Everything about Gary Owen Hotel gives you the sense that you've stopped off here with your grandparents after a day at the trots. The downstairs decor is dingy, the lighting dull, the wireless radio is punching out the latest race results and the lady behind the bar is the same lady who sold you hot dogs down at the track earlier in the day. Everyone's holding a schooey of New/VB/Old (I asked for a schooner of cider. No deal.) and as the regulars roll in they're greeted by the patrons as if it's an episode of Cheers.
At least this is the way the scene replays in my head. And I think most of it is true ... except that perhaps there were no wireless radio's held to ears, but instead plasma TVs showing the football. And I can't be certain that the bartender also sells hotdogs. But other than that, pretty spot on.
"Upstairs is better," my friend told me excitedly, sensing my apprehension. "Just wait. You'll love it." So we made our way upstairs and, as it turned out, she was right. Kind of. Upstairs was better, but as for my loving it she was a little off the mark. The "vintage chic" she had described involved a couple of tattered tapestry couches reminiscent of my Pop's bowls partner's lounge room, and the faint mixed aromas of moth balls and beer followed us up the stairs and onto the balcony.
Whilst I'm not going to be heading back there in a hurry, upstairs was a reasonably nice and quiet place to meet up with friends for a week night drink. The lady behind the bar was lovely and none of the patrons were too upset when we snagged the meat tray. read more