Hot ham and pudding at the Three Steps

Welcome to the Three Steps Cafe

Welcome to the Three Steps Cafe

If I were mayor handing out awards to places and people that hold the community together, one of the first would go to the Three Steps on Bondi Road, a local institution that calls itself a café but is rightly pictured as a retro diner, with plastic sauce bottles on yellow laminex tables and about a hundred varieties of eggs and bacon, ham, sausages, burgers, steak and chips.

I’d been there now and then, after noticing that the Three Steps was a haven for taxidrivers, at least in the days there was a taxi garage over the road. Though the garage was demolished years ago, leaving nothing but a weed-strewn lot, the Three Steps is still a home away from home for the travellers, tradesmen and taxidrivers who turn up at all hours, not only for the heaped plates of comfort food, old-fashioned ambience and old school prices, but for the warmth of human company, as distinct as the steam rising from the espresso machine.

Open since the nineteen-sixties, the Three Steps has been owned for almost a quarter-century by Mehmet Ozer, a short, lively, middle-aged man with a twinkle in his eye and a kindness so boundless that regular customers who’ve known him a long time will tell you about the number of down-and-outs he gives a feed.

Mehmet Ozer at the Three Steps

Mehmet Ozer at the Three Steps

Something of the same effusive spirit pervades his café with its nondescript exterior and its flapping green awnings; along with its bestseller bacon and egg rolls for $4.90, burgers with poetic names like El Torro and Zingara, and kebabs worth a poem on their own, the Three Steps offers a refuge from the anonymity and indifference of life in a big city.

When I hung out there myself, I met customers who go in for a chat whether they’ve eaten or not. Rekah Balendran came from London six months ago to work for an investment bank, no sooner moving to Bondi with friends than she found herself irresistibly drawn back to the congenial atmosphere of the Three Steps. “No matter what time it is, I’ll stop and have a conversation. Even if it’s midnight. Sometimes I’ll sit half an hour talking to them,” Rekah told me one evening, shortly before a commotion erupted out on Bondi Road.

The young woman exuberantly abusing her boyfriend at the top of her voice seemed to have been celebrating St Patrick’s Day in advance of the occasion. Coming to a sudden halt in front of the café, she aimed one last “fecking eejit” in her feller’s direction before turning to beam at Mahmoud Aktogan, the night shift man at the Three Steps since he arrived in Sydney – and Bondi – seventeen years ago.

Mahmoud Aktogan on the night shift

Mahmoud Aktogan on the night shift

Mahmoud doesn’t just remember customers’ names, he remembers what they usually order. He knew without being told that the woman had her mind set on a bread roll with bacon, sausage, egg, cheese, mushrooms, ham, hash browns, pudding and onion, a speciality of the house called an Irish roll. “No mushroom, no onion,” he added serenely, even before she could remind him of the way she liked it. It was ten at night. The Three Steps would be open another two hours, and re-open before six in the morning.

Bondi has such an oversupply of eateries some neighbourhoods are beset by cafes, restaurants and bars, but the Three Steps is one of the last, if not the last joint open all hours for the working people who start early or finish late. “Taxidrivers kick the door if we’re not open right on time,” Mehmet Ozer tells me with a laugh one day, availing himself of the opportunity to add that they stay open even if it’s quiet. “We’re always here for our customers,” he said. I had already noticed he wasn’t one to let a marketing opportunity go to waste. The explanation was not long in coming.

Mehmet grew up in Turkey, and was in marketing as a young man, as the colourful names of some of his dishes attest. But as luck would have it, on landing in Sydney at the age of twenty-four, he started working for a man with a chain of kebab shops, who taught him to cook, passing on the all-important secret of the sauce in which the kebab meat is marinated before it is cooked to order.

Before long, Mehmet had bought the Three Steps, “slowly, slowly” expanding into the house behind the original grill, managing to retain the unreconstructed décor of an old greasy spoon, with garish pictures of hamburgers and chips on the wall-sized menus. But the Three Steps is a place apart. Twelve people work there. Six of them, including Mehmet and his brother, their nephew Sammy and his brother, and Mahmoud Aktogan, a one-time high school teacher, come from the same village in south-eastern Turkey where the population is predominantly Kurdish.

Tempting as it was to imagine the Three Steps as a little bit of Kurdistan down the road from Bondi Junction, it was the wrong image altogether. The diner exemplifies multiculturalism at its inclusive best. I was still sitting talking to Mehmet when his friend, the rabbi, appeared in the distinctive broad-brimmed black hat worn by the ultra-Orthodox. But the religious Jews who live in the neighbourhood only eat at kosher places.

