Bistro Flor
| Where | 555 Nicholson Street, Carlton, 3054—View map |
Contact | 03 9381 4443 eat@bistroflor.com |
Website | www.bistroflor.com |
Open | Breakfast Saturday and Sunday only from 10.00am |
Payment | EFTPOS, Visa, Mastercard, Cash |
Diet | Vegan, Caters to special diets |
Seating | Inside and outside |
Kids | Welcome |
Pets | Welcome |
Come on in Bubs
Antonia Pont 24 August 2008
Some winter Saturdays, you pull back the curtain and the sky isn't dismal, but it isn't really blue either. And so you stay in bed for quite a while with your lover, feeling cocoon-lazy and swapping stories, and realising that even though you'll regret it Monday morning, you probably aren't going to make it to the Vic Market today.
When finally you do rise and shower, you worry if it will be too late for a breakfast at that little place on the corner of Nicholson and Macpherson, so you phone them in advance to ask if there are tables. When the friendly fellow says, "no problem, come on in, Bubs!" you giggle your way out the front door and wonder what kind of place it is you might be going to.
Flor has changed hands not so long ago, and it used to be a favourite of mine for a quiet wine with close friends, catching up on the week, ensconced in the collapsing sofa near the large gilt-edged mirror. Well, the sofa has gone, but the mirror is still there, and so is the enormous, gorgeous front window, framed in heavy velvet curtains. And it still feels like you could be in Buenos Aires, or in an Olde Worlde Paris, but really, you're on Nicholson Street, North Carlton, which is even better sometimes.
When we arrive, David (one of the owners), wearing a dashing maroon-knitted vest and a little peaked cap, greets us. My companion immediately reaches across the table for the enamel sugar bowl. It is the cutest thing ever. Menus and water arrive promptly. Other tables have baby cacti on them and my long coat is delighted not to have to drag over the back of my chair, for David whisks it off to a civilised hook on the wall.
Bistro Flor is almost as comfortable and welcoming as the bed was thirty minutes earlier, but better- it is warm, with tasteful music playing, and coffee really, really nearby.
The paper menu is printed in the same red ink as the signage, and when you turn it over, there is an illustrated knife and fork, also in red, to keep your mind on the job. I scan the numerous offerings that include: ricotta pancakes with baked quince and honey marscapone; Croque Monsieurs and Madames; and home-made toast with fig jam. There is even the intriguing ‘Berliner Board'- a mixture of meats and cheese in the Germanic style. Perfect for the cold. But my winter comfort brain cannot get past the Soft-boiled Organic Eggs with Toast Soldiers. I'm utterly sold. Then my companion and I brace for that tense moment when it is necessary to ask if they can cater for vegans. David doesn't even flinch. He says the chef will happily create something. We breathe out with aso-glad-not-to-feel-difficult sigh.
My tea arrives in a generous pot, loose-leaf, of course, with the requested honey unforgotten on the side. And my companion tells me the coffee is a bitter blend, but made beautifully and with the right kind of soy milk. Waiting for our meals, I make a foray out to the small courtyard and realise it could, as spring approaches, become a second home.
Sometimes you get so used togetting excited at cafés and then being disappointed, that you almost give upon getting excited at all. When I return to our table, breakfast is there and I hold my breath as I crack the tops of my eggs. What happens next can only be described as perfect. They are so beautifully cooked, and there is good salt and ground pepper and the toast is buttery-as-can-be and with that freshly baked smell. My companion has a generous mound of field mushrooms, herbs and wilted spinach on toast, all tossed - I'm told - in particularly delicious olive oil. Because being Vegan doesn't mean you're on a slimming regime. Conversation completely stops. There is only the sound of the Italian men ordering one espresso, and one hot chocolate- for the tougher-looking of the two (hee hee). Outside a couple sits with a border collie lying contentedly at their feet. Another party leaves, and as David ushers them to the door, I think I hear the woman laugh and say, I'll see you for dinner. Well, I can totally understand ...
I never want it to end. When I scoop out the last wonderful bit of my second egg and run a naughty finger across my plate to get every last crumb, I realise that most Saturdays don't quite feel like a Saturday. Sometimes the residue of the week sneaks through with you like a pesky shadow. But as the rain begins to patter outside, and we watch the road change colour through the enormous window, I feel like I am suspended inthe middle of what a Saturday is meant to feel like. My heart rests and I feel immeasurably blessed by this city.
The bill is very modest, and as we pay I tell David how much I didn't mind being called "Bubs". He looks shocked for a moment, and then confesses that he'd thought the woman on the phone was an old friend, hence the term of endearment. Only after hanging up had he wondered if perhaps it was a new customer, whose voice ‘had just sounded like Marion's ...' It didn't matter in the end. He can call me Bubs anytime. And I'll head back to Flor whenever my Saturdays need to be reminded about the proper way to do things on a rainy weekend.