Melbourne in Style by Daniel Scott
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Now that I live by the beach, I have given up any pretensions to style that I might once have had. I am the epitome of a scruffy New South Welshman, “dressing” most days in board shorts and singlet. So when I recently received an invitation to visit Melbourne, which included Members tickets to a prestigious race meeting, I knew I had to smarten up.
To me, Melbourne is Australia’s most civilised city. Perhaps it’s the trams and those well-preserved Victorian buildings that summon up a more refined era. Maybe it’s because it is the country’s most European city, with a deeply-embedded café culture and an identity palpably shaped by its post-war immigrants, particularly the Greeks and Italians. Whatever, after visiting Melbourne umpteen times I have grown to love it.
Whilst my previous visits, for events like the Melbourne Cup or on rare clothes-shopping expeditions, have gradually increased my appreciation of the Victorian capital, they have usually been done on a budget. This time, driven by a need to look the part for the weekend’s races and let’s face it, a compulsion to compete with my dapper barrister mate Greg, who will be accompanying me there, I determine to do things with more class.
I begin by checking into the frighteningly-cool Prince Hotel in St Kilda, for three nights. Here, by the sea but surrounded by happening boutiques and restaurants, I hope to morph from beach-bum into a Melbourne man of style.
My first priority is physical: my hair is a tangled mess, my face like a geological map and my back a minefield of computer-created knots.
Happily, help is close at hand. Just a short walk from the hotel, I find a trendy salon where hairstylist Xaneb teases my mop into something presentable. Then, at the Prince’s in-house spa the Aurora Retreat, I indulge myself with the “Moora Moora” treatment.
At the beginning of this treatment, which combines a ninety minute acupressure massage with a back exfoliation and a facial, I am a gibbering wreck of tension. By its end, cosseted and kneaded by talented therapist Zarra, I am so relaxed I can’t speak.
I recover my vocal powers just in time to order dinner in the Prince’s restaurant, Circa. But dinner is too limp a word for the gastronomic extravaganza of eating here. The theatre at Circa begins with mood-lighting, chiffon curtains and banquette seating and continues with the flavoursome flourish of the food. As I dine on Clair de Lune oysters and tuna carpaccio and roast duck breast, beautifully balanced with red lentil puree and pickled watermelon, I feel very special indeed.
The next morning I look at the crumpled grey suit I have brought to wear to the races and realise that it just doesn’t cut the mustard. I take the tram into town and join Fiona Sweetman of “Hidden Secrets” tours for her “One hour bloke’s shopping blitz”, during which she takes me to several designer boutiques. It’s all great stuff but a little beyond a beach-bum’s budget.
In the end it is Paolo Michelini, the Turin-born buyer for gentleman’s outfitters Henry Bucks, who comes to my rescue. Hearing my tale of limited resources and limitless ambition he makes a generous offer: Henry Bucks will lend me one of their stylish suits if I tell people where I got it. So, there and then, in the company’s central Collins Street store, he sets about equipping me to rub shoulders with Melbourne’s elite.
It doesn’t start well. As I present my best $300 shoes so that he can match a suit to them, he looks dejected before declaring them “very casual”. But he is soon pulling potential outfits off the rack, and I have to admit that I am enjoying trying them on. Eventually Paolo suggests something “classic with a twist”, a silver-grey Italian-made “Etro” suit, with large blue and brown checks. It is, to say the least, a little out-there for a man of my simple tastes, and I audibly gulp at the $2000 price tag. But Paolo assures me that, together with blue Italian shirt and striped tie he has chosen for me, it will set tongues wagging.
As I check out of the Prince and move into the equally modish Adelphi Hotel in central Melbourne, I now feel like a starlet preparing for the Oscars. What else, I wonder, do I need to improve the look? I know, a proper shave. This is duly administered to me by another Italian, Leo di Valentino, a Melbourne-barber for over 40 years. After his ritualistic lathering, shave and smothering in hot towels I emerge pink-cheeked and with a chin that can hopefully live with that suit.
When the Big Day finally comes, one more Oscar-like touch is added by the arrival of a stretch-limo to take me and Greg out to Caulfield race track. Even Greg, not given to undue eulogy, seems impressed. “You look good, mate,” he mutters, under his breath, as the limo weaves through the traffic.
It is a perfect day at Caulfield: blue skies, over 30 degrees and a crowd of over 12,000. I lunch among the racing elite, sharing a table with Ministers from the Victorian parliament and receive several unsolicited compliments on the suit.
Unfortunately, though, while Greg cleans up, my attire doesn’t improve my fortune in the gambling-stakes, as I back a succession of three-legged donkeys!
Yet Melbourne can even provide a balm for that. That evening, thanks to my cashed-up friend, I sit on the balcony of the Scusami restaurant on the South Bank, drinking sparkling Italian Prosecco and dining finely, as the sun sets, with typical Melbourne warmth and style, right over the Yarra river.