Immersive Memories: Melbourne 2025

1

A Melbourne Encounter: Pantaleo’s Grandmother’s Touch

Melbourne, at its heart, is a grand immigration experiment. Every nationality under the sun has pitched up here, bringing their recipes and ambitions. But the truly authentic stuff? Nine times out of ten, it’s not coming from the locals.

Wandering through Collins Street, I found myself at 546, where il Mercato Centrale has set up shop. The “Italian marketplace” concept is hardly revolutionary—every second-tier European city has one these days. But transplant it to the Southern Hemisphere, wrap it in the right marketing, and suddenly you’ve got something that draws crowds. Walking in, I’ll admit, it’s no shabby operation. Twenty-three vendors spread across 3,500 square meters. Someone’s taken this seriously.

Among the various stalls, my attention settled on Pantaleo De Cillis and his “GLI GNOCCHI” setup. One glance at Pantaleo and you know he’s the real deal—that particular Mediterranean combination of warmth and stubborn pride that can’t be faked.

Next to him, Giovanni Carbone is slinging Neapolitan pizzas.

Two Southern Italians holding down adjacent corners—there’s a certain poetry to it.

I ordered Pantaleo’s signature “NONNA’S FAVOURITE”—grandmother’s favorite. Handmade potato gnocchi with Napoli sauce, olives, capers, anchovies, and parsley breadcrumbs. Clever naming, really. Who’s going to argue with anyone’s grandmother?

While waiting, I watched Pantaleo work. His movements had that fluid precision that only comes from decades of repetition—the kind of muscle memory passed down through generations. This isn’t culinary school technique; this is kitchen wisdom absorbed at his nonna’s knee.

In an age when even Italy itself is losing these craftsmen to industrial food production, finding one plying his trade in Australia feels almost miraculous.

The dish arrived, and the first forkful confirmed what I suspected.

The gnocchi had that perfect pillowy texture—tender but with just enough bite to let you know it was made by hand, not extruded by some machine in a factory.

The Napoli sauce struck that ideal balance of acidity and sweetness, clearly made from actual tomatoes rather than industrial paste.

The anchovies provided fleeting bursts of salinity, while the olives and capers added their distinctive bitter and sharp notes, stretching the flavor profile across the entire palate.

But it was the parsley breadcrumbs that revealed Pantaleo’s true skill.

Not just any breadcrumbs scattered on top, but fresh herbs mixed with toasted crumbs and lightly sautéed—a textural counterpoint that enhanced rather than competed.

These small touches separate the craftsmen from the merely competent.

Southern Italian cooking has always been about making much from little. When you’re working with sun-dried tomatoes, olive oil, garlic, and whatever herbs grow wild outside your door, you learn to coax maximum flavor from minimal ingredients. It’s the opposite of the Northern Italian approach with its heavy creams and aged cheeses.

Down south, they let the Mediterranean sunshine do the talking.

Looking around this so-called “cultural melting pot,” I saw the usual suspects: CBD workers in pressed shirts awkwardly navigating finger food, tourists documenting every bite for social media, and surprisingly few actual Italian immigrants.

There’s something perversely modern about this—the authentic culture carriers pushed to the margins while slick “cultural experiences” take center stage.

Calling this marketplace setup an “immersive experience” might be overselling it a bit. It’s essentially a upmarket food court with better lighting and more thoughtful curation.

But Pantaleo’s craft is genuine, and his “grandmother’s favorite” does carry that unmistakable warmth of home cooking elevated to art.

The Italians have a saying: “Il cibo è la poesia della vita”—food is life’s poetry. In this temple of commerce and glass, Pantaleo’s handmade gnocchi serves as a quiet reminder that real excellence doesn’t need marketing speak or Instagram-worthy plating. It just needs time, patience, and an unwillingness to compromise.

Finishing the last bite, I was struck by how precious authentic craftspeople have become in our copy-and-paste world. Here’s Pantaleo, carrying forward his grandmother’s recipes and techniques, interpreting tradition for a Southern Hemisphere audience with the same care his forebears brought to feeding their families.

Perhaps that’s Melbourne’s greatest charm—it’s a city where cultures collide, sometimes authentically, often not, but where the genuine articles still shine through for those who know how to look.

