The Tea Gardens of Good & Evil
Jack Charlton. England going out of a World Cup. The Tea Gardens Hotel. Just three things at which the mere mention will bring tears of joy to the eyes of any Irishman. While the first two, when viewed together, lack logic, the Tea Gardens Hotel in Bondi Junction has been a second home to the Irish for decades. Be it the working class folk in their florescent work vests, popping in to the downstairs bar for several pints on the way home from/on the way to the construction site, or the nurses who prefer the balcony bar upstairs, the Tea Gardens is like a warm bath of Guinness to the lawful and unlawful non-citizens from the Emerald Isle. Just see their glowing reviews below!
For many a year I practically lived there, too. It is an iconic backpackers pub, after all, and I’ve often hung out at the sticky bar with a Bic biro at hand, ready for the moment a starstruck backpacker recognised me and sheepishly asked for a signed backpack. Another reason I went there, though, was because of my old backpacking pal, Marc, who has a weak spot for the Irish ladies. [1] Every week, we’d grab a table on the balcony and banter the night away, while he’d make eyes at the sultry Irish women on the next table through billowing clouds of their cigarette smoke. If they were chain smokers, which they usually were, Marc would have to make do with ogling women’s cleavage as they walked unwittingly below him on Bronte Road.
From buxom gym girls, to muscly blokes (and vice versa) coming and going from gyms; to adult skateboarders; local crazies; an aged man stumbling over the undulating sun-warped tarmac road; or the road traffic cops who are either inside Guzman y Gomez ordering a pork burrito, or waiting to catch someone drive through the No Entry zone instead of turning left on to Spring Street; the view from the Balcony Bar was always entertaining. At some point three years ago, however, Marc and I grew tired of the Tea Gardens, and decided to take our patronage to the Lord Dudley in Woollahra - just about the only decent English-style pub in Sydney. For three years the Dudders suited us just fine. But two weeks ago, as the weather warmed and the COVID risk lessened, we mutually longed for the bright lights of the Tea Gardens balcony once more, rather than the dark surrounds of the Dudders. I think, deep down, we’d just forgotten how grim the toilets were in the Tea Gardens.
With misty-eyed sentiment perhaps clouding our judgment, we downed our drinks and ambled from the leafy civilised back streets of Woollahra to the gritty concrete wind tunnel of the Junkyard, buoyed by the delights of summer. And let me tell you, the Tea Gardens did not disappoint. No sooner were we seated and supping on one of the TG’s plethora of identikit watery lagers and adjusting our ears to the distinct Irish lilt dominating he sun-drenched terrace, when down below, on sunbaked Bronte Road, a drama unfolded.
I’d actually missed the beginning of the action as I’d taken advantage of Marc going to the bar to whip out my travel journal and pen a few lines. As he returned, however, with beers in hand, he pointed out the spectacle. I looked up from another cracking travel journal entry just in time to witness two young women, about 18 years old, being marched out of the 7/11 by two police officers. Four police vehicles lined the street, their lights flashing excitedly. The girls - one dressed in a pink tracksuits, like a low-grade Sporty Spice, the other in jeans and an ill-fitting crop top - were screaming at one another, hitting a pitch, tone and level of indecipherability that only the Australian accent can manage. They pushed at each other, their faces blotched red with rage, and grasped at one another’s hair.
It appeared I hadn’t been the only one to not notice the silent arrival of the Bondi Junkyard police, because the screaming seemed to grab everyone’s attention. The patrons of the Balcony Bar craned their necks in unison and gawped judgtngly at the police operation in progress, Marc included. [2] Suddenly, fuelled by beer and our elevated position, we felt like Romans goading on a couple of plebeian warriors at the Colosseum.
