So, why Mary Hopkins?

From Barry I got a copy of an email sent to my usual address, it was from a old associate (not really a friend) but someone who did log into the blog.
She wanted to know why I chose the Mary Hopkins song ‘Those Were the Days ‘well, it’s quite simple.
You see, many years ago we had two places in Sydney that we used above all others, one was Mike’s and the other was a tavern/wine bar by the name of ‘La Chiffley’. Mike’s was a very usual sort of place, with a clientele that was mainly comprised from the local offices. The ‘Chiffley’ was a more dark and broody sort of place, which, although set in the centre of the CBD, you would be unlikely to find unless you know it was there. Set at the end of an arcade, stuffed between a newsagent and a Greek owned takeaway was a glass paned door with a simple sign above it that read ‘La Chiffley Tavern’.
Once through the door it opened up into two smallish rooms, the first being dominated by a bar residing in perpetual dim artificial light, no daylight intruded into this domain, it wasn’t meant for that.

Both rooms were furnished with polished wooden tables served by wooden trestle seats, not a padded chair to be seen – and presiding over his little kingdom was a Frenchman called ‘Fred’, it was really Frederick or similar but he was always simply ‘Fred’. Behind the bar was his wife Maria and she was supported by a countless stream of pretty assistants none, (bar one), who stayed very long … youth needs the sun. The license did not really allow for the sale of beer as it was a wine bar license but this never seemed to stop the stuff from freely flowing, however, at the Chiffley you mainly drank wine. Served in big carafes and rough enough to strip paint. There were bottles of the ‘good stuff’ but these we rarely touched. You also ate great food, from genuine croissant and hard boiled eggs for breakfast, to late night red wine beef bourgeon – I can still taste those wonderful meals – the food was needed, it worked as an antidote for the terrible wine.

The Chiffley was always drowned in music, not loud and not harsh, but it was always there. Naturally included was all the usual French stuff, with the strange tones of Edith Piaf hovering over us – but there was also The Mamas and the Papas, ABBA, The Beachboys, Neil Diamond, Roy Orbison, Simon and Garfunkel and many, many more – I think that, like most of us, Fred was, under it all, a frustrated hippy.

I can’t remember how we found the Chiffley but the only thing that counts is that we did. Between 1975 and (I think) 1988 we were favoured patrons. Often, when it was time to close, the front bar area would shut down and the blinds drawn – but in the back room we continued on, often until our watches told us the sun was rising on a new day.

Oh! the plans that were made and the futures envisaged at those tables; wine, music and conversation the trio of elements that build … everything. We often even danced in a strange sort of way, weaving between the tables and falling down ‘a lot’. It was also a place to go and lick wounds when things had gone a tad wrong. Sitting together, Fred playing nursemaid and keeping us supplied, often the backroom was closed off for our exclusive use – good old Fred he did seem to understand our moods and needs.

Soon after Red left us in 1988 I did go back, alone, and see Fred and his wife, they were decimated by the news, she had been a favourite of theirs. I did also see a few familiar faces around but somehow the place seemed so empty and I didn’t stay too long.
The years past and the ‘Chiffley’ faded into memory, for some reason it was a place that was simply too uncomfortable to remember.
Then in 1997 after I had left the Ducks and flew back to Oz I took a stroll around town, it had been a while and things were changing fast, Sydney was losing its small city appeal and becoming another bland concrete hive. I wandered from pub to pub and saw a few people from the past, but the ranks were becoming thin.
Then I wandered up the hill to Catlereagh St and the arcade that led to ‘La Chiffley’ and I guess that’s when I really knew that it was all over – it was gone. A different door to a different place that was now a commercial real estate agents, no, Fred, no Maria, no music, no wine to dull the pains, just a peroxide blond girl looking out from behind a cheap veneer desk, with eyes already dead to dreams.

However, I did (rather the worse for a drink or two) walk past the place again that night on my way back to my hotel and looking in I could almost see the old door and behind it, in that comfortable dim light, shadowy figures talking and laughing whilst drinking bad wine from overly large glasses – I could even hear the music and see faces so familiar, still young, still with belief in their faces and faith in the future that awaited them.
Then it was simply a door again ... and for the last time, I walked away