墨爾本偶遇：Pantaleo的祖母味道

墨爾本這座城市，說到底就是個移民實驗場。什麼人種都有，什麼菜系都能找到，但做得地道的，十之八九都不是本地人。

經過Collins Street 546號的il Mercato Centrale。這種「意大利市集」的概念，在歐洲早已司空見慣，但搬到南半球來包裝一下，竟也能騙到不少人。進門一看，倒也不是什麼湊合的買賣——23個攤位，3500平方米，規模確實不小。

在眾多攤位中，目光落在一個叫Pantaleo De Cillis的GLI GNOCCHI攤位上。這個Pantaleo，一看就是從意大利本土來的，那種地中海人特有的熱情和固執，寫在臉上。旁邊是Giovanni Carbone的拿坡里披薩，兩個南意大利佬在此安營扎寨，倒也算是天作之合。

點了Pantaleo的招牌「NONNA’S FAVOURITE」——祖母的最愛。手工馬鈴薯麵疙瘩配那不勒斯番茄醬，橄欖、刺山柑、鯷魚，最後撒香草麵包屑。

這道菜的名字起得聰明，誰敢說自己祖母做的不好吃？

等菜時觀察這個Pantaleo，動作純熟得像個老戲骨。揉麵疙瘩時手法行雲流水，那是從小在祖母膝下學來的真功夫，不是什麼廚藝學校能教出來的。

現在這年頭，真正會做手工意粉的意大利人，在意大利本土都不多見了，更別說跑到澳洲來賣藝。

麵疙瘩端上桌，第一口下去，立刻明白這錢沒白花。軟糯中帶韌性，這是機器壓不出來的質感。

番茄醬酸甜恰當，不是那種工業番茄膏的死甜，而是真正用新鮮番茄熬出來的層次。鯷魚的鹹鮮一閃而過，橄欖的苦澀和刺山柑的尖酸，把整盤菜的味覺光譜拉得很開。

最妙的是那把香草麵包屑。這個細節暴露了Pantaleo的真正功力——不是簡單撒點乾麵包屑了事，而是用新鮮香草和麵包屑一起炒製，增加口感層次又不搶主角風頭。

這種看似不經意的小心思，正是南意大利菜的精髓所在。

南意大利人做菜有個特點：窮則思變。用最便宜的食材，做出最豐富的味道。番茄、橄欖油、大蒜、香草，這些在地中海隨處可見的東西，在他們手裡就能變出花樣來。

不像北意大利那樣動不動就奶油芝士，南意大利人懂得讓陽光和土地的味道說話。

環顧四周這個所謂的「文化熔爐」，CBD的白領們正襯衫筆挺地吃著手抓食物，遊客們忙著拍照發Instagram，真正的意大利老移民反而不多見。這就是全球化的弔詭之處：真正的文化載體往往被邊緣化，反倒是那些包裝精美的「文化體驗」大行其道。

當然，把這種市集式的用餐環境說成什麼「沉浸式體驗」，多少有點言過其實。說穿了就是高級一點的美食廣場，賣的是氛圍和新鮮感。但Pantaleo的手藝是真的，這盤「祖母的最愛」確實有祖母在廚房裡的那種溫度。

意大利人有句話：「Il cibo è la poesia della vita」——食物是生活的詩歌。在這個鋼筋水泥的商業區裡，Pantaleo用一盤手工麵疙瘩，提醒著匆忙的都市人：真正的美食不需要華麗包裝，只需要時間、耐心，和一顆不肯妥協的心。

吃完這盤麵疙瘩，想起一個道理：在這個什麼都能山寨的年代，真正的手藝人變得格外珍貴。

Pantaleo帶著祖母的配方和手法，在南半球的這座移民城市裡，用最樸素的方式詮釋著什麼叫「不忘初心」。這或許就是墨爾本最迷人的地方：各種文化在此碰撞，真假摻雜，但總有那麼幾顆真金，經得起時間的考驗。

2

At Queen Victoria Market, the queue moves with that particular urban rhythm—not rushed, not dawdling, but steady as clockwork. Everyone knows what they’re after: something warm, something real.

You order the börek. Gözleme with cheese.

The vendor slides it across in brown paper, already warm to the touch.

It sits in your palm like a small promise.

Outside, you claim a metal table that’s seen better decades. The wind carries fragments of conversation in three languages, maybe four. You unwrap your prize carefully, as if it might escape.

The pastry bears those irregular scorch marks that only come from proper cooking—not factory-perfect, but honest. Human.

First bite: the satisfying crack of pastry giving way to yielding softness. The cheese inside moves like cream, salty and full-bodied. The spinach cuts through with its mineral sharpness, earthy and clean.

Steam fogs your glasses briefly. You push them up your nose and continue.

