April 2010

Bennie to the rescue with a glass of rose bubbly.

It’s so odd: You get on a plane in L.A. on Friday and when you land in Sydney it’s suddenly Sunday night. Poof! You’ve spent almost an entire day in the air and lost another day to the international date line. Which can make you feel extremely tired. And ready for a cocktail. Which is why, after checking in at the Observatory Hotel on Kent Street and asking the receptionist where the bar was, I was more than a little annoyed when she said, “I’m sorry, sir, but I believe they’ve already given last call.”

What? It’s not even midnight yet. Okay, it’s ten until midnight, but still.

What else might be open in the neighborhood? I asked.

“Nothing, really,” came the reply. It was Sunday night, after all. All the little Aussies were home, tucked into bed.

Well, then, I wondered, can I get something to eat from the restaurant?

Not possible. The restaurant had closed hours ago. I could, however, order room service.

After two days on a plane, the last thing I wanted to do was sit in my room, even if it was a very nice room, and eat dinner by myself. So despite the receptionist’s insistence that everything was closed down for the night, I headed for the Globe Bar, just off the lobby, which was, indeed, moribund. A smart looking couple sat at a table overlooking the empty street holding hands over unfinished martinis, but other than that, the only person in the bar, besides myself, was a young man in a forest green tunic wiping down the bar.

“I don’t suppose there’s any way I could get a quick drink, is there?” I asked him, knowing full well that the evening was over and he was just waiting for the young lovers to finish up before closing the place down.

“Not a problem,” he said, “what would you like?”

Good god, a sensible man. Not two minutes later, the chap, who looked remarkably like a young Hugh Grant, was pouring me a glass of Duval-Leroy Rose de Saignée champagne.

Can I just tell you how good that champagne tasted after a 15-hour flight? Such a simple thing, really, but savoring a glass of bubbly at midnight on my first evening in Sydney—well, I’m quite certain it made the trip for me for I was already loving this city. And the young bartender who was willing to break the rules (and, no doubt, extend his Sunday evening) for a fatigued traveler.

But, unbelievably, it got even better. I explained to Bennie, for that was his name, that I’d been traveling for two days (which wasn’t technically true but certainly felt like it) and that I’d slept through the last meal service on the plane, which was on Saturday (and since we hadn’t yet hit the international date line, that was true) and was famished. Might he have a bowl of peanuts or something to nibble on with the champagne?

“Would you like to see a menu?” he asked.

“But I thought the restaurant was closed?”

“It is. But I’m sure I can get someone to come up with something for you.” And here he leaned over the bar, conspiratorially, and whispered, “After all, this is the Observatory, sir.”

God love him. If all hotel employees were as affable as Bennie the world would be a better place and crime and delinquency would surely be reduced. Okay, I’m not really sure about that last part, but it would be a better place.

The young lovers left. I ordered a Caesar salad and a club sandwich, along with another glass of champagne, and, as Bennie went about his job wiping down tables and breaking down the bar, had one of the most enjoyable meals of my life. At quarter to one on a very late Sunday evening. God bless the Observatory Hotel. And god bless Bennie.