Mehmet and his friend, the rabbi

Mehmet and his friend, the rabbi

The Three Steps has been adopted instead by the latest arrivals – the Irish transplants who have clustered in the surrounding streets – which is why you’ll find posters for Barry’s Tea, Club Soda and “McDonnells: Ireland’s No 1 curry sauce” hung over the railings, and why I found it full of people wearing green last Sunday.

“This is an Irish place,” said Deidre Hunt, who had ordered an Irish breakfast (scrambled eggs, hash browns, hot ham, mushrooms and pudding), a taste of home after her four years in Bondi. Bound for the St Patrick’s Day march in the city, like many customers that morning, she made it clear that having breakfast beforehand at the Three Steps had become part of the tradition.

Mehmet was as busy as everyone else at work that day, but he wanted to check he hadn’t let one more marketing opportunity slip by. He paused by my table a moment: “Can we say the Three Steps has something to offer everyone?

“And don’t forget we have the best kebabs in Australia,” he added, before hurrying off with another armload of dirty dishes.

Deidre Hunt, St Patrick's Day

Deidre Hunt and Aidan Bockley, St Patrick’s Day

Aine Bourke, a long way from Tipperary

Aine Bourke, a long way from Tipperary

Friends from Ireland celebrate St Patrick's Day at the Three Steps

From left to r ight: Linda Sullivan, Sam Stephenson, Jenny Macdonald, Ellen Hanrahan, Neil Burgess, James O’Connor and the forgetful photographer, St Patrick’s Day

Posted in The food , The locals , The shops |

10 responses on “ Hot ham and pudding at the Three Steps

  1. I’ve lived around the corner from the Three Steps for about 8 years but always favoured the trendy coffee shops they compete with. I was a bit intimidated by the taxi driver trade and the blokey atmosphere. One morning recently I thought I’d give it a try for my favourite weekend breakfast of soft poached eggs, tomato and bacon. My breakfast was perfect at half the price of their competitors…I don’t need the gourmet adornments; the “blokes” were gentle giants and the weekend papers were there for me to leaf through. When I can’t be bothered cooking my own breakfast on the weekends, that’s where I go.

  2. Good place for every one – we try to do best for each costumer and I hope everyone’s happy and enjoys the meals. Thanks guys for the good comments, and thanks to all the customers coming to us and enjoying their meals. We will be there always for all of you. See you tomorrow in the same place. Sammy from the 3 Steps.

  3. It makes me homesick for our own dear retro diner, the Regency Café in London, where Claudia’s voice shouting orders comes through the floor and sometimes wakes us up.

    …Wait a minute. I AM at home in London.

    Nice work casting that spell.

  4. Isn’t it wonderful that Mayors’ hand out awards to places and people that hold the community together… but I do have to ask does this apply to all Mayors? and if it does, would their concept of community be an all encompassing one, or a politically defined one…

  5. If Aine Bourke ever finds out the meaning of ‘Tipperary’ in the song your caption refers to, will she have an action against you? Thanks for yesterday. Constant Reader (also from Tipp.)

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Aunty Pearl at the Astra

By Elisabeth Wynhausen

Aunty Pearl at the Astra

Aunty Pearl back at the Astra

Aunty Pearl Martin doesn’t look her age and doesn’t see any reason to reveal it to the world. But what she will say if the question arises is: “I’m the oldest Maori lady in Bondi, love.” Sometimes Aunty Pearl agrees she must be a Maori elder if only because she’s old enough. Other times she’ll remember telling some people who wished her to play the part of a tribal elder: ‘I didn’t come to Australia to be a Maori – I came for the sport for my kids.’

“Which I did, love,” Pearl told me when we talked.

I had arranged to meet her after hearing that she worked as a maid at Bondi’s Hotel Astra in the early nineteen-eighties, which was a bit like being able to meet with a housemaid who worked at the Lexington Hotel in Chicago when Al Capone had a suite there. In short the Astra was then notorious.

Before she got to that part of the story, all in good time, Aunty Pearl recalled a little of her own eventful life. We had met at the small flat in Bondi she shared with her son, who works shifts on a maintenance crew and was asleep in the next room. Pearl spoke softly so as not to wake him, gasping for breath between words, as she explained that she had been an activist in the old days, back home in New Zealand.