Here at your table, time moves differently.

Each bite demands attention. The way the cheese stretches slightly before breaking. How the pastry crumbs scatter across the paper. The particular warmth that spreads from your fingertips up through your palms.

This is not fine dining. This is something else entirely—something more essential.

The wind sharpens, typical Melbourne weather refusing to commit to any single mood. Your hands stay warm against the paper wrapping, fingertips growing slightly damp from the heat trapped inside.

You find yourself chewing more slowly than necessary. Not from any conscious decision, but because this moment has its own gravity. The spinach tastes like iron and rain. The cheese carries hints of herbs you can’t quite identify.

There’s a meditation in simplicity that the complicated world rarely permits.

A sparrow lands near your feet, cocks its head hopefully. You tear off a small piece of pastry and toss it over. The bird pecks once, decides it’s acceptable, and flies away with its prize.

Even the sparrows here have standards.

The last bite always comes too soon, no matter how carefully you pace yourself. You sit back, paper crumpled in one hand, tasting salt and satisfaction.

The market continues its ancient dance around you. Vendors calling out prices, customers negotiating in that cheerful combative way that makes commerce feel almost familial.

You fold the paper wrapper carefully and slip it into your pocket. Not from sentiment, exactly, but from some deeper recognition that certain small rituals deserve preservation.

Standing to leave, you notice how the warmth lingers—not just in your stomach, but somehow in your chest.

Perhaps this is what contentment actually feels like: not fireworks or symphony orchestras, but the quiet satisfaction of having been fully present for something simple and good.

The crowd flows around you as you walk away, each person carrying their own small hungers, their own brief moments of fulfillment.

Tomorrow, you think, you might just do this again.

在維多利亞市場，人群如河流般緩緩移動，各懷心事，卻都指向同一個目標——尋找溫暖，尋找簡單。

你點了一份Börek⋯⋯芝士餡的土耳其薄餅。它裝在摺疊的紙袋裡遞給你，熱氣已經透過紙張滲出。

握在手中，彷彿握住了一個小秘密——平凡，卻充滿可能。

你在外面找了個座位。一張普通的金屬桌子，微風輕拂，人聲喧嘩漸漸化為背景的低語。

你撕開紙袋，薄餅表面有著淺淺的焦痕，不均勻的痕跡反而增添了誘人的氣息。

咬一口，外酥內軟的層次在口中展開。菠菜與芝士在其中相遇，互不爭鋒。

芝士順滑而鹹香，帶著某種慵懶的質感；菠菜則以清新的綠意切入，劃破沉悶。

蒸氣上升，眼鏡微微起霧。周遭的腳步聲和談話聲持續著，但彷彿變得遙遠。薄餅的溫暖將你包圍。

你慢慢咀嚼，每一口都穩定而專注，彷彿只要用心感受，就能將這一刻無限延長。

外面的風有些刺骨，但雙手貼著紙袋依然溫暖，指尖因熱氣而微濕。

你什麼都不想——只有味道，只有口感，只有芝士在舌間留下的那一絲餘韻。這裡有一種寧靜的節奏，就像獨自步行時的腳步聲，或者聽一首沒有歌詞的樂曲。

對這份薄餅，不要求更多。

買下它，坐下來，吃掉。

一個小小的儀式，容易重複，但每次都略有不同。也許是因為人潮變了，天氣變了，又或者僅僅是因為此刻的你，坐在市場的這個角落，手中握著溫熱的食物。

人生中的許多美好，大抵如此。

不在於多麼精緻複雜，而在於那種恰到好處的真實感。就像這土耳其薄餅，沒有華麗的包裝，沒有動人的故事，只是在對的時間，遇上了對的胃口。

你想起某個哲人說過，幸福往往藏在最平凡的事物裡——一口熱食，一陣微風，一個可以安靜坐下的午後。

吃完最後一口，你將紙袋摺好放入口袋。不是為了什麼特殊的意義，只是習慣。

市場的喧嘩重新湧入耳畔，彷彿剛才的寧靜只是一場短暫的夢。但那種滿足感依然留在胃中，溫暖而踏實。你起身離去，步伐輕快，彷彿剛剛完成了一件重要的事情。​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

3

The Tea Rooms 1892 is tucked into Melbourne’s Block Arcade, a gorgeous Victorian shopping passage from—wait for it—1892. They weren’t trying to be clever with the name.

Here’s something wild: Helena Rubinstein worked here as a waitress before she became the cosmetics mogul. From serving scones to building an empire—makes you look at your server differently, doesn’t it? Who knows what future titans are pouring your tea right now.

