutiques, you can't help but be infected by its creator's enthusiasm. It's an extraordinary concept set to generate extra employment, tourism and recognition for Sydney, and seeing Justin bounding round his building site and describing how it will all look with the excitement of a big kid, I wanted to march straight to the Rocks police station and give the plods a shake.
Ivy is a daring, innovative idea and the attempts to block its licence are another example of how frustrating it is is for anyone trying to achieve anything different and creative in the Sydney bar industry.
Bartenders in this town lead the world in the development of mixology as a respected profession and educators such as Mikey Enright and Grant Collins of the Hilton's Zeta Bar, Ben Davidson, bartender of the year and Pernod Ricard brand ambassador, and Mark Ward of Hugo's and Yakusan travel the globe helping to establish new bars and train staff in major cities. Their expertise is in demand.
Behind our bars are skilled mixers such as Charlie Ainsbury from the Bayswater Brasserie, who won this year's Bartender of the Year. I defy anyone to find a better Martini than one mixed by Charlie or his boss Lenny Opai. The Bays holds its own against the best bars in London and New York; it's upscale without being pretentious and the staff are walking drink encyclopedias. What they don't know about alcohol and its lore isn't even worth asking about.
Round the corner on Kellett Street there's Aperitif, with its inspired, all-European wine list and late-night tapas menu. Owner Charles Leong has created exactly the sort of sophisticated, innovative retreat we'd see more of if the licensing laws were improved. So have Andreas Puhar and Terence Rego at their intimate wine bar and bistro, De Vine, on the corner of Market Street and Clarence Street.
These people are bar people first, businessmen second, unlike some of the faceless consortiums who own large chunks of the pokie palace empire, and there are many more like them pouring your drinks in bars all over town. Chat to these passionate experts and they'll tell you about new bars they'd love to open in Sydney - cool, quirky, accessible locals with personality and class. But until the laws are changed, these dream bars will remain just that - a dream.
Please, if you haven't already, add your voice to the growing clamour of those who want good sense to prevail, and campaign for drinkers' choice. There's a petition for liquor licence reform online, or if you're on Facebook, join the group We Want Funky Little Pubs in Sydney - every gesture helps.
Meanwhile, peruse the list of Bar Awards winners below and allow yourself a glimmer of pride that at least we have the talent - we just need more stages to showcase it. If the laws were changed, maybe every winner on this list could be from Sydney.

7th Annual Bar Awards Winners:

Bartender of the Year

Winner: Charles Ainsbury, Bayswater Brasserie, Sydney

2nd Place: Jared Plummer, Hugos Bar Pizza, Sydney

3rd Place: Tim Wastell, Acqua e Vino, Melbourne

Bar of the Year
Golden Monkey, Melbourne

Bar Team of the Year
Hugo's Bar Pizza, Sydney

Cocktail Bar of the Year
Murmur, Melbourne

Cocktail List of the Year
The Lincoln, Sydney

Hotel of the Year
Bungalow 8 & the loft, Sydney

New Hotel of the Year
Shore Club, Sydney

Best New Venue Design
Will & Toby's Darlinghurst, Sydney

Bar Manager of the Year
Mathew Hewitt, The Bowery, Brisbane

Registered Club of the Year
Bondi Icebergs, Sydney

Bar Operator of the Year (Multiple Venues)
The Bickle Family - Family, Press Club, Empire Hotel, Brisbane

Bar Operator of the Year (Single Venue)
Andrew McDowell, Crown & Sceptre, Adelaide

Best Music Offering
Elsewhere, Surfers Paradise

Best Specialty Beer Venue
Cookie, Melbourne

New Bar of the Year
The Lark, Brisbane

Nightclub of the Year
Hugo's Lounge & Skyy Bar, Sydney

New Nightclub of the Year
Favela, Sydney

Best Drinks Selection
Bayswater Brasserie, Sydney

Best Bar Food Selection
The Lark, Brisbane

Wine Bar of the Year
Acqua e Vino, Melbourne

• by Amy Cooper at 05:14 PM
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Friday, September 14, 2007

Honey, I'm home

I like arriving back in Sydney, especially when the sky is blue and you're descending from the west. If you don't believe you're lucky to live here, try landing in London in freezing February when the days are about four hours long and you switch on the TV and someone's just topped themselves on Eastenders. No contest.

