I grew up in Sydney. Left Sydney, not for anywhere glamorous. Returned. Many things were exactly as I had left them. Like this place, when I lived in Leichhardt, I’d finish work, get off the bus a few stops early and stop in for a tea. The old guy running the place reminded me of my dad, thick accent. Slight frame. Man of few words, grumpy, but there was a kindness to him. I loved the little ornate teapots and the silence, when Sydney was becoming too much, the silence of this place was comforting.
Frank’s fruit shop is a different memory altogether. A memory of Sydney fruit shops. I didn’t grow up in Haberfield but hated my high school, so would often end up eating arancini in a local café here. The local fruit shop reminds me of my childhood, a place to try strange fruits and new flavours. Frank’s is a place for tomatoes, white cherries and blood oranges.