The interior is full-on Victorian drama: botanical wallpaper in deep greens, dark timber everywhere, crystal chandeliers throwing warm light across old photographs of the arcade’s glory days. It’s like stepping into a time capsule, but one that serves really good food.

They do the tablecloth thing properly here. Not some polyester nonsense—actual white linen, pressed and laid out like they mean it. There’s something to be said for that kind of attention to detail.

The three-tiered stand is basically edible architecture. Bottom level delivers the savory hits: cucumber sandwiches so thin you wonder how they got any cucumber in there, smoked salmon that dissolves on your tongue. Middle tier’s where things get serious—tiny tarts and cakes that look like jewelry. The lemon curd has that perfect pucker, the chocolate mousse is ridiculous. Top tier keeps it simple with fresh fruit that actually tastes like fruit.

Then you wait. Exactly one hour later, the scones arrive. Smart timing—gives you space to appreciate what came before. These aren’t hockey pucks masquerading as baked goods. They’re cloud-light, still warm, crying out for clotted cream and jam. Break one open and steam escapes. The texture hits that sweet spot between crumbly and tender.

That’s when they offer you a drink change. Brilliant move. Tea works with the earlier courses, but for warm scones? I switched to affogato—espresso poured over vanilla ice cream. Watching hot coffee hit cold cream, seeing the steam rise, then tasting that first spoonful where bitter meets sweet and hot meets cold. It’s like a small lesson in contrasts.

Sitting in this 130-year-old space, arcade sounds drifting in from outside, you get why afternoon tea exists. It’s not about being hungry. It’s about being forced to slow down, to actually pay attention to what you’re eating, to carve out time in a day that would otherwise blur past. Sometimes you need ritual to remind you to be present.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

墨爾本的The Tea Rooms 1892，窩在Block Arcade這座1892年的拱廊裡。店名取得直接，就是建築年份，毫不矯情。

當年海倫娜·魯賓斯坦在此當服務員，一個波蘭移民女子，後來成了化妝品女皇。人生這東西，你永遠猜不透下一步會怎樣。就像現在坐在這裡的你，也許正處於某個人生節點，只是自己還不知道。

綠色花卉壁紙密密麻麻爬滿牆面，配上深色木框，水晶吊燈垂下來，整個空間有種維多利亞時代的繁複美感。泛黃老照片掛在牆上，都是這建築的歷史。坐久了，會有種時空錯亂的感覺。

侍者鋪桌布，動作很講究，不是那種快餐店隨便擺擺。雪白桌布，四角垂得剛好。儀式感這東西，有時比食物重要。

三層架上桌。最下層是鹹的——黃瓜三明治薄如蟬翼，煙燻三文魚配忌廉芝士，入口清爽鹹香。中層甜品精緻得像藝術品，檸檬撻酸甜平衡，巧克力慕斯濃郁順滑。上層水果新鮮，草莓帶著微酸，奇異果清香。

然後你得等。一小時後，英式司康餅才來。為什麼要等一小時？我猜是讓你先品完前面的，再來享受熱騰騰的司康配奶油果醬。那質感，鬆軟得像雲朵，配上濃稠的凝結奶油，甜膩中帶著奶香。

這時他們問你要不要換飲料。聰明。茶配司康是經典，但我要了affogato——熱咖啡澆在香草雪糕上，看著冰融化，蒸汽升騰。一勺下去，冷熱交織，苦甜並存，像人生的複雜滋味。

坐在這百年空間裡，聽外面拱廊的腳步聲，你會明白英式下午茶的真諦。不是填肚子，是強制休息。現代人太忙了，需要有人逼你坐下來，慢慢品嚐時光。​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

4

Coffee in Melbourne is the city’s lifeblood, and nowhere is this more evident than in the precincts around Queen Victoria Market.

This morning’s reconnaissance mission yielded encounters with two establishments that rather sum up the current state of play in this caffeine-obsessed metropolis.

St Ali has planted its latest flag at “St Ali and the Queen,” a concept that transitions from coffee and pastry by day to cocktails and aperitivo by evening .

The audacity is rather admirable – they’ve essentially declared war on the traditional opening hours that have governed hospitality since time immemorial. This mob has been shaping Australian café culture since 2005 , so one supposes they’ve earned the right to such swagger.

The space itself embodies that particularly Australian genius for making industrial brutalism feel somehow welcoming.