After a few minutes where a full-on brawl did not seem out of the question, the police managed to calm the women down and, before long, they were sitting on the brick wall barrier that borders the road on the corner of Spring Street and Bronte Road. Soon enough, like drunken lady-friends on a debaucherous night out on the tiles, the two were now repentant and hugging each other. Just when the scene appeared to be over though, the police wheeled out a pushchair, and, five minutes later, a female copper came out of the 7/11 carrying a toddler. Meanwhile, it was clear that more was happening inside the overpriced store than we could see from our viewpoint.
A VIEW TO A KILL: One of the best views of any bar in Bondi Junction, the Balcony Bar at the Tea Gardens offers sweeping vistas of Bronte Road and a hint of the goings on down Spring Street. Taken on a quieter day, this photo demonstrates the unrivalled view of Guzman y Gomez and the 7/11 one has from the giddy first floor balcony. It’s probably fair to assume that any of the people featured loitering around those two shops is up to no good.
“I vork in retail und I zusbect zee sdole zomezing. Mozer’s uze zeir paby to sduff zings dovn und hide.”
While several officers re-entered the 7/11, out on the street the police were clearly interested in the belongings of the troubled teenage girls, and lined their various bags side-by-side on the wall. Slowly, two female officers began to frisk search them and search the bags.
On the table next to Marc, a German woman, sitting alone with a sweating glass of Reisling in front of her, craned her neck our way and offered up her theory.
“I vork in retail und I zusbect zee sdole zomezing. Mozer's uze zeir paby to sduff zings dovn und hide.”
Marc and I nodded politely. I’d already called the shoplifting angle. Marc, on the other hand, hypothesised it was drugs. Never very astute, that Marc. It was obvious they were consumers of drugs, sure. But these women were clearly interested in stuffing their pockets with bags of crisps, chocolates and Gatorade. [3]
The search continued for another 10 minutes, with the police now moving on to the pram. Again, the mother-hating German woman behind Marc related her expert advice, clearly damaged by the sheer number of shoplifters she’s witnessed during her years in the retail trade.
“I vork in retail. It is alvays zee mozers. Zey sduff zee clozing dovn zeir paby's naby or inzide zee bram. All zee time zis habens.”
She swirled the tepid remnants of what was left in her glass and drained it, longing, I think, for us to congratulate her sleuthing skills and/or buy her another. We just nodded and turned away.
The frisking came to an end, and the braying balcony was gradually beginning to lose interest in the scenes below us, when, like Sydney’s NYE firework display, the best was saved for last. A guttural scream exploded from within the 7/11 and, seconds later, six officers appeared carrying a third woman: four officers clung to a limb each, another the head, and the sixth held the woman’s behind up. The woman shot expletives into the evening sky, struggling to break free from the blue net in which she was caught. Like trying to peg down a tarpaulin in a gale, the officers struggled over to the waiting paddy wagon with the woman’s body flapping in the air as they just about held on to her. As another officer opened up the wagon at the rear, they tossed her in the back and closed it shut, the woman’s screams silenced.
Peace descended upon the Junkyard once more. The paddy wagon silently executed a U-turn and ghosted away up Bronte Road to the nearby station along with the other vehicles. Four officers gathered up the other girls’ belonging and walked them, presumably, also to the station.
On the balcony, we returned to our drinks and Marc returned to gazing forlornly at the Irish women behind me. And the German? She goose-stepped off into the night, no doubt telling everyone she saw that she worked in retail. As we reflected on the events we raised our glasses to the Tea Gardens, the Balcony Bar, and, of course, to the three young shoplifters who had rewarded our pilgrimage.
[1] Rumour has it that jack-o’-lantern-a-like singer Ed Sheeran based his comedy song Galway Girl on a conversation he overheard of Marc and I discussing the merits of his latest Irish crush.
[2] I abhor gossip and rubbernecking and judging others. But I’m also an observer and a documenter of the modern world and so, even though it disgusted me to do so, I felt an obligation to look on too.
[3] Interestingly enough, crisps, chocolate and Gatorade were the key ingredients in a signature dish I used to rustle up in the communal kitchen at The Big Galah. Just add a packet of Maggi noodles and you have yourself a delicious dinner.