Butter and pounds: it's all a bit rich
How's that couple in the UK who won £161 million the other day? That's a whole lot of pounds. Yet they'll keep the car and the same house, but might go on a few holidays...
Just as well they were retired, as I don't buy that line that people say they'll continue to work. Yeah, right! Like I'm going to keep slogging it out for some bogan boss who can't believe I still turn up at 9am every single day.
I don't buy that line that money won't change us. Hell yes. Change me, baby. Change me. Bring on the vintage champagne and pool boy, I say. Sort of like that Imperial Leather ad doing the rounds at the moment. That's my style..
One thing I would do would be to continue to eat incessantly around Melbourne. And one place I'd continue to haunt would be Le Traiteur. People, if you haven't eaten there, go immediately. The kitchen churns out fresh baguettes and pastries twice daily, so the cafe is constantly perfumed by the smell of fresh-baked bread - that smell so beloved of real estate agents because it immediately makes us wrap our arms around our (ample) selves, and say, 'I love this place' (and, if it is an Australian house, ' I want to spend the next 30 years working to pay for it.')
Back to Le Traiteur, it's deliciously French with an Aussie twist, with gorgeous mustards, relishes, lots and lots of porky things and now I know where I'll buy my next lot of saffron from. I was willingly led there by G, who knows her onions, pates, terrines and brioches. I was uncharacteristically early, so watched the legals around me scoff the last remaining pies de jour (a sensational looking chicken and leek). Dammit, I wanted to rip the pies from their very plates. But I desisted, instead taking G's recommendation for a brioche so buttery it should carry a health warning.
The service: charming (hey, they welcomed a pram into the cafe during the lunchtime rush and owner Nick came out for a baby cuddle). The coffee: fabulous. Stick your nose in; trust me you won't regret it.
Le Traiteur: 552 Lonsdale St, Melbourne
Just as well they were retired, as I don't buy that line that people say they'll continue to work. Yeah, right! Like I'm going to keep slogging it out for some bogan boss who can't believe I still turn up at 9am every single day.
I don't buy that line that money won't change us. Hell yes. Change me, baby. Change me. Bring on the vintage champagne and pool boy, I say. Sort of like that Imperial Leather ad doing the rounds at the moment. That's my style..
One thing I would do would be to continue to eat incessantly around Melbourne. And one place I'd continue to haunt would be Le Traiteur. People, if you haven't eaten there, go immediately. The kitchen churns out fresh baguettes and pastries twice daily, so the cafe is constantly perfumed by the smell of fresh-baked bread - that smell so beloved of real estate agents because it immediately makes us wrap our arms around our (ample) selves, and say, 'I love this place' (and, if it is an Australian house, ' I want to spend the next 30 years working to pay for it.')
Back to Le Traiteur, it's deliciously French with an Aussie twist, with gorgeous mustards, relishes, lots and lots of porky things and now I know where I'll buy my next lot of saffron from. I was willingly led there by G, who knows her onions, pates, terrines and brioches. I was uncharacteristically early, so watched the legals around me scoff the last remaining pies de jour (a sensational looking chicken and leek). Dammit, I wanted to rip the pies from their very plates. But I desisted, instead taking G's recommendation for a brioche so buttery it should carry a health warning.
The service: charming (hey, they welcomed a pram into the cafe during the lunchtime rush and owner Nick came out for a baby cuddle). The coffee: fabulous. Stick your nose in; trust me you won't regret it.
Le Traiteur: 552 Lonsdale St, Melbourne
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