Raw concrete meets warm timber, exposed pipes dance with Edison bulbs – the sort of aesthetic that whispers “we’re serious about coffee but not so serious we can’t have a laugh.”

The baristas move with the precision of Swiss watchmakers, yet there’s an easy confidence about the place that suggests they know exactly what they’re doing without needing to shout about it.

Market Lane Coffee, meanwhile, stands as “a true stalwart of the Melbourne specialty coffee scene” – which in this city is rather like being called a reliable friend.

Their mission statement reads like a manifesto: “We want to make good coffee accessible and exciting, simple to understand and appreciate, and easy to brew and enjoy” .

Noble sentiments, though one wonders if the very need to articulate such goals betrays a certain anxiety about coffee’s increasing complexity.

What strikes one most forcefully about drinking coffee in the market is the democratising effect of the setting.

Here, amidst the controlled chaos of vendors hawking everything from organic vegetables to artisanal salamis, coffee returns to its proper role as fuel for human commerce rather than object of precious contemplation.

The ambient noise – that glorious cacophony of transaction and conversation – provides a soundtrack that no carefully curated playlist could match.

Melbourne’s relationship with coffee has evolved into something approaching religious devotion, complete with its own orthodoxies and heresies.

Every cup arrives with an invisible bibliography of provenance, processing methods, and roasting philosophies. It’s simultaneously impressive and faintly ridiculous – like watching someone perform brain surgery on a boiled egg.

Yet this obsessiveness, however occasionally absurd, has produced something genuinely remarkable.

In Melbourne, the floor for coffee quality sits embarrassingly high. One can stumble into almost any café and emerge with something decent, often excellent. The local roasters admit to being “a little obsessed,” spending their time “sourcing beans from some of the best coffee growers in the world, looking for superior coffees that are distinctive and memorable” – and the proof, as they say, is in the drinking.

The market setting strips away pretension while preserving standards.

Here, good coffee doesn’t require genuflection or extensive tasting notes. It simply needs to be good – a surprisingly radical notion in an industry that sometimes forgets its primary obligation is to the palate rather than the ego.

墨爾本的咖啡，是這座城市的血液。

今晨走訪維多利亞女王市場一帶，品了幾家頗有名堂的咖啡店，倒是值得一記。

先說這St. Ali，自2005年起便在澳洲咖啡文化中佔一席之地 。如今在市場裡開了新概念店，叫「St. Ali & The Queen」，白天咖啡，夜裡雞尾酒，一副要做全日候生意的架勢 。

這種野心倒也不壞，畢竟現代人的生活節奏，早已不是日出而作、日入而息那套古老程式了。

店內設計走粗獷主義路線，說是「Brutalist yet homely」 ，倒也貼切。水泥質感配溫暖燈光，像是工業風與人情味的折衷。咖啡本身自然不差，畢竟是老字號烘焙商的手筆。

只是這種日夜轉換的經營模式，在墨爾本算是新嘗試，成功與否，還得看時間考驗。

再說Market Lane Coffee，這家專業烘焙商在市場裡紮根已久，以高品質咖啡為賣點 。

如今在新建的Munro區域又開了第三家分店 ，可見生意興隆。他們的理念是讓好咖啡變得「accessible and exciting」，這話說得實在。咖啡本是尋常物事，但要做得出色，卻需要真功夫。

市場裡喝咖啡，別有一番滋味。

周遭是熙熙攘攘的人聲，空氣中混雜著各種食材的香氣，這種環境下品咖啡，比在精緻咖啡館裡坐著，多了幾分生活氣息。

咖啡原本就是民間飲品，在這種充滿煙火氣的地方享用，反而更符合它的本性。

墨爾本人對咖啡的執著，已到了近乎偏執的地步。

每一杯咖啡背後，都有一套完整的理論和標準。這種認真勁兒，既可敬，也可笑。可敬的是對品質的追求，可笑的是有時候過於拘泥於形式，忘了喝咖啡本來是件簡單愉快的事。

不過話說回來，正因為有了這種「偏執」，墨爾本的咖啡文化才能如此發達。每一家咖啡店都有自己的個性和堅持，這種多元化的競爭，最終受益的還是消費者。

在這座城市裡，隨便走進一家咖啡店，都不太可能喝到難以入口的咖啡，這本身就是一種幸福。

4

Three Australian Coffee Houses Worth the Journey

The Weathered Charmer of Gold Coast

Most tourists hit the Gold Coast for theme parks and beaches. I go for a ramshackle coffee shop called Paddock.

