In just under two weeks, we’re getting on a plane. We’re saying goodbye and jetting off to Thailand for a bit and then on home (via long layovers in Tokyo and Los Angeles). I’ve gone through this all before. The goodbyes, the silent desperation to cling to anything that truly means “home”, the hastily planned lunches and dinners, the heaviness of last looks. But I hadn’t expected to have to endure it all again. Sure, I knew I would eventually return home for a bit, but I thought that I’d get out relatively unscathed. And I knew that Dale would accompany me on my next departing flight from Australia. But I was blindsided by the sadness of leaving again.

I didn’t exactly feel like I soared in my last nine months here since leaving the nest. That in itself was a wake up call for me. But just as I was standing back up, dusting myself off, and getting ready to walk out the door, I was invited further in. Acquaintances and sort-of friends suddenly became staples in my weekly routine. Girl time over healthy lunches (usually involving avocado in some form) happened. Conversations of shared hopes and dreams took place. Drinks were had and inside jokes were shared. I got close and now it hurts.

Above all else, my time in Australia has taught me the importance of community. Of not being alone. Of having that support system in place. One of my favorite movies, About a Boy, uses that exact premise. The main character, Will, was just floating along in life until it’s shaken up by a boy, Marcus, who needs him. Will’s life is never the same and he is the better for it. I always took my support system back home for granted. But now I don’t. I now have two communities. Two homes in two hemispheres. My life will never be fully, 100% in one place again. And I am the better for it, no matter how much it hurts.

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Dale’s expression was a mixture of excitement and disbelief. We were standing outside State of Grace on the west end of Collins Street in the center of Melbourne. “But first,” I added, “We have to find the bookcase. I have no idea where it’s supposed to be.”

And so we stepped through the wrought iron-adorned doorway into State of Grace. The bar was to our right with a couple of staff serving customers who were in for afternoon drinks. Other patrons were eating early dinners of steak and other scrumptious-looking fare.

Velvet lounge chairs, gilded framed-pictures, candles on tabletops, and an imposing taxidermied giraffe head filled the room to our left. Still no sign of the bookcase, however.

Dale waited next to the door while I went in search of the bathroom to wash my hands. I pushed aside a door that I thought would lead me to the bathroom but instead lead me to a smaller room with another door in front of me and – lo and behold – a bookcase to my right. After I hurriedly washed my hands I all but bounced back to Dale.

“I found it!” I squealed, excitedly. The bookcase was already open, with a sign that said “Out of Order”. It was disappointing that we didn’t get to experiment with pulling out the books but we crossed the threshold all the same and descended the stairs into a dark cellar bar named Fall from Grace.

The excitement of finding our first hidden bar only added to the first impression Fall from Grace had on us. The chamber was full of candles, some with pools of melted wax, that illuminated nooks and crannies. Velvet-backed chairs liked the ones we had seen on our search above were tucked away in near darkness. Papers with interesting text plastered the pillars in the middle of the room and several oversize mirrors lined the wall. Near the ceiling  behind the bar were racks storing hundreds of dusty wine bottles. Taxidermied deer heads decorated the bar back and two very large crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling as if they were the sparkly icing on a very ornate cake.

We took a seat in a corner away from the bar and ordered drinks. As we were there for the experience more than anything, we kept our libations on the cheaper side of things. Though their extensive cocktail and wine list would not disappoint, should one want to splurge.

Dale and I sank deeper into the couch we shared as we sipped our drinks and took in the atmosphere of it all. My guess is that he was still reeling from the concept of a hidden bar and I was just as in awe of it. Our conversation turned back and forth from silly things to deeper things as we contemplated the deliciously unsettling experience of finding hidden bars.

What: Fall from Grace
Where: 477 Collins Street, Melbourne, Victoria, 3000
How: Find the bookcase hidden in State of Grace. Select the right book and the bookcase will slide open to reveal Fall from Grace. Descend to the adventure below.

