When Michael came in at about 6:00, he asked me why I wasn’t dressed to go out to the Opera House and I had to break it to him that we weren’t going. Disappointed but resigned, he suggested we go to a restaurant that had been recommended to him, out on Crown Street in Surrey Hills. This turned out to be closed for a private party, so we ended up wandering up and down a uninspiring section of Oxford Street, low, rather flat and dark and undecoratived.

That was where we found The Falconer.

The Falconer is the opposite of the restaurant we visited the night before. It’s in an easygoing neighborhood place, entered through an odd sliding glass door. Dim, but not completely dark, with wooden tables, young, casually dressed smiling staff. Staff and diners seemed to be friends with the place, to have come there not just to eat but to be comfortable. At one table, a large, battered-looking man talked earnestly to a slim, smiling, pretty woman, at another a crowd of twenty-somethings, some leaning back, some resting their elbows on the table, one girl nestled in the arms of her boyfriend. Everyone looked like they belonged, and not because they’d made an effort to belong.

A young, blonde, bearded aussie who was either in charge for the night or actually owned the place, very thin and hippyish, led us to a table near the front, and got us our menus. We were quite close to a window with a view of the flat, dark street. The shelf next to the table had some interesting things tucked into it — a yellow manual typewriter, magazines, a coffee table book on design. I had white wine, Michael had red. I had a delicious cappellini with tomatos and basil and chunks of warm ricotta. Michael had eggplant parmesan. The food came in huge bowls, garnished with thick slices of toasted bread that tasted faintly of salt and garlic.

All that was left to make the evening complete was gelato, which we got on Victoria Street, (very lively for a Wednesday night.) I carried away a dulce de leche in a cup, and Michael a cone of the passionfruit.

Even after we returned home, I remembered the Falconer, missed it, followed it on Facebook. It seemed like such a lovely, friendly place, and the comments I read were all not only enthusiastic about the food, service and ambiannce, but affectionate. This was plainly a loved neighborhood restaurant.

Not so long after we’d returned to the US, tragedy struck. During renovations, water had been left on upstairs. A flood. A floor collapse. Dismayed comments from lovers of the Falconer, sending their good wishes, asking when the place would reopen. From afar, I checked daily, hoping to see good news, but at last, after a couple of weeks, all those voices faded, and it was announced that the Falconer was no more. I still feel sad when I think about it.