“We sat against the government in Auckland for 500 days,” she said, wheezing a little before adding that her two brothers and some cousins had been among the instigators of the drawn-out occupation of traditional Maori land the government was handing over to a developer. The protest would draw attention to injustices against the Maori, but that came several years later: by then, Pearl had left New Zealand behind, landing on these shores a few days before Christmas, 1980, with her husband, four children and two suitcases.

When she said so I glanced around, half-expecting to glimpse what they had brought with them thirty-something years ago. The spotlessly clean living room looked as if nothing had ever been thrown away. Figurines, pictures, old cups, sports trophies and other treasured objects covered every surface. An exercise bike was tucked into a corner, next to shirts on hangers hooked on a shelf.

There were a few chairs and a card table spread with the bits of jewellery Pearl likes to make; clearing away shoeboxes that held more of her jewellery, she lowered herself cautiously into a chair. Her health is not what it was and she gets about these days with the aid of a walking stick but she has the ready laugh of a person full of life. The laughter resounded as she remembered starting work at the Astra in nineteen-eighty-one . She was doing shifts as a cleaner at the Bondi Beach Public School by then, but it was only a casual job; hearing that the Astra was advertising for kitchen staff, she was up there in a flash.

“I went there as a cook. I couldn’t cook for nuts, love,” Pearl confided. “I thought I’ll go and have a look anyway. They said ‘do you know how to cook?’ I said, ‘oh yeah’. Then Mrs Bullivant, the manager, came along. She was a little lady, but very elegant. She dressed beautifully. She came over to me and said ‘did you work in hotels before?’ I said ‘back home I did. I was doing the beds – a housemaid…’ She said ‘you can start up at the house’.
Anyway, I started there.”

The Astra at Bondi Beach.

The Astra at Bondi Beach.

The Hotel Astra on the corner of of Sir Thomas Mitchell Road and Campbell Parade overlooked the southern curve of Bondi Beach. A hotel called the Cliff House had risen on the very spot in eighteen-eighty, when there was a dance hall across the street but so little else that picnickers venturing to the beach let the horses that had been harnessed to their carts graze on the scrubby hill behind the hotel. In the nineteen-twenties, the Cliff House was replaced by the building that became the Astra.

Though grand in its day, towards the end the Astra was as renowned for the rock stars who played there as for the foils of heroin lined up on the window sills of the pub downstairs. Bondi itself was seedy. Dealing was rife and after muttering about it long enough, people from Sir Thomas Mitchell Road got together to write about life in a neighbourhood where the dealing went on even in the vestibules of their buildings.

The Sydney Morning Herald picked it up and the television people descended in droves to scuffle up syringes in nearby gardens. One local found a detective from Waverley waiting at her front gate, she told me not long ago. He asked her to come to the station to make a statement before he added: ‘you know people have ended up with concrete boots for saying what you said’.

Despite the mayhem in the bar of the Astra, the guests upstairs included elderly folk who lived in the hotel. Pearl would remember a distinguished gentleman they all called The Professor and a lady by the name of Mrs Bird with more beautiful hats than a hat shop. The old people had their own lounge. The musicians had a lounge downstairs “That’s where you’d see them snorting and having it, you know,” said Pearl.

The Astra was owned by Cyril Maloney who owned a string of hotels and doubtless didn’t know there were police acting as if they were in his pocket; the licensee Sylvia Bullivant had other things on her mind. So intent on her football team the Astra Knights that she coached the team herself, Mrs Bullivant might be seen rushing up and down the nearest sideline, blowing the whistle on Maori boys who could have picked her up like a toy.

At the Astra, meanwhile, Pearl had rapidly been initiated. “Well darlin’,” she said, “my first OD, I went into a room, there was this bloke, laid out on the floor, you know. The Astra Hotel was five floors. The top floor was a ballroom. I was on the third floor and I goes running down the stairs to the office…” Pearl imitated herself, wailing as if pursued by banshees. “I goes screaming, ‘oooooooh someone’s dead’. I didn’t know what was going on. The office lady says to me, ‘never mind Pearl, don’t worry, Pearl.’

“Then these two people come up with a stretcher and that. He wasn’t dead. He was just OD’d, love. But darling, by the time I left the Astra Hotel, you know what I used to do – kick them under the bed and carry on workin’. ‘Well off you go under there, mate, while I fix up this room’.”

