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How does a well-oiled machine like Bills Surry Hills cope on a crowded Mothers’ Day, wonders Nick Dent?
It seems like only yesterday that Bill Granger stood in the high tower of his Darlo café stronghold, saw the green pastures of far-off Surry Hills, and said:
I’ll have me some of that. But it was 1996 when Bills Surry Hills opened. Where did those dozen years go, dammit?
Bills cafes are part of the wallpaper of inner city life now. Which may be why it rarely occurs to me to brunch there. Perhaps familiarity breeds contempt.
Still, I figured it was time to give Bills a go again. But not just on any day. Oh no. I wanted to see how this successful franchise would cope on Mothers’ Day, one of the busiest Sundays of the year.
I admit there’s some tall poppy syndrome at work here. Bills has had it pretty good for a pretty long time. Everyone’s heard of it. Whenever you walk past on the weekend there’s a crowd waiting to get in. So a perverse part of me wants to wait for 45 minutes, getting madder and hungrier. Mind you, when I arrive to find about 15 people ahead of me in the queue, the prospect seems less pleasing.
A red-haired waitress is on top of things. She adds my name to a list that looks like a telephone book, but surprises me two minutes later by seating me at a corner table. It’s just large family groups who are faced with waits today. (Sorry, mums.)
My breakfast buddy Marcie is no fool; he goes straight for the scrambled eggs with bacon and roast tomato ($21.10). Bill’s eggs are legend. (Legend, but not rocket science: it’s the cream, stupid.) Moist, melting and feather light, these eggs are like gravid yellow clouds about to erupt with the gentle rain of a thousand splendid coronaries. How can something so bad for you taste so great?
Cracks start to appear when a waiter brings me a latte. Look, I would do anything for love, but I won’t drink coffee out of a fecking glass. Besides, I ordered a skim flat white. The waiter looks a little hurt at my rejection.
Then some ricotta hotcakes arrive. They look yummy, but I ordered sweetcorn fritters ($17.50). Or did I? I’m starting to doubt myself – I admit I can be a pretty vague customer.
But this waiter does not betray a hint of irritation and swiftly replaces the errant meal. The fritters are jammed with corn kernels whose sweetness is counteracted by excellent curls of nearly-crisp bacon and the acidity of a roast tomato half. Big spinach leaves top off a dish that is frankly huge: I find it a bit of a struggle towards the end.
Two Bills classics carried off to well-practised perfection, and even if there were some mix-ups they were righted fast enough. What I find harder to forgive, though, is the coffee.
It’s delicious, strong and hot (and served in a cup, luckily), but it takes more than 15 minutes to show up. In fact, when I order a second one, the bill comes before the coffee does. Do they need an extra barista, or an extra machine? Or am I just an impatient SOB looking for chance to wipe the smile off Bill Granger’s annoyingly youthful face? You tell me.
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