Time, passing, history and a hopeful dose of nostalgia. So often are these elements found bordered within the smallest of confines; as small as, say, a suburb backdating some one hundred and fifteen years. Who would have thought to consider their local neighbourhood and its unspoken story of adaptability and reformation; the winding timeworn roads rendered by the broken backs and dime-a-day ethic of our forefathers, the period-style freestanding homes whose facade changes with every successive generation of family or the scrawlings of high-school nothings into the streetside paths leading into the heart of the metropolis. Approximately nine kilometres from the Central Business of Sydney, the unassuming suburb of Dulwich Hill, Sydney has quietly seen the ebb and eddy of aimless immigrants with little more than a few cheeky, broken words of English, a charming demeanor exemplified in their roughly woven, patchwork suits and their skills for building their homes upon Australia’s stable earth. Countless times have my family repeated to me the story of ‘afterschool beatups’ that were supposed to happen down by Caves Lane, the noble five cents that could buy the biggest bag of sweets known to a seven year old and the arduous mile-long stretch of road that lead, unwinding and unrelentingly, from their doorstep to the promenade of their school.
Through the tree-lined streets whose ancient, aching roots have lifted the gravel road like an old folk stretching his tired limbs, the behemoths of an era past stand perched upon that gently curving hill, breathing sighs as the westerly winds pass through their corrugated iron roofs and tamper with the brickwork; the work of labourers whose hands and hearts are long retired from their love of European-descent homes. Many amongst us (apartment-dwellers) are awed by the size of the private backyard, many of which containing their own garden as my my grandmother does. Following a carefully planned seasonal rotation roster, the best yielding fruits and vegetables are grown, from strawberries, mangoes and lemons to zucchini, broccoli, eggplant and string beans high enough to reach beyond the clouds. But after all this, we are not concerned with one single residence but the magic of the history of the shops and the suburb it resides in…
For a now working-class suburb, Dulwich Hill has much to offer to an inquisitive soul, searching for impulsive snapshots of unexpected occurrences and delightfully spun yarns about a broadway streetscape that existed some fifty years earlier. Elderly Greek and Italian men bicker and share commentary of their wartime efforts, flailing their arms and walking canes when gesturing directions to passerbys (who are much to their own dismay, shocked and never to return) quote their ailing families and complain about the price of gourmet cheeses, amidst the consuming smoke of their hand-rolled cigarettes, and in tolerance of the sickly stench of espresso strained just a minute too long. Etched deep in their scarred hands, dug deep with callouses and blood-blistered fingertips from replanting far too many times the same olive tree, or perhaps the boyish smiles they pass to you as you walk through their conversations, oddly comforting and never devoid of that gentlemanly demeanor to strangers, who always know to leave the bench beside the tobacconist vacant for them while they tell stories about their tribulations. This is a story about economy, a bakery and a garden – all viewed through the sepia-tinted lens of a suburb. This is aptly said, a yarn told with absolute economy about Luigi’s Bakery and how, like Nick Calloway in The Great Gatsby, Luigi and his baked goods turned out alright in the end; they were never there to be the focus of our scorn. It was the foul dust of that island of ashes caused by the overdevelopment of the area, of the demolition of its grand history and how Luigi’s love of tradition oversaw the overdevelopment.
If we could only get out of bed a few hours earlier, we would be enjoying Luigi’s baked goods every single weekend. By 8 a.m., the queue for Luigi’s has stretched around 15 people long, fidgeting and playing with change in their pockets, glaring at any who dare push in front of them. If you are as fortunate as my grandmother (or perhaps anywhere near as cunning), you will learn one of the tricks of the trade: if you want to be served first, you have to learn the ‘lingo’. She will shamelessly push in front of others in the queue and upon their retort, she will exclaim, “It’s okay! I have an order to pick up”. This, of course, is completely untrue and by the time she has made her way to the front of the queue, she will say her compliments to the staff of the shop and quickly put through her order — all in her rapidly spoken Italian, that the crowd of non-speakers are oblivious to hearing.
There has been no other bakery in our knowledge and locality that has produced such a variety of quality baked goods at true value for money, and a proud heritage in the making: the baker’s are not sparing with the olive oil, rocksalt, rosemary and Kalamata olives and the density of Australian wheat compliments the finesse of the baking method, mouthwatering sourdough and rustico breads; locking in the aroma, the heatiness of the oven, the crackling texture of the roll and preserving the delicate and tender juices inherent in a fluffy bread. Even if you were to make a trip especially to see Sydney, make a quick drop-off to Dulwich Hill for a true taste of locality: how they live, where they go for their groceries and the hybridised culture brought to the city.
Many of the homes within the neighbourhood bear sombre reflections of their economic challenge by the shoddy materials of rusted corrugated iron fastened with five inch nails and the past through a longing for home with the grandiloquent style of their high-perched roofs and ceilings. Given my youth and inexperience, I feel blessed to have been able to partake in the magic of the yesteryear before the grasp of ‘true’ modernisation came over the city: some of my fondest memories recall the giant oxheart tomatoes that came from my grandmother’s garden, amongst the many other treasures of yield that spawned from that platonic soil. I called them ‘Mr. Oxheart’ and assumed that their gargantuan size could easily be attributable to the status of a monarchy: these giant, rich and fleshy tomatoes strained the very vines that they were suspended from and made the delectable truss tomatoes merely dwarfed in comparison. These tomatoes, string beans, lively ears of corn, zucchini flowers anxious to be battered and fried were a part of that magic of the past and were a celebration of the meaning of good eating and strong culture. Never missing a heartbeat, my grandmother would insist I pluck one of these scrumptuous tomatoes and she would quarter it, sprinkle it with a dash of salt and line it with virgin oil. There can be no more sublime a sight than a garden like an oasis in the heart of the city, metallurgic and caustic in temperament and detrimental to our spiritual lives, and the enveloping our gentle buds of taste.
Need some convincing? New York Times has done a write-up about this fantastic suburb here, whilst The Sydney Morning Herald praises Luigi’s Bakery here. Dulwich Hill has known my grandmother for more than half a century and has many, many stories to tell for tourists and Sydneysiders alike, looking for a decent change from the status quo.
While writing this post, I listened to ‘Tenderly’ by Art Tatum.
The Wild Thyme and Sweet Pea project found its roots when it was plucked excitedly from the garden, washed briskly in a basin of water and lovingly left out to dry in a soothing marinade of vision and ambition ... More »
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