DESPITE the decrepit couches and overgrown plants that adorn it, there's something very chic about indulging in a brewski or two up on Hunky Dory's rooftop. It could be the regulars, who are invariably fedora-sporting cool cats.
Or perhaps it's the laid-back approach the bar staff take; besides us, a stick-legged waitress with razor-sharp cheekbones drops her tea towel on a table and sparks up a smoke. Whatever it is, the team behind Hunky Dory pull out the stops to channel their mantra: less is more and you can go jump if you don't like it.
We arrive on a Sunday afternoon - probably the worst time to visit the bar. Weekend afternoon sessions are one of Hunky Dory's most popular and finding a seat on the rooftop is near impossible. We're forced downstairs to level two to try our luck. Also busy, the covered space offers a few two-seater tables. We move on to the shallow balcony, which is an even tighter squeeze.
Pushing through the crowd, we decide it's much nicer upstairs. But the well-stocked, marble-finished bar we've finally elbowed our way to might keep us here longer. It's a fabulous-looking piece of handiwork, dark and sleek and spilling over with all sorts of exotic potions. Two glorious taxidermied peacocks have been fastened to the exposed-brick wall above while a glimmering chandelier, fit for the likes of Marie Antoinette, dangles over us.
Most impressively, however, our bartender knows his stuff. He offers his educated girly pick (a bottle of Benwarin rose, $39) from the menu, which has been stuck inside a Little Golden Book. Given the bar's minimalist feel, quirky little surprises such as this are welcome.
What aren't welcome are the cockroaches we encounter upstairs after we finally find a spot on one of the rooftop couches. We see two of them in the hour we sit up there. One almost crawls into my handbag. In the bar's defence, many terrace homes in the area are accustomed to sharing their space with these critters. But it grosses us out and because there's nowhere else to sit, we go out the doors on a sour note.
Basement, 215 Oxford Street, Darlinghurst, (02) 9331 0442
Source: S, The Sun-Herald
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