Secret Ingredient of the Month

Sydney Cool

By Steffan van Lint

Anyone that has given up coffee knows what it is like to move from Melbourne to Sydney. A withdrawal of the ‘c-word’ has your body craving it more and more. Food suddenly doesn’t taste as good. You get the sweats. You experience insomnia at night, drowsiness during the day, and encounter pains in the stomach, upper body and joints. The cravings for culture, however, do eventually subside, and soon enough you adjust to the two culinary choices of “Thai food” (inverted commas on purpose) and Mexican food (another fucking burrito anyone?). The warmer weather gradually turns your sweats into a glowing tan and when you start to leave the all-night benders in Kings Cross to the Irish and Brazilian invaders that make up 87% of the beachside eastern suburbs, you find yourself running every morning and doing push-ups, chin-ups and sit-ups in fitness parks wearing black leggings, an oversized t-shirt, enormous sunglasses and last season’s “designer label” baseball cap.

Before you know it, you are a healthier, fitter, better-looking version of yourself. Pink muscle shirts suddenly look good on you and you have a new urge to watch large men run around in tight fitting shorts, chasing balls and tackling each other to the ground (even I am confused here as to whether I am referring to the NRL or to Oxford Street on a Saturday night).

And then you wake up and smell the coffee. And you miss it. Melbourne, that is. You miss Melbourne and… Wait! You smell coffee? Good smelling coffee in Sydney? Sniff. Single-origin coffee in Sydney? Sniff sniff. From Bolivia? Sniff sniff sniff. Picked by orphan children on a farm run by… sniff sniff sniff sniff… ex-prostitutes used by Bolivian presidents? Oh, wow! This is the good stuff! Follow your nose! Quickly! Where is this heavenly, Melbourne-like smell coming from?

Forty-seven sniffs later and a quick use of Urban Spoon on your dying 3Gs iPhone and you find yourself in a ‘Melbourne-style’ café… in Sydney. In this ‘Melbourne-style’ café you find ‘Melbourne-looking’ hipsters with iPads, skinny jeans and oversized knitwear, and realise the coffee must be good because there are seven fixed-gear bicycles parked out the front (thus endowing this Melbourne-style café in Sydney with what is known as a “fixie rating” of seven). You order a double ristretto, and… the barista knows what you are talking about! It comes to you in a cute mismatched espresso cup and saucer and it tastes… divine! Caramel, bitter… with cherry undertones. Another one, please! The next is from a different third world country and was picked by children missing limbs. Delicious! Are you back in Melbourne? Have you found the missing gene that deprived the dorky cousin of cool for this long? Not necessarily.

Sydney is not as cool as Melbourne. It’s not. Sydney people know this, too. It comes through in a ‘Melbourne-cool’ insecurity that a lot of my Sydney friends seem to project when heading out somewhere. If I lost a kilo for every time I was told, "Oh, you'll love this place, Steff. It's so 'Melbourne'. It's really cool", I would be married to Jamie Hince from The Kills and keep cocaine in a jewelled egg from St Petersburg. While there is a growing number of cafes, bars and pubs opening or reopening in a style that is akin to the cooler of the two cousins, Sydney’s replicated cool does not seem genuine. It’s a ‘Melbourne-cool. And I don't want to find 'Melbourne-cool' in Sydney — I want to find 'Sydney-cool' in Sydney.

And I did — in a lofty warehouse apartment at the foot of Abby Dobson while sipping on a dainty cup of lapsang souchong tea.

This month’s Secret Ingredient is the most secret Secret Ingredient we have had. It is so secret that I am not really allowed to tell you about it. But… I hate keeping secrets. I am just no good at it. Twenty-one years ago Julia Pietrich, the hottest girl in my Grade 4/5 composite class, told me that if I spread the word that we kissed (when we actually hadn’t) she would go out with me. I couldn’t do it. The pressure of our little secret got to me, and within minutes I was telling my friends what she had actually requested. We broke up half an hour later. I was devastated. You would think that I would have learned from my mistakes by now, but here I am, into my thirties, letting everyone in on another secret.

High Tea is a music concept spawned from the declining live music options that once used to rock the waters of the harbour city. A group of friends decided to put on their own live shows in their factory-converted apartment with a rule of inviting seven friends each and having a different musician play every fortnight. Guests were charged $10 for the entertainment of which all of the money went to the performing artist, minus a small fee that covered the cost of various teas that were offered for free in a mismatch of op-shop bought teas cups and pots. The result? An intimate setting that not only allows the audience to get up close and personal with the performer, but also allows the performer to play a crowd, and space, unlike any other. “I love playing at High Tea”, says vocal artist Darren Percival, a.k.a. Mr Percival. “It is easily my favourite place in the world to perform. There is nothing like it. Sharing a space that is so small and intimate with an audience so close to you — it’s not like you are performing, you are sharing. It’s almost just like jamming in a room with a bunch of friends. It’s a beautiful energy.”

Jamming with your friends has become an integral part of High Tea, with one of the evolved ‘rules’ being that each performer must invite a guest performer to also play a few songs. More often than not, this turns into a shared performance. “You can see that artists feel more free to open up and experiment in such an environment”, says one of the organisers of High Tea. Let’s call him Brett, mainly because that is his name. “Most performers find it quite daunting at first, being so close to the audience, but those that find the comfort in that end up giving something of their artistry that they otherwise would not. It can be a bit hit-and-miss at times but the audience is very forgiving which leads to a completely unique experience. Every show is completely different. I love it.”

At my first High Tea, Abby Dobson (of Leonardo’s Bride fame) transported every soul in the room on an emotional journey of broken hearts, fallen dreams, and horses; and at one point fumbled through the chords and words of a song she had just written earlier that day. It was experiential bliss. At my second, Mr Percival wowed the crowd with childlike energy, grandparent wisdom, and harmonic precision as he looped and distorted all sorts of vocal sounds to deliver music that you could have sworn came from 10 musicians. The highlight was an audience six-part harmony perfectly orchestrated by the energised madman up front, drinking 16-year-old single malt from a teacup. It was exhilarating.

I have felt very lucky and special each and every time I have experienced High Tea. In many ways I am. High Tea is not advertised. You cannot look it up on the Internet or call Ticketek to book seats. In fact, the only way to get to High Tea is to be invited by someone from the closed, unlisted group from a disclosed social network that I am not allowed to mention. Once you are in that group, you receive a fortnightly invite to the next event, which you must reply to before tickets sell out. If you are successful, you are sent instructions and directions to the secret location and given a metaphoric secret knock and password. It is cool. Not the replicated ‘Melbourne-cool’ you are starting to see everywhere, but a ‘Sydney-cool’ that Melbourne is missing out on. All the delicious single-origin double ristrettos of the café capital don’t compare. I’m a convert. I now prefer High Tea.

Dear High Tea, please do not dump my arse for revealing our secret just like Julia Pietrich did in Grade 4. She is now married to an AFL footballer, and I would hate for the same thing to happen to you.

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