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.

The post Melbourne Hidden Bar: Fall from Grace appeared first on Pictures to Follow.

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.

The post Melbourne Hidden Bars: Eau de Vie appeared first on Pictures to Follow.

That morning I had called on a job opening I heard about. I wasn’t thrilled about the prospect of working there for various reasons, the biggest one being that it was such a chaotic, high energy place on weekend nights that the thought of fighting to walk through the crowd that occasionally gathered around the bar and yelling over the loud music just to take an order exhausted me. But it was the best chance at a job I’d had since moving to Australia so I gave it a go. Mark explained to me over the phone that unless I had worked for their company before, they didn’t hire people with my visa because of the lengthy training period. I couldn’t stand to face another solid day of job searching and rejections so in a last-ditch attempt at gaining an interview short of begging for it, I did make the promise that he would like me in person. At 4 pm that afternoon I was ushered in to the strangest and longest restaurant interview of my life.

I first met with Collette, the self-proclaimed filter for potential new hirees. Her young, lightly worn face and genuine expressions were a stark contrast to the array of silver achievement badges pinned to her collar, which were not unlike the “pieces of flare” Jennifer Aniston despised wearing in the movie “Office Space”. Our conversation on job-related subjects and interview questions designed to indicate if the interviewee has more self-awareness than sloths who accidentally fall from trees by mistaking their own limbs for branches, was interjected with her side comments that made me believe not every corporate employee was a zombie. I jumped at the chance to explain that Laura Marling was my all-time favorite singer, providing Mumford and Sons as a mainstream example of “folk” music. When Collette replied that she’d heard of Mumford and Sons it was as if reality had grabbed me out of my fantasy world that valued emotional depth and slammed me back into that red vinyl chair with marketing and branding being shoved in my face faster than food was. Let the corporate conditioning begin, I thought.

I began to have some serious doubts about my motivation for being there when Collette left to get Mark. I focused on my breathing as a test-group-approved song wove its way through the dining room, around the wooden beams and bouncing off the walls plastered with the newest trend in graphic design, meant to appeal to the masses. I recalled the pep talk I gave myself on the walk to the bus stop that afternoon. It will be good to make friends, I thought. You need to make some money so you can afford to move, or at the very least go home. It wont be as bad as you think. This is a long walk, maybe if you get this job you can afford to get a car. I looked up in time to see Mark walking to my table. We shook hands and somehow landed on his life story. I had a minor existential crisis as he told me about studying photography in Manchester, working for Condé Nast in the 90s before the digital revolution, and opening a bar in Spain by the sea because it was a childhood dream. I was hearing wisps of my dream life from a man with salt and pepper hair and an air of resiliency, who had burned out his dreams long ago, as we sat there in that corporate red vinyl booth, thousands of miles from either of our homes.

The talk of travel and photography led me to my usual vivid day dreams but soon dissolved into my time to shine. I had been through interviews for worse jobs, all of which I was less desperate for, and I fought my heart out for them. But I suspected I promised too much on this one. It was soon apparent that he was less than impressed with me, and I was feeling the same way. I stumbled over my words, resisting my temptation to tell him I didn’t want charity and thank him for his time and leave. But my ego wasn’t about to give up. There was no way I had sat there for an hour just to have a man, who gave up on dreams I have yet to realize, decide that I was not good enough for this glossed-over, corporate-fed, inoffensively trendy place. In some sort of wild resurgence I ran my finger down the list of my work history that was sitting in front of him, nearly screaming “Look what I’ve done! Look at how many different jobs I’ve had. I used to work road construction! And I’ve got serving experience. I can bullshit with anybody!”

Yes, I used the word “bullshit” in an interview.

This final attempt at making myself seem like more than just a girl, desperate enough for a job to say anything, sufficed for a few moments. But he still wasn’t convinced and after realizing that he was speaking my mind when he voiced his concerns about my bubbliness or lack thereof, I didn’t have any more drive to fight for a job that I wasn’t sure I’d even wanted in the first place; hour and a half and a $2 bus fare be damned. But instead of making his decision just then, he had me join a group of waitresses who were on their break to see what they thought. All seriousness turned into giggles within a few minutes and when Mark had me return to my original table so he could talk to the girls, I could overhear words like “American” and “accent” dotted between more generic crowd-pleasing music that seemed to be louder now that dinner was approaching.

When he came back to talk, he was still apprehensive and unbeknownst to him, so was I. He didn’t speak immediately and my feet were turned towards the door. It was like a really absurd game of chicken. He was risking wasting time and money on my training and I was risking my dignity. Following one last plead about his need for me to be bubbly, he said, “I can’t go against my team…” and with a pause, he held out his hand and said, “Welcome to the team.” I thanked him as I shook his hand, a partially feigned smile on my face, and walked out the door still wondering to myself, What the hell just happened?

Author’s note: Names have been changed to protect identity.

The post The Interview appeared first on Pictures to Follow.