The pub closed down a few years later, after the local council, spurred by residents, approached the Licensing Board and Mr Maloney declared he would turn the building into aged care apartments. Pearl was there to the end, which came in the mid-eighties.

By then the New Zealanders streaming into Bondi since the nineteen-seventies were streaming out again, because rents were rising out of their reach. For a time squatters magisterially calling themseves the Maori Self-Help Housing Group occupied a big derelict building on Gould Street, a block from the beach. Soon they, too, were gone.

Pearl nearly suffered the same fate. The building where she lived last year was being redeveloped: she and her son had to move from a small flat to a smaller one. With everything still in boxes there, Pearl and I met the other day at a café at the Junction, before heading towards Bondi Beach to take a look at the Astra.

Though she lived a short bus ride away, she hadn’t seen it in years. The building looked as she remembered it, she said. It was when she was home again, resting a bit after the outing, she told me later, that she became emotional, thinking about the place in the old days, with Mrs Bird and her hats and Mrs Bullivant, looking after the boys from INXS and Hunters and Collectors. “I’ve still got a t-shirt that belongs to one of them,” she said. There was a silence. I pictured her in her little flat, looking around at all the boxes. “Somewhere,” she said.

Aunty Pearl at a cafe at Bondi Junction.

Aunty Pearl at a cafe for the second time in her long life.

Posted in Night life , The locals , The past |

8 responses on “ Aunty Pearl at the Astra

  1. Great story Elisabeth! I went to the Astra in its wildest days (and mine) when it was known as the ‘raver’s haven’. I find it ironic that it is now such a genteel place, however I should remember that it started as a very posh place indeed way back when it was known as the Hotel International of Bondi Beach. You can read a quick history of the Astra Hotel – including its fall from grace and subsequent resurrection – on the Local Studies page of the Waverley Library website: . Choose ‘Library’, then ‘Local Studies’, then ‘Local History Fact Sheets’. Under ‘A’ you will find ‘Astra Hotel’. Enjoy.

  2. As an Astra resident since 1999 I was really interested to hear Aunty Pearls stories. There must be many more to tell, over the years. I love living here, so close to the beach , the harbour and the city. I consider myself very fortunate to have found this great old building, right in the heart of Bondi Beach.

  3. Hi Elisabeth
    What a wonderful article, so thanks for the memories and the portrait.
    I worked as a ‘youth worker’ down at Curlewis St in the late 1970s, and playing pool at the Astra was part of the Job Requirements. Met loads of young people, most of whom just wanted to surf and smoke cigarettes; then again the nights at the pub were very different clientele… but I was off duty at those times!
    Nice to see you writing so well Elisabeth. Warm regards

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Gertrude, Alice and Jane

By Elisabeth Wynhausen

Gertrude and Alice cafe bookstore

Welcome to Gertrude and Alice

There are too many cafes on Hall Street, Bondi, but there is one we couldn’t possibly do without. Not just the locals, either. The Gertrude and Alice Café Bookstore has so ardent a following some people cross Sydney in lumbering buses to get there. Halfway up Hall Street, behind a modest shopfront with ancient school desks, battered benches and a bedraggled bookcase parked outside, Gertrude and Alice seems to exist in a realm all its own, as if sequestered from the everyday world.

Past the pocket-size kitchen and the cash register is the first of three cosy rooms with more old benches and overflowing bookshelves from the floor to the ceiling. There are books everywhere, of course. Books are piled in corners. Books are arranged upright on the tables and straggle along the floor against the shelves. Books have tumbled into a little heap onto the burnt orange velvet sofa, the best seat in the house.

If you pause to pick out a handful for yourself before settling down with your Moroccan mint tea and fruit loaf, the sense of amplitude in the presence of twenty-five thousand books is infinitely multiplied by the serendipity of second-hand bookshops. Gertrude and Alice now stocks new books as well, but tucks them in together with all the rest, taking little away from the thrill of picking up books you didn’t even know you were looking for until you found them.

Jane Turner at Gertrude and Alice

Jane Turner at Gertrude and Alice

I’ve been dropping in since the place opened twelve years ago but it wasn’t until I sat down to talk with Jane Turner, who owns Gertrude and Alice, that I learned that the enticing muddle of books piled here and books piled there is contrived to appeal to customers. Confronted with shelves that are too tidy, “they won’t touch them,” Jane told me, the other day, confessing that she had agonised about the decision to supplement the second-hand books with new ones, like the $9.95 Penguin classics that mean no-one need ever again search her shelves high and low for a hard-to-find copy of Kerouac’s “On the Road”.

