Saturday, April 02, 2016


Yesterday I caught up with an old friend for mid-afternoon inebriation at Madame Brussels, a rooftop bar that takes camp to stratospheric new levels.

You ride up in an unreliable old lift, which opens into a space decorated with astroturf, fake flowers and reconditioned 1960s patio furniture, where you’ll probably hear Barbara Streisand and the Bee Gees singing “Woman in Love” and other cheesy 80s ballads. The cocktails have lewd names like Ginge Minge and Love Juice, and come out in half-litre jugs festooned with fruit and berries.

“Madame Brussels” herself is lavish blonde of indeterminate age whose vocabulary is 90% “darling” and “fabulous”; like Patsy Stone’s cheerful, upbeat Australian cousin. Her waitstaff are all young, athletic and tanned, the girls in swishy little tennis skirts that offer glimpses of frilly knickers as they lean over, the boys in tight white tennis shorts that show that they haven’t been skipping leg day. And if the sun gets too much for you, Madame provides parasols in pastel colours for your twirl over your shoulder. It’s gayer than Joel Creasey and Jedward combined, and more fun than a hot pink barrel of glitter-covered monkeys.


Blogger Patsy said...

That place sounds right up my street, I'm going to Melbourne immediately. Although they might sniff I am from Perth and not let me in for fear of bland germs.

1:37 PM  

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