Senior service: Australia’s old restaurants

Yes, some old restaurants are tired and hopeless. Who knows how they survive? But some have a special magic.

1987. Pellegrini's Espresso Bar. Restaurant. Melbourne. Neg: 870708/192-222

As headlines in the food press go, this one was not all that startling, for New York, anyway: “After 53 years, Le Périgord has closed.” The story was not the usual “institution shutters” fodder; it was about workplace unionisation and the proprietor’s determination to avoid it at all costs, including closing. But it did remind me that old is not something we do particularly well in restaurant land here. And it came the week Neil Perry announced his Eleven Bridge, spiritual successor to the 28-year-old Rockpool, would soon be over, too; the end of an era.

The glitter of the new; the attention span of generations younger than mine; the soaring costs of eating out; the often marginal profits in relation to hours worked, meaning generational handover is rarely palatable … It all conspires to make old restaurants, operated under continual ownership, as rare as free-range, heritage-breed hen’s teeth. And maybe it’s because I’m eligible for APIA insurance that an appreciation of places that continue to go the distance seems of greater significance. Seniors solidarity.

Having said that, genuinely “old” restaurants do exist in Australia. Caph’s, a cafe in Manuka, Canberra, opened in 1926, although the current owners have been there a mere 30 years. Melbourne’s Florentino has similar status: long run, many owners and iterations. But “old” places still under the same ownership/family, continuity the signature dish? You’ve got to work at it.

Some are still among my favourite places. The Lake House, Daylesford (1984), for example. St Kilda’s Cafe di Stasio (1988). I asked S. Di Stasio how he’d managed that. “Easy. I don’t regard owning a restaurant as going to work.” France-Soir (1986), the Parisian brasserie that has seen more of Melbourne’s fattest wallets than probably any other restaurant in Australia. To the same question, proprietor Jean-Paul Prunetti replied: “By remaining single-minded, energetic and exigent; this took a great deal of perseverance, determination and personal sacrifice.”

Many other Melbourne stayers have special poignancy for me. Vlado’s (1964), the perplexing choice for a date with a childhood sweetheart in 1978 — imagine taking a 17-year-old girl for sausages, offal, steak and crepes today? Pellegrini’s (1954), the first spaghetti I bought with earned cash. Abla’s (1979), scene of brilliant Lebanese banquets. Or Flower Drum (1975 in its original location), where I can recall the unadulterated horror of my first century egg, which reminded me of eating dirt.

Sydney came later. The lovely Lucio’s in Paddington (1983). Says Sally Galletto, Lucio’s wife: “It sounds clichéd but I think we have lasted thanks to Lucio’s instinctive love of food, art and people, and his incredible passion and infectious enthusiasm to provide true hospitality.” Beppi’s (1956), which I must visit one day. And who could forget The Blue Angel (1960), scene of Leo Schofield’s legally historic meal in 1984. This magazine visited in 2009, 25 years after the fateful review. That the restaurant is still there, trading, and in the same family is tangible proof of that old maxim: truth is stranger than fiction.

Yes, some old restaurants are tired and hopeless. Who can understand how they survive? But some have a special magic. It’s not on the menu; in fact, it’s included in the price. Please consider.