Remembering a dry proho past
We really knew it couldn't last
So let's go out and eat, shall we?
by PHILIP WHITE
People who love to be irritated by Jeremy Clarkson's column, where the reader is tortured cruelly, waiting for the writer to finally start writing about the car, and not what's wrong with his shampoo, may find this intro a touch on the cheap side but I think I know why Jeremy does it. He must start writing before he works out what he's gonna say.
In the sixties drunk blokes heading back to Murray Bridge after a night on the turps in the Big Smoke would finally decide to get off the road and sleep it off in their car in our back yard. Mum would make tea for them, or give them soup, while Pastor Jimmy, my Dad, would ply them with tricky revivalist conversation. He was a firebrand hot gospel street preacher all his life and for a while was a big cheese in the Women's Christian Temperance Union. He died a couple of months back. But while the drunks were swapping a bowl of broth for a wave of fake repentance inside, my job was to sneak outside, raid their car, and tip all the booze down the gully trap.
Apart from actually writing this, I'm not working this weekend. So lunch? You may be as interested as me to learn that one of South Australia's best curry houses is on the clifftop at Aldinga. It's just another little jewel amongst the many that are spread about the Fleurieu Peninsula. Arbind Bhatt worked in the Hyatt kitchen for years; him and his family have run the Aldinga Bay Cafe for three years. They've just pulled all the standard deli-fish shop paraphernalia out and made it a bit more restauranty with crisp new tables and chairs.
Cafe Bombora, Goolwa Cockle Beach ... photo Philip White