The gentleman the other day at the finger wharf had told us about a good Italian restaurant over on Challis, not far from the hotel — Fratelli Paradiso. Michael and I walked to Challis, a pleasant street rather like Hyde here in San Francisco, a mixture of residential buildings and small, upscale restaurants. This was definitely not raffish King’s Cross. Fratelli Paradiso proved to be a bit hard to pick out among the restaurants because there was no visible sign, so Michael had to ask one of the employees. We went inside and sat down.

It was dark. Very dark, mainly lit by candles and the slightly day-glo fluorescent green stripes decorating one wall. There were menus but by candlelight they were unreadable. There were specials hand written on the wall, but white, elegantly seriffed lettering against a dark background — perhaps a blackboard. Too dim to tell. A good looking young waiter came to our rescue and recited the menu in heavily accented English that only required a couple of repetitions. I ended up seizing on the first thing I understood, a kind of artichokey pasta. I always like artichokes. Michael had a penne with a meat sauce. The food came in large attractive bowls. Mine had something slightly green (couldn’t make out much more, even lifting the bowl and holding it close to my eyes) that tasted very lemony and nice. Michael said his was good too, but eating even good food you can’t see clearly has something slightly oppressive about it. I was glad when we had paid our bill and were back out on the sidewalk.

On the walk back to the hotel down Darlinghurst Road that night I noticed for the first time the little rectangular metal plates set in the sidewalk, memorials to long-dead businesses and local characters. Darlinghurst is a bit more active and crowded in the evening than it is during the day, but Michael waited patiently as I stopped every few minutes to write another inscription down in my notebook:

The Astoria: Cheap eatery, roast and three vegs

Christopher Drennan, 1870-1932, poet, academic, drunk, could usually be found ‘quoting bawdy passages from the classics. You could approach the presence as long as you brought him a schooner of beer.’

Oversexed, Overpaid, and over here

Kenneth Slessor:

Where the Black Marias clatter
And peculiar ladies nod
And the flats are rather flatter
And the lodgers rather odd,
Where the night is full of danger
And the darkness filled with fear
And eleven hundred strangers
Live on aspirin and beer…

The California Restaurant and sandwich bar, Established 1930s by Dick McGowan, ex-US Marine:

 bar stools, club sandwiches, percolated coffee with creme, the second cup free, decor modern, clientele rowdy.

(The space marked by the above inscription is now a McDonald’s. Dammit.)