Baristalker - two:bob
by stalker zine
None of these pictures are my own and credit must go to their original sources.
People in Melbourne are obsessed with brunch. Period.
I'm pretty sure this is because Melbourne accomodates for excessive alcohol consumption regardless of day - Eurotrash on a Tuesday is a prime example of this - hence people are perpetually hungover and craving a midday session cramming their oesophagus's with marbled bacon and plump, oozing eggs and pumping coffee on the I.V. It's always comforting to know that most Melbourne cafes and restaurants are completely in tune with this fact, extended hours for the all-day breakfast feed. Yum.
However, if any of you have been hungover, which I'm assuming you have given the demographic of readership I'm going for here, you know all too well the feeling of being hungover hungry. First, when you wake up, it's like food is the anti-christ, the mere act of opening your mouth would cause you to weep with exhaustion and nausea, and the thought of swallowing makes you momentarily convulse then fall back to sleep. Upon awakening once more, you're kind of okay with the idea of getting up and getting water, to quench that stretch of Sahara you call a tongue and wander towards the fridge, knowing that eating something will potentially make you feel a world of good. But there's never anything good in the fridge. Ever. Maybe yoghurt, one spoonful tastes like burnt hair, and it is with this desecration of your remaining tastebuds that haven't been torched by last nights tequila shot, you know it's time to wake the entire house and locate the nearest brunch destination.
This was where I was a couple of days ago when my housemate and I decided upon two:bob in Northroy (North Fitzroy - please see 1.54...zero regret) for a feed. She, dressed snazzy, fucking black fur, black heels and a white blouse, looked all peaches and cream, me, dressed "Derelicte" with broken RM's and a droopy left eye were an odd pair in this exceptionally clean, white-washed breakfast hotspot on Queen's Parade. I chose the place because the description on Broadsheet wanked "Scandanavia" and "off-white" and "ceramics" - I wanted to fap, fap, fap my way to the light and airy salvation free of the hangover. I knew the food would be clean, I would feel refreshed simply by being in the joint, and the world would be restored to its natural calm. I was not wrong!
Normally turned off by the sterility of places looking like they've come out of an Ikea catalogue was refreshed by this light, white and bright space. It was fresh and simple, and the staff were not judging, rather they were incredibly attentive and willing to make my recovery a harmonious and enjoyable one. Even the glasses that the water was in gave the liquid a blueish glow of calm, making it seem cleaner and thus exceptionally more drinkable. The appreciation for water was exceptionally high. I think this was part of the hangover process where you're increasingly aware of what's going on around you, like your facial features. Ugh.
The menu - wholegrain porridge with caramelised pineapple and coconut milk, poached eggs with salmon and aspargus, baked eggs with house made beans - and a chicken sandwich poking out of the glass cabinet - reflected the sparkle and fresh of the joint. Everything you could possibly eat in this place would make you feel healthier, purely from your surroundings. The coffee, never failing from Supreme - was an adequate restorer of life force and apparently "the chaiiii was to diieeeeee forrrrr".
We couldn't decide what we wanted, purely because I was at that level of hungover where I wanted to bathe in hollandaise and regret it later, but then we discovered the perfect thing, that you just don't SEE in Melbourne - the big HEALTHY breakfast. Normally so taken aback with promises of fuck off chipolatas and fatty bacon, swimming in a pool of butter-laden toast and sauteed mushroom, my housemate bargained that muesli, fruit salad and the smashed avo on toast (the breakfast platter) - would be the perfect sater to my stomachs confusion due to the smack in the lining it had received the night before from the 2am kebab I'd thrown at it.
Even though this is something my grandparents would normally order arguing that its "all rounded and good for their bowels" after ingestion I could see why they did it as their morning routine. I felt as though I was a babeh phoenix, emerging and reignited from the ashes of my demise. Ready to take on the world with the newfound vigour of a fucking liger or some other god-like mythical creature. Maybe Mew-Two. Or Zapdos. Smacking my lips and wishing there was more, I left a happy happy girl.
I'd recommend this place for sure, purely for the clarity of the surroundings and the feeling of escapism of the main road in Clifton Hill it offers. The staff were just so so lovely as well. I'll probably hug one next time.
Thumbs up yo.
270 Queens Parade
Clifton Hill/ North Fitzroy