And ramshackle it is. Picture a weathered timber cottage that’s seen better decades, paint peeling like sunburnt skin, sitting in a garden that looks half-wild. But this tatty little survivor has something special brewing inside—literally. Right in the heart of the building sits a wood-fired brick oven, the kind that demands respect and early mornings.

Every dawn, the baker fires up this beast and fills the air with the sort of bread aroma that makes seagulls abandon their usual beach scavenging. The coffee itself won’t win awards, but it doesn’t need to. Sometimes honest is better than brilliant.

The Australians have this knack for hiding treasures in the most unassuming places.

It’s the kind of place that proves you don’t need marble countertops to create magic—just sincerity and a willingness to let things age gracefully.

The English invented the garden party; Australians perfected the art of making it effortlessly cool.

Brisbane’s Architectural Conversation

Coffee Anthology tucked itself inside a piece of Brisbane history, and the result is rather clever.

The 1890s heritage façade on Charlotte Street stands like a Victorian gentleman in a business suit—all serious sandstone and weathered dignity. But step inside, and you’re in an entirely different century. Exposed brick walls meet sleek LED arcs that sweep across the ceiling like frozen lightning. It’s industrial chic with historical manners.

This isn’t your typical “old building, modern fit-out” job. The designers actually made the past and present have a proper conversation. The rough texture of century-old bricks plays beautifully against the crisp precision of contemporary lighting. It’s heritage preservation with backbone—keeping the soul while adding some swagger.

The coffee matches the ambition. In a CBD where most cafés cater to the grab-and-go crowd, Coffee Anthology takes time to showcase some of Australia’s finest roasters. It’s the sort of place that reminds you Brisbane isn’t just Sydney’s little brother anymore.

Melbourne’s French Affair

Flinders Lane has always been Melbourne’s secret weapon—a narrow alley that packs more character per square meter than most cities manage in entire districts. Dukes Coffee Roasters claimed its spot in the heritage-listed Ross House, and what they’ve done with the space borders on architectural poetry.

The floor tells the story: original Maufroid Freres et Soeur tiles from the turn of the last century, sixteen-centimeter squares with intricate spiked borders that frame the main bar area like a gentleman’s calling card. The same French craftsmen who created tiles for Parisian cafés somehow found their way to a Melbourne laneway, where they’ve been quietly aging like fine wine.

But it’s not just about showing off expensive materials. The way these tiles climb the walls as decorative features shows real restraint—the kind of confidence that whispers rather than shouts. This is Melbourne at its most sophisticated: European sensibility filtered through Australian practicality.

The coffee, naturally, is exceptional. Has to be. In a city that takes its coffee as seriously as some places take their wine, Dukes built its reputation on meticulously roasted organic beans. But the real magic happens when that perfect cup meets this perfectly preserved space—history and craft coming together in ways that feel both inevitable and impossible.

Melbourne’s love affair with European culture runs deep, but this isn’t cultural cringe. It’s cultural confidence—taking the best of the old world and making it work in the new.

Three Ways to Live

Three coffee houses, three philosophies of the good life.

Paddock proves that authenticity trumps aesthetics every time. Sometimes the most beautiful spaces are the ones that aren’t trying too hard—places that have earned their character through time and weather rather than interior designers and Instagram.

Coffee Anthology demonstrates that progress doesn’t require erasure. You can honor the past while embracing the future, as long as you’re thoughtful about the conversation between them. It’s a lesson in cultural maturity that extends far beyond architecture.

Dukes shows us what taste really looks like—not the kind you buy, but the kind you cultivate. It’s about understanding the difference between luxury and quality, between showing off and showing up.

Together, these three places capture something essential about Australian coffee culture. It’s not just about the beans or the brewing—though both are taken seriously. It’s about creating spaces where life can unfold at a civilized pace, where conversation matters more than efficiency, where the ritual of coffee becomes a daily reminder that some things are worth doing properly.

In a world increasingly obsessed with speed and convenience, these places offer something radical: the permission to slow down. And in that slowing down, something wonderful happens—you remember why you fell in love with coffee in the first place.