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We were so grateful they were open. The Tropicana Juice Bar’s bright orange décor is hard to miss amid an otherwise neutral setting. We squeezed our way into the narrow seating area and took a seat on the bar stools to gaze at the extensive menu of juices and smoothies. Several tropical ones caught my eye, but I knew that Dale’s first choice was never going to be coconut or mango anything. Luckily the menu really is quite large so we settled on a berry smoothie.

But then we noticed a large amount of sign real estate dedicated to the “South American Delight – The Best Juice on Earth, Money Back Guarantee – Top Secret”. With such a claim, we were intrigued. We opted for the $7 large smoothie version and took a seat outside to enjoy the best smoothie on earth.

The pink-colored smoothie was served in an unassuming white paper cup. The texture was creamy; not icy and it tasted sweet, but not overly sweet. It had a hint of banana and berry, possibly strawberry, with a touch of lemon among other fruity flavors. The large size was perfect for the two of us to share. Although there is a promise of a money-back guarantee should the “best smoothie on earth” fail to meet your expectations, it was far from necessary. I am at a loss to think of a time when a better smoothie touched my lips.

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We turned around and Malthouse Lane’s street sign was perched on the off-set side of a building, almost as if peering around the corner to see if we would come back. As we rounded the corner into the deserted laneway, it became apparent that this was the perfect setting for a speakeasy. The sloped concrete alley was mostly devoid of the street art and graffiti that is ubiquitous in Melbourne and only housed one restaurant, the French Brasserie; the rest looked like it was simply the driveway for the Adina hotel’s deliveries. Knowing that Eau de Vie’s address is 1 Malthouse Lane, it was encouraging to see that the French Brasserie was no. 2. As we reached the end of the laneway, however, there appeared to be nothing more there except for a single lantern hanging from a wall and a smooth, grey door that, had it not been for its brass handle, could have been mistaken for more wall.

“I think this is it… I’m going to try it”, I said to Dale as I meekly stepped toward the grey door. “Um… ok…” I heard him say as he stepped closer. I pulled the creaky door open to be faced with a makeshift wall, some sort of equipment covered in a black blanket, and the sound of people talking. I nearly shut the door, thinking we had accidentally stumbled upon a storehouse, but as my eyes adjusted to the dim interior, the shape of a host’s stand appeared next to the wall and a few flickering candles illuminated the interior of a bar. We had found Eau de Vie.

We were greeted almost immediately by an employee who looked like he would have been at home in the 1920s, with his khaki suit vest and neatly coiffed hair. We opted to sit at the bar to “watch the action” as the employee suggested, and were led further inside to a large room occupied by only two other people and the bartender. The dark wood interior was filled with brown leather chairs and low sofas and the walls were adorned with antique glass memorabilia, spotted with dozens of candles. The bar was lit by illuminated glass decanters, which were probably brand new during the era they were now meant to replicate.

Jeffrey, the General Manager with an impressive black beard and handlebar mustache, eagerly shook our hands when we said we’d never been there before. Initially, our time was spent letting our eyes fully adjust to the low light; browsing the menus, one of which was their 17-page whiskey menu; and gawking at the shelves that were filled with all the hundreds of whiskey bottles that a 17-page menu yields. Eventually we struck up a conversation with Jeffrey, who was busying himself with restocking in preparation for the night ahead of him.

“What’s your opinion of Japanese whisky?” I asked Jeffrey, having never considered before that Japan would have a whisky scene. Not missing a beat, Jeffrey offered a brief history lesson on the subject of Asian whiskys and how they were beginning to hold their own in a world traditionally dominated by Ireland, Scotland, and America. He explained how they are apt to vary due to less stringent laws regarding the aging barrels. We went with one of his recommendations, the warm, floral scented 12 year-old Hibiki which was beautifully smooth with a creamy vanilla aftertaste that made you unable to do much more than mutter, “wow”.

