I was a fly on the wall at one of Melbourne’s secretive men’s clubs

Waiting tables and tending bars is a rite of passage for most university students, but few can say they have worked inside one of Melbourne’s prestigious and most secretive men’s clubs. I was a waiter at the Athenaeum Club from 1988 to 1995, while I was studying.

I worked mainly evenings and sometimes lunches, serving members and their guests food and wine in one of the club’s several lavish dining rooms. In the run-up to Christmas, when all hands were on deck, 87 Collins Street became my second home.

The Athenaeum Club’s Foundation Day Dinner in 1988.

Back then, I was one of a handful who moved soundlessly around the tables serving the likes of Jeff Kennett and Eddie McGuire, who attended the so-called “Rumour Tank” lunches. Insults and jokes were hurled about in equal measure, and the mood trumped any actuaries’ luncheon.

I was also privy to the cross-table fireworks when John Hewson and Peter Reith were in town. After serving dessert wine once, I exited the room to someone screaming “You f---ed this country up!” I served Bill Hayden a few times, caught the birdcage lift with John Howard, and used to offer then-RBA governor Bernie Fraser a choice of bearnaise or red wine sauce on his chateaubriand.

Looking back, there were customs that now seem quirky and outdated. Club members toasted Queen Elizabeth before meals, and when 13 dinner guests arrived we were required to place a silver sailor figurine on the table – the 14th man – to avoid bad luck. Wedding functions were held in the main dining room, and when guests failed to exit by the prescribed hour, the maitre d’ would persuade them by turning the air-conditioner down to an icy blast.

There was a standing rule in the first-floor members’ lounge that talking business was strictly forbidden. The lounge, replete with deep leather armchairs and old-world charm, was my favourite place, and there were times I wished I could have fallen asleep with George Orwell in one hand and a G&T in the other.

The Athenaeum Club members’ lounge.

One of my tasks was to announce dinner with a brass gong, a job I relished doing (loudly) in a room full of unsuspecting guests.

One party I’ll not forget was the 60th birthday of a member’s wife, held beside the swimming pool on the basement floor. We had set up an open bar and buffet, and all was going swimmingly until it wasn’t: a young and very drunk male relative pulled the birthday girl into the pool. Her dress went up and hairstyle down.

There were other eye-rolling moments, such as when elderly members would reach for the smoked salmon and caviar canapes and unwittingly drag their tuxedo cuffs through the avocado mousse.

As a poor uni student, I would savour the schadenfreude moments. Like the time one member threw a 21st birthday party for his son and during the speeches discovered his son had frequently used dad’s Roller to ferry his private schoolmates around Melbourne.

Athenaeum Club Foundation Day Dinner 1988, with waiter Simon Rowe at the back on the right.

There were also unnerving situations. A wedding guest once turned to accept a glass of champagne from my tray – and screamed. She said I looked exactly like her son’s best friend who had been killed in a car accident the week before.

Although there was a no-tipping policy, older club members would slip us a “gratuity” at the end of a private dinner. The working conditions were some of the best a waiter in Melbourne could hope for. These included staff meals, paid taxi home, end-of-year cash bonus, and a staff Christmas party.

A typical evening shift would entail setting up a private dining room, readying drinks and canapes, opening wines, and ensuring the plate warmers were on.

When the guests arrived, we would offer drinks, and when ready, seat them for dinner. All courses were “silver-served”, meat from platters, and soup from hot and heavy tureens which we handled nervously.

A lunchtime barbecue grill was located beside the swimming pool, and on Fridays I would sometimes be sent to help. One day the “grill master” called in sick. Overwhelmed with orders, I over-juggled the rare, medium, and well-done steaks and received a lecture from one of the regular members. Seeing my downcast expression, his guest tapped my arm later and whispered that it was the best eye-fillet he had ever had.

There were other wonderful guests. One of the nicest was Cathy Freeman. She smiled a lot and thanked the staff for everything. This was pre-Sydney 2000, and she had an aura that said she was capable of great things. The other was Bryce Courtenay. I gave up my dinner break to listen to him tell a full dining room the story of how, against his agent’s advice, he had held out for a $1 million rights offer for The Power of One before it was even published.

During my time at the club, women were admitted as guests of members only. There were female staff, of course, but I still remember the night of the Club’s Foundation Day Dinner in 1988 when the president asked all the female staff to leave the room for the group photograph. I have a copy of this and whenever I look at it, I remember my experience at the Athenaeum Club as one of life’s more surreal moments.

Simon Rowe is a Japan-based writer and author of Mami Suzuki: Private Eye (Penguin Random House).

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