Australian Politics & Current Affairs
I used write reviews of Sydney’s pubs, clubs, and restaurants for a website that shall remain nameless. The editors used to publish every word of mine, without question, within 48 hours. They used to be cool. But now, they refuse to publish any negative reviews, no matter how truthful, because “the main focus of the website is to share positive experiences”.
Apparently the whole world is a rose garden, everything is awesome, feelings are more important than truth, and won’t someone please think of the children??? With that in mind, I’ve decided to give this mob the flick and share the following review of Bondi’s “Papa Roma” pizzeria right here, on The Fair Call, with you instead. Enjoy!
Papa Roma – Bondi
You now those hicks in the United States that park their trailer in the same spot every year, where tornados come through and tear everything to shreds? Just like the year before that? And the year before that? Well, Papa Roma is ‘Nader country. And I am that dumb hick.
Because you have to be pretty damn stupid to keep coming back to ground-zero, time and again, when all you ever get is a fucking disaster. Or desperate. Actually, the only time this joint ever gets patrons is when everything else in Bondi is shut. As a late-night feaster, some people have no other option. That is, until last week, when I discovered some much better options. Like roadkill, starving to death in the gutter, or whoring myself out to “Homeless Gary” for some of his pea & ham soup. Anything has to be better than this apocalyptic filth.
I remember the first time I set foot into this den of salmonella and crustified semen. I remember the watery, disease-ridden cardboard they called “lasagna”. I remember the cold, crumbless chicken breast, smeared in brown paste, they called “parmigiana”. And I forgave all of that, because I understand. Life sucks for this mob right now. It’s 11:30pm on a Tuesday night in winter, profits are non-existent, and their only customers are a handful of local boozehounds that wander over from Hotel Bondi. Not your ideal “Bondi life”.
I also understand there are certain people out there who hate the world. People so disillusioned at life, so angry at their upbringing, so disgusted by the misdeeds of their fellow man, they feel the need to wreak havoc upon the world via a dangerous biology experiment, served in fifteen minutes or less. It might be cruel, it might be spiteful, but some people just weren’t cut from the same cloth as the rest of us. I understand all this. I really do.
But nothing will convince me to forgive the injustice done unto me and my lovely lady earlier this week. Nothing. There we were. Two starry-eyed, young hopefuls. Smiles on our faces, songs in our hearts. Blissful, upbeat, optimistic. And then it all fell apart. Everything we’d ever been brought up to believe in as children, all the laughter, the hope, the dreams, all of it came crashing down harder than the Hindenburg as we projectile vomited harder than anyone in human history. Then again. And again. And again. And again. And so on, and so on, and so on, until morning. Then again.
This, dear reader, was food poisoning of the most wretched variety. I personally made a dozen trips to the toilet within an hour, every stage of the night being played in reverse, until there was nothing but convulsions in my stomach and hatred in my soul. I tried to rehydrate. BOOM! Again! A torrent of water, and a single, solitary piece of rancid salami.
I actually reached a point where I was hyperventilating, my arms had gone numb, and the only thing in the world preventing me from going to hospital was the fact that I’m a hard cunt. That, and the fact that my missus hadn’t gone either. Thug life. When the sun rose, when the electrolytes were replenished, when the probiotics were pumped through my system, there I remained. Shivering, sweating, groaning, in a state of total disrepair.
On a positive note, lessons were learned. The first is to never revisit a place that fucks you more than once. The second is not to trust the culinary skills of anyone who sells you piss-warm beer, straight from his “fridge”, insisting that it is cold. Straight to your face, refusing to refund it, because he’s “already opened it”. No joke. Honestly, any clown that can’t keep his beer below room temperature doesn’t stand a chance keeping his meat safe. The third lesson? Patience is a virtue. As in, be patient enough for the shops to open in the morning, because eight hours of hunger is far more enjoyable than what we suffered through. This, I promise you. And the fourth and final lesson? These guys may be the most incompetent, unhygienic, negligent, disgusting chefs in the whole of Bondi, and… That is all!