澳洲三處咖啡建築散記

黃金海岸那間小破屋

到黃金海岸，別人都去主題樂園，我卻專門找這間叫Paddock的破咖啡店。

說破，真的破。一間風化得厲害的板屋，漆都掉光了，擱在花園裡頭，像個流浪漢。但這流浪漢有本事，屋子正中央擺了座紅磚烤爐，燒木柴的那種。每天清晨，師傅就開始生火烤麵包，香氣四溢，連海鷗都給吸引過來。

澳洲人就是這樣，越是不起眼的地方，越藏著好東西。咖啡談不上驚艷，但勝在真誠。就像這座小屋，坦率，卻讓人心生好感。

英國人講究garden party，澳洲人把這套學了七分，剩下三分加了自己的隨性。結果就是這樣一個地方：不修邊幅，但舒服得很。

布里斯班的聰明設計

Coffee Anthology這間店，藏在布里斯班市中心一座老建築裡頭。

說老，是真老，1890年的磚石立面，厚重得像個銀行金庫。但往裡走，卻是另一番天地：工業風的裸磚牆，LED燈帶弧形排列，現代得不得了。這就是澳洲人的聰明處——既要保護文物，又不願活在博物館裡。

這種新舊融合，在香港也見過，但澳洲人做得更徹底。他們不是簡單地在老房子裡擺幾件現代傢具了事，而是讓兩個時代真正對話。磚牆的粗糙與LED的精緻，竟然相得益彰。

咖啡水準確實高，在布里斯班CBD這樣的商務區，能有這樣一間店，算是難得。像是在提醒大家，不要把布里斯班當作是雪梨的細佬！

墨爾本的法國夢

弗林德斯巷，墨爾本最有名的小巷之一。Dukes就開在這條巷子裡頭，羅斯大樓裡面。

一進門就被地磚鎮住了：法國Maufroid出品，十六公分見方，邊緣還有精美的花紋。這種磚，在巴黎的老咖啡館才見得到。墨爾本人居然搬到澳洲來了，還鋪得這麼考究。

牆上也是同樣的磚，但用法巧妙，不是簡單的鋪滿，而是做成裝飾帶。這種細節，透露出店主的品味。不是暴發戶式的炫耀，而是真正懂得美的人才有的自信。

咖啡當然是一流的，專做有機精品豆。在墨爾本這樣的咖啡之都，沒有真本事，根本活不下去。但光有好咖啡還不夠，還要有氛圍。這間店的氛圍就是這些法國古磚營造出來的——優雅而不做作，精緻而不奢華。

墨爾本人的歐洲情結，在這裡表現得淋漓盡致。但他們沒有東施效顰，而是把歐洲的精緻和澳洲的隨性完美結合。這種平衡感，不是一朝一夕能練成的。

三種人生

三間咖啡館，三種活法。

黃金海岸的Paddock教會我們，樸素也是一種美。不用刻意打扮，真誠就夠了。布里斯班的Coffee Anthology告訴我們，傳統和現代可以和諧共存，關鍵在於智慧。墨爾本的Dukes則示範了什麼叫品味：不是昂貴，而是恰到好處。

澳洲人在咖啡這件事上，確實有一套。他們不像意大利人那樣激情，也不像美國人那樣商業化，而是找到了自己的節奏。這個節奏裡頭，有英國的優雅，有歐洲的精緻，還有本土的隨性。

最重要的是，他們懂得生活。不管是破舊的板屋還是華麗的古磚，都只是載體。真正的主角，是那份對美好生活的追求。這種追求，不需要太多錢，但需要一顆懂得欣賞的心。

喝咖啡如此，做人亦然。

5

Under the dome of the library, you pause.

The place is worth visiting.

Step inside, and the dome silences you. Thirty-five meters high, sunlight pouring through the glass skylight. Six tiers of balconies rise around the octagonal reading room. Desks line up in order, each with a green glass lamp that glows like it has been waiting for a century.

This is the La Trobe Reading Room. Built in 1913, it was once one of the largest domes in the world. Thirty thousand books. Three hundred and twenty seats. In the corner, a spiral iron staircase, now only for decoration, looks like a relic from a steampunk novel. In the past, books filled the narrow balcony corridors. Today they are gone, but the stair remains, a reminder.

Then there is Ian Potter Queen’s Hall, opened in 1856. White stone columns, skylights above, light falling in thin streams. The air carries a strange kind of poetry. It houses Australian literature, poetry, drama, even books on card games and chess. The designers understood that games test the mind as much as books do. At night the hall hosts concerts and dinners. Every corner serves its purpose.

The library’s history is tangled. In 1869, the government merged it with a museum and gallery under one law. The Victorians loved this kind of mix. By 1909, the museum functions were stripped away. In 1959, someone sealed the skylight with copper plates, plunging the dome into gloom. Only in 1999 did restoration begin. Four years later, daylight returned. That was right.