Sultry jazz lent itself to the ambiance as we sat there, letting the notion of delicious Japanese whisky filter through our imaginations. We finished the whisky and snacked on a plate of hearty bread, soft curd cheese, and garlic-brined olives. Jeffrey moved on to developing new cocktail recipes for the new opening of a second Eau de Vie in Melbourne. More people filtered in as the time passed, some looked as if they were unsure of what to expect like us, while others confidently strolled in with an air of privilege. Either way, we had all arrived and were now all equals in that dimly lit speakeasy – all in the know that fortune favors the bold behind the plain grey door.

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Our train stopped at Melbourne Central and we set down La Trobe street once we left the station. The map indicated we needed to turn south on Sutherland but what we beheld seemed like it was little more than an alleyway where the backs of corporate buildings and parking garages met. Nevertheless, we obliged and were met by a navy blue sign with a white “S” and dot. Shortstop donuts. We had arrived.

Patrons were sitting outside on the wooden bench seats in front of the roof-high windows. Their chatter grew louder and louder as we approached but the scent of espresso was the first to say hello. Inside, we found a clean, white-tiled interior, ambient music intermingled with laughter, and a man seated at the bar with his laptop open. Had it not been for the gleaming, fresh donuts sitting in the glass display case, the room would have been typical of any cafe in Melbourne.

Like bees to a flower, we were immediately drawn to the bright colors and fun shapes of the donuts that, until that moment, had only existed on my Instagram feed and in my dreams. “There’s the Matcha one, and the Australian Honey and sea salt cruller!” I pointed out to Dale, as if they were old friends I hadn’t seen in a while. An employee explained that they had a display case next to the register showcasing their current selection but we had already eyed what we had come for – the Boston Cream donut, made with a Heilala vanilla creme patisserie filling and 80% dark Callebaut chocolate ganache topping. The stuff of Instagram legend.

There was a certain giddiness in my voice as I said “I’ll have a Boston Cream, please” to the cashier. As our order was being processed we salivated over the other varieties on offer that day – lemon sugar and blueberry, peanut butter and jam, iced coffee… We took a newly vacated seat next to the window in the corner and waited with anticipation. Our giddiness was similar to that of being six years-old on Christmas morning. Not five minutes later, we had two Boston Creams and a cappuccino sitting on our small round table.

The day I found out about Shortstop’s Boston Cream donuts, months prior, was to be the last day they were going to serve them, as it was a Hanukkah special. The vision of the vanilla bean creme patisserie and gobs of dark chocolate perfection would not leave my imagination until I finally accepted that this variation on the Boston Cream – my favorite type of donut in all donutdom – was the one that got away. Fortunately, they brought them back by popular demand and now the Boston Cream was in my hand, heavy from the creamy vanilla filling. The sheen of fresh ganache reflected the light from the window behind me. The first bite into the fried doughy, chocolatey, vanilla goodness was ecstasy. The kind of bite where everything else in the world stops for just a moment and you could cry happy tears that you’re alive. It was the rare moment where black and white, good and evil, chocolate and vanilla, exist in perfect harmony.

The world began moving again. Ganache, before it has cooled and set, often has a mind of its own and soon the thick chocolate topping was all over my face and fingers, as if I had been a two year-old trying to finger paint. One look at Dale and it was obvious he was no better off. There was a basket of napkins across the room and as I got up to get some I was awkwardly licking my fingers and attempting to cover my face where I was sure the chocolate made me look like I had a beard.

The next ten minutes were spent finishing our Boston Creams, obsessively wiping our faces, and sipping the wonderfully bitter cappuccino. The complimentary sparkling water was a refreshing contrast from the cream-laden fried ball of goodness we had just consumed. Shortstop’s elusive Boston Cream was no longer a slightly unhealthy obsession. It was a new love affair. The box was ticked. As we left Shortstop in favor of more adventures that day, I began to wonder if we would ever bother to try breakfast at Cumulus, Inc. next time we were in the city.

How to Experience this Yourself

What: Shortstop Donuts
Where: 12 Sutherland Street, Melbourne, Victoria, 3000

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