All the same, it was best to leave for a while. "They say when you're tired of Sydney, you're tired of life," said a friend. "That's London," I replied. "They say when you're tired of Sydney you should go to Melbourne and then immediately you will not be tired of Sydney anymore."
But he was right in one way; I needed a break to reinvigorate my party spirit, which had dwindled so much I was even finding sadness in tiki cocktails. I needed to renew my passion for this city.
After some downtime in south-west China during which I didn't see the inside of a bar for days, I fetched up in Bangkok, where I found myself at a Thai movie star's birthday party and taking part in the host's choice of entertainment, a breath-holding contest. I hope it will make you proud to know that I lost only narrowly to the Argentinian ambassador (mindful of the greater geopolitical picture, I thought it best to let him win).
I was impressed. There was a Thai Elvis and a kaleidoscope of eccentrics lounging on floor cushions. It made some of our Sydney parties look like Temperance Society AGMs.
I toured the city's hip bars. It was interesting to see how they deal with their licensing laws, which are almost as daft as ours; most of their prestige bars are housed in hotels so they can open later and endure less meddling from the fun police. They're cool and quirky and can teach us some lessons about how to make the most of our rooftops, but it's hard to find a decently mixed mojito. I began to long for the Bayswater Brasserie, and at last knew it was time to come home.
Except it wasn't a good time at all, because Sydney had been transformed by APEC into a large, unfriendly nightclub with too many roped-off VIP areas and rude bouncers in blue uniforms manhandling North Shore accountants. And just as in bad nightclubs, the bosses declared afterwards that the shenanigans had all been a huge success and no-one else could do it better. It was all terribly dispiriting.
Thankfully, the week went on to remind me that our home by the harbour hasn't lost its unique mojo. Here's why:

TUESDAY: Sydney is a tart with a heart
Tuesday night In Redfern and the city's conscience is on display at the opening of Devils in Paradise at the Damian Minton Gallery, where hundreds turn out to see nine eminent artists' depictions of North East Tasmania, location of the proposed Gunns pulp mill. Senator Bob Brown's passionate speech about protecting the area is applauded by the crowd, which includes contributors Reg Mombassa, Euan McLeod and Lucy Culliton. Sponsors World Expeditions, a painstakingly eco-friendly travel company, threw a party to match any of the more typical glitz-fests surrounding it in the diary.
http://www.damienmintongallery.com.au/
A few kilometres to the east, the Hollywood Uncensored party - first of the week's many at party epicentre Hugo's - is in full swing. A world away from the plight of trees? Well, if you look hard enough, the throngs of tall, bronzed, thin regulars look like a forest of densely planted saplings. Reg and Bob might like that.

WEDNESDAY: no expense is ever spared
It isn't a real Sydney party unless something has been flown in specially from somewhere. Whether it's an army of one-off chairs from Sweden or a particular mushroom grown only on six specific centimetres of ground in the Himalayas, it will find its way through customs and into a party here. On the plane this week - and probably with its own first-class seat - is a Methusalem (that's a Great Dane-sized bottle) of Dom Perignon direct from France for Cartier's Ballon Bleu watch launch. Such unabashed ostentation may horrify our Melbourne cousins, but it's part of this city's defiant, peacock character. And if you don't like it, you can always blame the French.

THURSDAY: the circus never leaves town
Rambutan is a classy, stylish new restaurant with Missoni and Florence Broadhurst interiors. It's European-slick and the food can hold its own with the best. And yet the opening party features a midget waiter hefting a bottle of bubbly as big as him and a topless painted lady. This reminds me that Sydney is like a stripper made good who, even when she's wearing couture, has her scarlet crotchless knickers on underneath. You can shudder or you can laugh, and I can't help laughing.
Rambutan is at 96 Oxford Street

FRIDAY: it's simply beautiful
After deadline I walk my dog Zach beside the harbour, and as always, smile at the view. By day, with its make-up off, this city is a natural, dazzling beauty. Standing here, watching the sky and sea vying to out-blue each other and the sun gilding the yachts, you can't help but forgive Sydney its foibles, its blunders and its contradictions.
What drives me crazy about this place also seduces me anew every time I return. It's a long way from perfect but perfect is for paradise, which I've always suspected is a great holiday destination but a rather boring place to live.

It's good to be back.

• by Amy Cooper at 10:17 PM
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