On the fourth floor is the Dome Gallery, “World of the Book.” On the fifth floor there was once “Changing Face of Victoria,” closed in 2022. A loss. From the sixth floor, you look down on the entire reading room. It feels like watching a silent play.

That afternoon, I tried a small experiment under the dome.

Three rounds of meditation. Five minutes each. Nothing mystical. Just closing my eyes and resting. Each time I saw unrecognisable figures, arguably from the books, waiting, patient. Psychology calls this visualization.

Then a warmth spread down from the crown of the head, like the burn of good liquor, throat to stomach. Yogis speak of energy flow. Psychology calls it deep relaxation. In Chinese terms, qi moving freely. Call it what you will.

It did not happen between the bookshelves. It happened in a quiet corner beneath the arch. The right space shapes the right state. Surrounded by books, the mind clears, like a mirror wiped clean.

The architect understood this. The dome’s scale, the light’s angle, the rhythm of space. All calculated. Here you see what it means for architecture to be poetry in stone. Time slows. The heart feels lighter. That is enough.

Before leaving, I stood in the entrance hall.

The thought came: the world is full of noise. Phones ring. Ads shout. Cars blare. True quiet is rare.

Old libraries like this are among the last refuges in a city. And they remain free. In an age where everything carries a price, that generosity matters.

圖書館穹頂下的沉思

這座圖書館，值得一去。

走進去，先被那穹頂給鎮住了。35公尺高的圓頂，陽光從玻璃天窗灑下來，八角形閱讀室裡六層空間一目了然。書桌一排排擺得整整齊齊，綠玻璃燈罩像老式酒吧的檯燈，靜靜地守在那裡。

這就是La Trobe Reading Room。1913年建成的，當年算是世界級的大穹頂。藏書三萬冊，閱讀位320個。角落有道螺旋鐵梯，現在看來像是從蒸汽龐克小說裡走出來的道具。以前書都放在穹頂陽臺那條窄窄的走廊上，現在搬走了，鐵梯留著當裝飾，倒也不錯。

還有個Ian Potter Queen’s Hall，1856年就開了，更老資格。銀白色石柱配天窗，光線從上面漏下來，整個空間漂浮著一種莫名的詩意。專門收藏澳洲本土文學，詩歌戲劇什麼的，連橋牌棋類書籍都有一角。設計者想得周到，知道智力遊戲也是文化的一部分。晚上這裡辦音樂會，辦晚宴，空間利用得淋漓盡致。

這圖書館來歷複雜。1869年的時候，政府頒布個什麼博物館與畫廊一體法案，圖書館就變身兼了展覽館博物館的職能。維多利亞時代喜歡這種「大雜燴」，什麼都往一起放。後來1909年把展覽部分拆了，專心做圖書館。1959年不知誰的主意，把天窗用銅板封了，搞得室內暗如墓穴。幸好1999年開始修復，用了四年才重見天日。現在天光重新回來，這才對。

第四層有個Dome Gallery，展「書的世界」，挺有意思。第五層原來有「維多利亞變遷幻象」，2022年撤了，有點可惜。第六層最妙，可以俯瞰整個閱讀室，像看一齣無聲的舞臺劇。

坐在穹頂走廊裡，我試了個有趣的實驗。

冥想三次，每次五分鐘。不是什麼高深的修行，就是閉目養神。奇怪的是，每次都會「看見」書中的智者，彷彿在說「我們等你」。心理學上叫「視覺化想像」，很常見的現象。

然後會感覺有股暖流從頭頂下來，從咽喉暖到胃裡。這種感受，大概就是瑜伽修行者說的「能量流動」吧。西方心理學解釋為「深度放鬆反應」，東方哲學說成「氣血調和」，反正感覺是實在的。

這體驗不在書架間發生，偏在這拱門下的安靜角落。也對，環境對了，心境自然就對了。書香氤氳中，人會變得格外清澈，像一面擦乾淨的鏡子。

建築師懂得人心。這穹頂的比例，這光線的角度，這空間的節奏，都算準了的。坐在這裡，你會明白什麼叫「建築是石頭寫的詩」。時間在這裡變得很慢，但心情卻很輕快，這就夠了。

離開時的想法

出門前在大廳站了會兒。想起現在的世界，到處都是噪音——手機響，廣告叫，汽車鳴。真正安靜的地方愈來愈少。這種老式圖書館，算是城市裡最後的避風港了。

關鍵是還免費。在什麼都商業化的年代裡，這份慷慨格外珍貴。