Dulcet Devotion

Oxford St., Collingwood; Melbourne.

In spite of my atrocious (I’m being a bit dramatic here) experience in Lygon St., I refused to let it stop me. I was here in Melbourne to explore every nook and cranny of the food scene I could squeeze into the short time I was here, and next on my list of “must try’s” was Proud Mary.

As I approached the café, tucked down a side street just off of Smith St., I paused to let someone leave. It turned out it was the hostess opening the door for me, as if she had been waiting for me all along.

I was immediately welcomed and asked if I’d like to stay. Hell ya! (They do a foyer-jamming take-away trade too). Communal table or bar? Bar please. And so she settled me into the small bar in front of the coffee syphon station, between two other single diners.

I stepped up onto what was the most comfortable stool I’d ever laid my backside on. Padded, supportive, and with the foot rest in the perfect spot to ensure I stayed as long as I wanted to, not as long as my legs would stay awake. But as my butt curled up and got ready for the long haul, I glanced down and there it was:

The coat/purse hook under the bar.

A seemingly simple feature, but one I feel is imperative for any drinking or dining establishment. I imagine, here in chilly Melbourne, these were installed for jackets and scarves. But really, no women wants to climb up onto a stool and have to leave her purse either on the bar (and often there isn’t room for it) or on the floor where you can’t keep track of it and you must dismount (as gracefully as possible) to grab your lipstick or phone.

So thank you, Proud Mary, for your purse hook. So far, you’ve got me for life.

And please, other kind establishments: Invest the meagre cost involved in buying a few hooks and screws and do the same. I promise it will bring you many happy, oft-returning customers.

Now, coat hook public announcement said, on to the rest of the experience.

Shortly after recovering from my purse hook glee, a warm hand rested on my back. Hi! How are ya? Has anyone taken your coffee order yet? (Squee! Warm, confident service!) No, thank you. I’d love a flat white.

As I waited for my coffee and took in my surroundings, I glanced over the menu. I had already made a head start on my meal selection online, but thought I’d better be absolutely sure of my choice. I had read about their stack of ricotta hotcakes but was unsure of the flavours–caramelised mandarin, dark chocolate fudge, whipped mascarpone, hazelnuts–decadent, yes, but I’ve never been a huge fan of orange and chocolate together.

Well my fears were unfounded. Their seasonal update was more my style:

Caramelized peach, toasted pistachios, and rose mascarpone cream. Um yeah.

But wait! Roasted mushrooms with chipotle butter, brioche, whipped goats cheese on a poached egg. The eternal dilemma between and sweet and savoury brunch. What to do? What to do!

My lovely server interrupted my reverie, and the first thing that popped out of my mouth was Ricotta! Hotcakes! And off she went with an approving look and a smile.

As I waited for my breakfast, Proud Mary chugged along like a fun, music-fueled and well oiled machine (they were playing Biggie on the sound system during my visit). On my side of the bar, a jumpy barista “It’s not the coffee, it’s me. I’m always like this” was giving patrons a passionate, impromptu lesson in filter coffee with samples and an in-depth discussion on its merits. By the door, a long line for take-away coffee happily snaked out the front door. Proud Mary is always busy, but people are always happy to wait, and with helpful, cool staff and great coffee, I can see why.‏

Happily consumed by the experience, my thoughtful server stopped by to check if I needed another coffee? Yes. It turns out the chocolatey smoothness of my first flat white (served in adorable light blue cups) was almost gone. I had been so hypnotized (or maybe that was the Biggie) that I hadn’t even noticed. Your breakfast is almost ready, she promised.

While my hotcakes probably took a good 2o minutes to arrive, with the relaxed vibe and great coffee, I hardly noticed. And when they arrived and I finally dove in (after a moment of reverence for their beauty) they were piping hot. Piping. Hot. This seems like an obvious request but is quite a rare occurrence. They stayed piping hot as I methodically tackled the towering stack.

The cakes were at once rich and light. The innocent peaches were soft and warm and their syrup soaked deep and delicately into the fluffy sponge. Moss-green pistachios added some crunch and floral mascarpone cream set it over the top. This was one mean meal.

Mary would be proud.