Marios Mon Amour

GH on a favourite haunt

Over the years, I’ve had a few favourite places in Melbourne. There’s been The Galleon in St Kilda (going), Mr Tulk at the State Library (almost gone), Shakahari in Carlton (already gone). But for taste, tact and effortless suavity, nothing rivals Marios on Brunswick Street (going strong). I’ve been a regular there almost as long as the forty years it’s now been open. That being so, I was invited to contribute a chapter, reproduced below, to a newly-launched anniversary volume. I think I might go there to celebrate.

In Broadcast News, one of my favourite comedies, the star-crossed characters Aaron and Jane are on the phone, and decide they must meet. ‘OK,’ says Aaron. ‘I’ll meet you at the place near the thing where we went that time.’ Jane nods. Next thing, they’re there.

For me, for as long as I can remember, that place near the thing has been Marios. It’s not that I lack imagination, simply that Marios relieves me of the need to waste it. Marios has all you could want, and as you would wish - it is always sufficient, never in excess, whether for two or for ten, whether at 8am or 8pm, whether celebrating, commiserating or simply communing. It’s where you can bring a pal or a stranger, a girlfriend or an ex, a parent or a child. I have friends whom I only see at Marios. I have people with whom I’ve been interested in becoming friends I’ve invited first to Marios as a means of introducing myself - if you’re the kind of person who appears to get it, then we’re bound to get on.

Once there, it’s an invitation not to think too much, or least to think solely about your companion, your conversation, your reason for getting together, your general good fortune in the neighbourhood. Because everything else - food, service, ambience, value - will be taken care of. Every so often, you’ll wonder. How do they do it? How do they get it so right? How does everyone there seem to know exactly what’s needed and what’s not? How come everybody else makes this so hard when Marios makes this look so easy? But, mostly you won’t, because you don’t have to. The service will be impeccably attired, patient and good-humoured; the artwork and posters on the wall will be engaging; the menu will have puttanesca and eggs benedict, the bread will be crusty and free. In days when nothing can be taken for granted, I appreciate ever more those things that I can.

It occurred to me in accepting this commission that an aspect of Marios that’s always appealed to me is the name. It’s not Marios’. It’s not Mario’s. There was a first Mario; there was a second Mario.

Mario Maccarone

Mario De Pasquale

Which was which I do not know, and it’s unimportant. My point is that their unfussy waiver of the apostrophe in favour of a simple plural conveyed the sense of a place belonging to the patrons as much as to the proprietors. Not that even as a regular you feel like you ‘own’ Marios. But you do feel quite protective of it. I’m glad I have never had to fight for Marios, but, y’know, I would. During COVID, its dark windows seemed to signify our deeper malaise. When it opened for passing grocery trade, I made going there a point - it was an investment in its survival, and a gesture to the future. When Melbourne at length reopened, there was only one place to savour it.

Were Marios a political party, I think, it would sweep every election, because it stands for immutable values and qualities. It can get busy; it’s never hectic. Nobody seems too hurried; nothing takes too long. No specials are elevated; everything’s good. No privileges are offered; everyone’s favoured. It’s that place isn’t it? Damn it, why isn’t everywhere this good? No matter, because Marios is.

The Marios 40th Anniversary book features a brilliant array of contributors, everyone from Robert Forster and Dave Graney to Red Symons and Richard Fidler. Guy Rundle has breezily surveyed its customers, Jane Clifton evoked its staff, Christopher Heathcote explored its place in Melbourne’s arts and cafe culture. There’s Tony Birch and Jon Faine, Kaz Cooke and Colin Hay. Pete bought a Marios cap last time he was in town; he’s bound to want a book when, inevitably, we go there while he’s in town this week.

I’d love to include a link to where you can buy it, but just as you can’t book at Marios, you can only get a book at Marios. Still, you want to go, don’t you?