Perfect in every way… but his last name is Hitler. Do I have to take his name? Yes, you’re Mrs Adam Hitler. I just couldn’t. Perfect in every way… but he’s a heroin dealer. Does he sell it, like, hand it to the junkie, or is he just the boss? He’s the leader of a cartel, super-rich, Colombian. Is he a good dancer? Killing time with my best friend on a Saturday night, waiting for a table at Hartsyard in Sydney’s not-so-grimy-anymore, just impossible-to-find-parking Newtown, we revert to an old favourite. Perfect in every way… but he’s from Uzbekistan – where’s that? – somewhere near Russia, I think? He’s from Uzbekistan and refuses to learn English, but you can learn Uzbekistani if you want; it’s all physical attraction and google translator. Sounds hot, why not? He refuses to learn English and brings his translator to all of your family dinners and makes him talk to your folks. So he’s a jerk? Then no. Seated at the bar, the amusement continues as a plate of tangy, bitey vegetable pickles ($9) is slid across the marble counter and scarfed. Perfect in every way, a great man, a great lover, but he has unfortunate digestive issues that force him to fart loudly every seven minutes. No. A heap of broad beans with romesco and lemon jam ($17) are charred in their pods, to be popped out and eaten like edamame. So new and tender are the greens, we add lashings of the warm nutty sauce and the boiled-lolly jelly and leave nothing behind. Perfect in every way… but he’s in prison for murder. He’ll be out in two years and insists he was framed. So he’s innocent? So he says. He could murder me? Possibly. Two oyster po’boys ($18) dam the stream of chatter and provide valuable plotting time. A blob of battered oyster teeters on a tangle of coleslaw, dripping in Old Bay mayo and wedged between the halves of an English muffin. Smoky and messy, it’s like eating a whole box off BBQ Shapes with two digits, then licking the caked-on flavour powder off your forefinger and thumb. Perfect in every way… but he is the son of a prominent right wing politician. Does he respect my views? Yes, but you have to be publicly supportive on the campaign trail, as a family member. Absolutely not. Fried chicken with a buttermilk biscuit and low country sausage gravy ($28) sidles up to the bar. It’s the sum of crunch and tenderness and warm sausagey goodness, drowning in the house made hot sauce that we’re now drinking from the bottle we hope to lift on the way out. Perfect in every way… but he used to date a model and insists she is the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. He needs to lie! Lie! Just lie to me! Perfect in every way… but he’s an artist, world famous for his large-scale paintings of cocks and balls. Yes, I just won’t tell anyone. No, dude, he’s like Warhol – everybody knows. Do I have to tell my mother? Yes. Oh fuck it, she can suck it – yes. The mountainous peanut butter and banana sundae with pretzel ice cream, banana doughnut and salted fudge ($17) arrives with two cherries on top and departs an empty vessel but for the stalks. It’s nothing less than seismic. Perfect in every way… but he will only have sex with you while wearing your clothes. I’m ok with that, I like my dresses. No, he dresses as you. Hair and makeup and everything? Yes. That’s creepy, I’m gonna say no. Killer food and killer company, there ain’t no buts about dinner at Hartsyard.


4 thoughts on “HARTSYARD

  1. i think this is my fav story yet! memories of waiting in a disneyland lines.. miss you miss perfect. And yes I’d marry the midget but not the guy with the colostomy bag xx

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