Summer in Sydney means ... stubbed toes and secret cafes

What does a Sydney summer mean to you?

Bare feet, thongs to dress up (if we must), stubbed toes, deep-fried and excessively salty potato scallops, cruisy playlists as accompaniment to scallops (may counter heightened blood pressure but please consult your own medical specialist), hot sand, scorching concrete, the stubbing of as-yet-unstubbed toes, insufferable Bondi coffee queues (until they shrink magically over Christmas-New Year when locals evacuate to quieter stretches of sand up and down the coast), our evacuation to a quieter beach, entailing a long road trip sustained by Dad’s playlist and truck-stop Chiko Rolls (deep-fried if I’m lucky but too often dry-warmed – the bain-marie of my life), and insufferable coffee queues – populated by familiar Bondi faces – at our once-sleepy faraway getaway.

Bondi Beach: the sand is hot but easier on toe-stubbers.Credit: Getty Images

Earliest memory of summer in Sydney?

As the youngest of seven children, I was the one squeezed between the luggage and the roof in the station wagon as we travelled from our Bulli home to Manly for a beach holiday with our cousins from Moree (one family, nine kids, presumably two or more station wagons). It was about 1968 on one account, 1971 on another. Someone’s memory is unreliable. My memory is that we almost drowned when a sandbank collapsed but a priest, a family friend, saved us. Controversially, a cousin (and fellow survivor) attempts to correct the record. He says that near-tragedy did happen but it was on another joint-family beach holiday at Terrigal, and the beach was Wamberal. My brothers insist it was Manly. This will be settled at another Feneley-Egan gathering, date to be agreed. In any case, I did survive another near-tragedy at Manly. My Uncle John is very tall. The ceiling of the holiday flat was very low. To greet me, he scooped me and hoisted me high. My head crashed into the ceiling. I recovered (mostly).

First place you take visitors?

Bondi Icebergs for lunch or dinner, on the balcony at the club, not Maurice Terzini’s IceBergs Dining Room upstairs, which is excellent but I prefer not to remortgage my home and loved-ones for a feed. It’s the same billion-dollarish view downstairs. In a squally nor-easter, try the balcony at the North Bondi RSL, the everyman bookend to the same city beach.

Favourite cafe?

I refuse to have favourites (ask my daughters). Sharing the love: Porche and Parlour, Bondi (for the beach); Gertrude & Alice (for book-browsing while chowing); Favoloso, Bronte (any-day local).

Gertrude & Alice cafe bookstore at Bondi ... not so beachy but rarely does a patron stub a toe.Credit: Kate Geraghty

Secret spot you escape to?

Tamarama Beach Cafe. (Don’t tell the others.)

The best summer food is …

A smorgasbord. If I must narrow it down, barbecued flathead with smashed and crusty baked spuds and a goat cheese salad.

I know it’s summer when I smell …

(Preferably) the delicious scents of surrounding neighbourhood barbecues or (less welcome) the detritus of so many barbies festering in overladen wheelie bins.

My favourite summer song is …

(As mentioned, I refuse to have favourites.) In no particular order, That Summer Feelin’ (Jonathan Richman), Here Comes the Sun (the Beatles), Cattle and Cane (the Go-Betweens), Deep Water (Richard Clapton), Deeper Water (Paul Kelly).

My closest bolthole is …

Tamarama Beach Cafe (don’t tell the others).

Guilty pleasure?

... Not telling the others.

What aspect of summer life would you change, and what do you want to always stay the same?

I’d erase the stubbed toes and hot queues but never change the bare feet, barbecues, the summer breeze, Dad’s playlist (as in, mine), or my refusal to pick favourites. Summer is a smorgasbord. I’ll pick and choose, then pick again.

Summer in Sydney is a series where Herald staff reveal the best – and worst – of our city in the hotter months.

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