Bookshelves at Gertrude and Alice

Oh good, the shelves aren’t too tidy.

Boxes after box of the new books turned up last October. “I thought what have I done” said Jane, a fresh-faced, forthright woman of fifty often to be seen in Gertrude and Alice sitting on an upturned milk crate and frowning in concentration, because she is worrying about the business, while wondering where to fit the books in the box at her feet.

Events proved her right, however. It was a bumper Christmas. Whatever the trials of the book trade, in fact, Gertrude and Alice is usually packed out, as it has been almost since the opening, in premises further down the street. Jane, a Bondi local who had spent many years as a bookseller, had run into author Katerina Cosgrove, who had worked in cafes to support herself while writing.

Only briefly a partner in the business they conjured up between them (for she would soon be writing fulltime), Katerina has said they chose the name Gertrude and Alice because they were inspired by accounts of the cultural and literary life of Paris in the days Gertrude Stein and Alice B Toklas presided over one of the most famous salons in that city.

From the first Gertrude and Alice so completely filled the niche it had created that it was difficult to imagine the neighbourhood without it. Good food and good books combine two of the great pleasures of life and the new café bookstore combined them with such panache it promptly became a hip place to hang out.

Women reading at Gertrude and Alice

A hip place to hang out – and read.

The buzz about Gertrude and Alice never died down. But the original premises were larger by far. Writers who had worked on their manuscripts at one of the scarred tables came back there to launch their books. There were local music nights once a week. Then disaster struck. The building was to be redeveloped. In 2006 Jane was given notice. For a time it looked as if she would be forced to close. Shortly before the death knell, much to our relief, she found premises over the road from the Hakoah Club, a little further up the street, and fitted in what bookshelves she could, before the place filled up again.

People seem to like little better than sitting surrounded by books, whether or not they buy them. The question is if they will buy enough of them to ensure the future of this much loved local institution.

Tucked into the sofa the other day, taking cover behind a book boldly subtitled “The Sequel to Les Miserables” (though drafted a hundred and sixteen years after Victor Hugo breathed his last), I took stock. A woman read to a little girl who might have been five years old. A tall, gaunt, almost cadaverous man with furrowed cheeks sat bent over his book in seeming absorption as the woman seated across the table from him gave her companion strenous advice about his love life. No books were involved. The other customers I could see were busy with their mobiles and laptops.

Girls look at mobile phone at Gertrude and Alice

The seductive call of the mobile, Gertrude and Alice

All had had something to eat or drink, of course. Though the menu was more extensive in the other premises, where there was more space to cook, it is impossible not to marvel at the culinary feats the Gertrude and Alice staff carry off in a space barely large enough to swing a saucepan. Indeed the café has sustained the rest of the business when times are tough, and times have seldom been tougher for people in the book trade than they were last year, when the other bookshop in Hall Street closed down.

But Jane isn’t one to give up. She secured an alcohol licence and brought in the new books. Long an active participant in the neighbourhood’s cultural life, she went one step further, and became a sponsor of ‘The Nib’ Waverley Library Award for Literature.

Outside Gertrude and Alice one day, she turned to look across the street. What used to be the Hakoah Club is buried under a huge building still hidden behind hoardings. Construction of the eight-story apartment complex has been a nightmare for those who live or work close by; now they’re worrying what will happen the building is finished and people are moving in. Not Jane Turner, who had heard there would be a hundred and thirty-two serviced apartments in the complex.

Briefly picturing the hundreds of people emerging from the building to check out the café bookstore on the other side of the street, she gave the ghost of a grin. “It might be our salvation,” she said.

Postscript: But if I’ve persuaded you to go and pick up some books while sampling something delicious, think twice about going today. There’s only a barista there. Jane has taken the staff for a short vacation in the country to thank them for all their hard work over Christmas. They’ll be back tomorrow.

500 square metres of Bondi

By Elisabeth Wynhausen

Luke Wilson at Bondi Beach.

Luke Wilson at Bondi Beach last Friday.

There is often a moment in people’s lives they look back on later on, wondering if everything fell into place for them at that instant. For Luke Wilson that moment came the day before his fifteenth birthday. He was walking down Campbell Parade, Bondi Beach, on his way home from a swimming carnival, when he noticed a man pulling a surfboard from a car and stood staring. The instant he saw the board’s design, Luke bolted over.

