Just outside of Castlemaine there is a small town called Chewton. The most ornate building is the post office. But there’s also an antique shop with two Australian flags flying out front and the Red Hill pub, which has been recommended.
The inside is light and modern, but it’s a warm day and the bartender suggests the beer garden. We find that the garden is all gravel, with some rolled up, orange construction fencing and a bench lying on its side. Nevertheless, we sit under a Gordon’s gin umbrella and sip our beers.
The bartender brings us a bowl of chips that are covered in melted cheese and curry sauce. These aren’t quite the chips we wanted.
The pub’s menu is Scottish-themed and the bartender is Scottish, too. Presumably these facts correlate in a logical way, negating the fact that Scottish isn’t the first European cuisine that springs to mind.
We ask for a bowl of chips and while the bartender doesn’t say no, he suggests we look at the menu.
He suggests that if we really want chips, if we must, then we should get chips with cheese and curry sauce.
As we pay he says, It doesn’t matter how many amazing, organic things we put on that menu. All anyone ever wants is chips.
I dunno, says F, trying to lighten the mood. Sometimes you can’t beat a bowl of chips.
No, says the bartender. Open your mind.
The sun beats through the umbrella, and eucalyptus trees stretch high over the garden wall. But as promised, the chips transport us.
I feel like I’m drunk in Birmingham, I say.
Yes, says F, or Glasgow.
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