It’s Saturday afternoon on Smith Street, one of Melbourne’s oldest main veins and the centre of the lukewarm stoush between historic grit and yuppie wave that has come to define the city’s inner north. I’m reviewing the street: where do we eat? What shall we do?
I’m at the bottom, Officeworks’ big blue dominating the clodded dirty sky, Alexandra Parade whizzing behind me. My day had actually begun the night before a short walk away – the Grace Darling Hotel, Kent Street, and sweat at Sircuit – and ended, as all busted nights on Smith Street do, at the Peel. I’m feeling like shit and desperate for a coffee. I stop a vaguely cool-looking man with long hair and grey beard puffing out in the breeze mid-sip on a tiny latte: ‘Just up on the corner, it’s good.’
It’s a normal cafe with exposed brick walls, but all six of its enormous fluorescent lights flicker constantly, casting an unnerving freak vibe on the twee and homely decor.
Old Smith Street is still hanging on
Smith Street is, and always has been, a bit shit. It’s what makes it so great.
Shop owners remain from the ‘smack street’ 90s era – I stop in at Pasta Classica, the iconic institution which once included Mama Vittoria’s across the road in its empire.
It’s been in the Tonin family since 1992, and stepping inside is like a portal to the old Collingwood – jazzy, funky, bright. Jackie tells me the biggest change she’s seen on Smith Street over time is the clientele: ‘From the heroin population to the yuppies of today, it's night and day.’
Pasta Classica offers heartfelt service, handmade pasta and sandwiches at alarmingly low prices. The pasta and sauces change each day, and while they aren’t open for dinner, you can take your fresh pappardelle to cook at home.
Jackie recommends the ravioli for first-timers. Classic spinach and ricotta, or beetroot for vegetarians. Her brother Daniel lives nearby, and tells me he loves to drink at Above Board – a hidden speakeasy behind the high street, off Chopper Lane. They don’t serve vodka to their 12 seats, only 15 artisanal cocktails. For lunch – hungover – the crazy new Mexican joint up the road. Otherwise – not hungover – Hinoki Pantry. ‘A peach iced tea and salmon sashimi, always,’ he says.
Smith Street is, and always has been, a bit shit. It’s what makes it so great.
Exiting Pasta Classica’s cosy charm is violent, like being ripped from the womb. Not ready for the main strip’s chaos, echoes of a tense conversation about politics in the Peel bar jostled by half-naked beautiful men assaulting my cortisol, I sit on a bench facing the Grandfather’s Axe showroom, and watch many grey-haired people stop to peer inside at very beautiful and very expensive mid-century furniture.