“That’s my board,” he said, grabbing it to carry it into the surf shop, the Bondi Surf Co. He hadn’t imagined it. It was his board – the first custom-made board he would own. He’d had cheap polystyrene boards before but this was a proper fibreglass surfboard.

Twenty-one years later, Luke was in the Bondi Surf Co., perched on a bench under a rack of skateboards, telling the story. He was there because he has worked in the shop ever since and was at work that day.

Inevitably the shop changed with the times. The original Bondi Surf Co was little further up Campbell Parade and sold only boards and wetsuits rather than the branded teeshirts, boardshorts, bikinis, baby rashies and hoodies considered essential to the business now. What Luke remembers from the days he first worked there is that there was always a mob of surfers hanging around. It had been like that since the shop opened, when it was known as the Hole in the Wall. “Everyone hung out there,” he said. “They used to leave their boards in the shop, wetsuits everywhere. It was a proper hangout. That’s long gone…”

The thought made him nostalgic. “Back in the day we had everything,” he said, reminded that he and a couple of mates shared a three-bedroom flat, with a sea view, for $300 a week. They were in an old building occupied by swarms of surfers, a two minute walk from the beach. The place was emptied out four or five years ago after the local council ordered the owners to install a few mod cons like fire exits and back stairs.

Luke surfing some years ago

Luke, back in the day.

Luke thought of it as the end of an era that stretched from the working class Bondi of his childhood to the days half the surfers he used to know had gone because Bondi was beyond their means.

And yet for all the dizzying changes he sees around him, he manages to live his life as if nothing much has changed. In fact you could set your clock by him – and probably your compass – because his trajectory through space and time is as steady and reassuring as the ebb and flow of the tides.

Except when he goes fishing far out to sea with a mate who owns a boat, he stays within an area as neatly defined as it would have been had he lived in a little village a long, long time ago.

He goes from the flat on Hall Street he shares with his brother, Shane, to the brick wall at the south end of Bondi Beach, where he sits watching the world go by until it is time to cross Campbell Parade to report in for work. Nine hours later he covers the half-block to Ravesi’s, the bar on the next corner, grabs a beer and then another, orders something to eat and parks himself at his usual table, by the window overlooking Hall Street. It is a straight line up the street to his flat.

Luke after work at Ravesi's

Luke’s table.

The routine is as unvarying as the route. He likes it that way. The very predictability of the pattern is how Luke singles himself out. Other people like veering off the beaten track once in a while. Not him. But the fact that he has anchored himself to his little patch makes it all the more noticeable that he is part of the bedrock of Bondi, the vital substratum often forgotten in all the froth and bubble about the place.

There is something solitary about him and yet if he is at Ravesi’s or on the wall at the south end of the beach, with his headphones on and his cup of tea beside him, no more than a minute or two will pass before the first of a dozen or more people pause to greet him.

At the beach, first thing in the morning, young surfers often stop by to ask if he happened to notice what they were doing right or wrong “You’ve got to encourage them,” he said when I mentioned it, recalling he once told me he was five when he taught himself to surf, on an old foam surfboard he and his brother had dug up somewhere.

Luke, aged five, borrows a board

Luke borrows a board

Luke and his brother

Luke (on the left) and his brother Shane with a board each at last

They weren’t from the sort of family that could afford to buy them things. They were condemned to cheap polystyrene boards – and boards they bought second-hand – until the great day Luke ordered his custom-made board with money he had earned working part-time. He still has photographs of it. “I drew all over it. I’ve been doing that 20 years. Now it’s trendy to draw on your board,” he said, waiting to have it recorded that he was ahead of the trend, before he unfolded himself from the bench under the skateboards. His break was over. It was time to get back to work.

Luke Wilson at work

Luke Wilson at the Bondi Surf Co.

Belle’s of Bondi

By Elisabeth Wynhausen


Gitta and Fred Gold in Belle’s Lingerie and Frock Salon. Photo courtesy of the family

Belle’s Lingerie and Frock Salon was a fixture on Hall Street, Bondi, for so long it was possible ever afterwards to close one’s eyes and picture it as it had been.

Boxes were stacked up on the shelves behind the glass counter that ran from the front of the shop to the tiny fitting room at the back. There were boxes of bras and nighties, petticoats, stockings, step-ins and suspenders, all arranged by size, from the floor almost to the ceiling, leaving just enough space at the top of the shelves for a few promotional posters from the manufacturers’ reps. Petticoats and nighties would be nicely pinned out in the window on the right, with a pants suit in pride of place in the other window. If they paused to take in the familiar sight, people going past nodded and waved, returning the smiles of the diminutive figure by the counter.

Everyone in the neighbourhood knew Gitta Gold, who bought the shop in 1955, keeping the name Belle’s Lingerie and Frock Salon because she and her husband, Fred, didn’t have the money to change the sign. The sign stayed and so did Gitta, who kept Belle’s going another forty-one years. But she never knew who would walk in next. One day, a Saturday she remembers as if it were yesterday, she looked up to see Sonia McMahon, the wife of former prime minister Billy McMahon, walking into the shop, carrying a basket with a small dog in it.

“She bought a very nice animal print twinset from me. Two ladies in the shop looked after her little dog while she tried it on,” Gitta recalled when we talked about it not long ago. Her daughter Mimi Teeger had arranged for us to meet at the Montefiore Home in Randwick, where Gitta lives these days. Still elegant at the age of 85, she was all in white – she always wears white, said Mimi; as soon as everyone had gone into the dining room and only the three of us were left on the terrace of the retirement home, Gitta lit a cigarette. Mimi raised her eyebrows. Gitta looked unrepentant.

“I was caught here smoking,” she said. Her late husband used to say ‘that’s the 11th commandment – don’t get caught’.

The couple met in Sydney after the second world war. Fred had survived a Russian labour camp in Siberia. Gitta, as a teenager, had survived Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen. “That’s where I was liberated,” she said, dismissing the subject to talk instead about the many happy years at her shop in Hall Street.

She spoke in a soft voice with a slight accent. “I bought it from a Mr Goldstein,” she said, remembering that she and her husband had had just enough money to buy the shop and a little extra stock. The same thing was happening up and down the street. Other refugees from Central Europe were doing as the Golds had done, working long hours in a factory until they had saved enough for the key money to take over the lease of the shop. Fred was there, too, at first, looking a little out of place, standing by the till, dressed in a suit and tie. “But as it was mostly lingerie and corsetry, the ladies didn’t really want a man in there, so he started driving a cab. Later on my sister joined me.”

Belle’s was on the block of Hall St nearest the beach, two doors from Bates Milk Bar, on the corner of Campbell Parade. The Hakoah Club, the hub of Jewish social life, started out nearby before re-opening in a big building further along Hall Street. “The Hakoah being there, I was in a terrific spot. They came in and said ‘where is the Hakoah?’ So I had people from New Zealand and America who came to the shop.”

Celebrities found their way to Belle’s , too. The popular opera singer June Bronhill came in one day and asked Gitta if she had something suitable for “a little old lady”. With equal delight Gitta recalled customers from every walk of life, including the men who bought themselves bras and suspender belts and baby doll pyjamas. “There was one. I had to call him Marlene.” She gave a little laugh. “I pretended I knew everything. He said he needed a couple of pairs of shoes. So I said ‘I’ll go to Max’s across the road and bring you the shoes.’ ”

Gitta would go to great lengths to get what her customers wanted. “Mum gave a really personal service, ” added Mimi, remembering her father and her aunt visiting the clothing manufacturers in Bondi Junction and Surrey Hills to pick things up. “They’d ring a customer and say ‘I’ve got this for you, you’ll love it.’ Customers would take half-a-dozen dresses home to ask their husbands which they liked best.”

Naturally the customers changed as succeeding waves of immigration changed Bondi. The influx of Russian Jews in the 1970s brought with it some customers willing to stand haggling over the price of a dress or a skirt. Gitta often caved in

She wasn’t much of a businesswoman, she said. At the end of the day, she would roll up the notes in the till and take them home for Fred to count. But she loved the buying and selling and the contact with her customers.

People bought less but liked to linger over the transaction in those days, when buying a new outfit was something of an occasion in itself. And if they felt a need to talk, Gitta was ready to listen. “I was a very good listener. I gave them a cup of coffee, I gave them a cigarette, an icecream from the corner, and they talked. And they went out relieved.”

It made her feel so useful, Gitta confessed. She wouldn’t have wanted to miss as much as a day of her forty-one years at Belle’s. The shop closed about twelve years ago. And most days Gitta Gold still wishes she was there.

Gitta Gold, still elegant at 85.

Gitta Gold, still elegant at 85.