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I moved into my Belmore flat five years ago. I was relieved to finally exit Sydney’s property market hunger games and slide into my slice of the city in the crust dividing Sydney’s sought-after inner west and the greater west-west. In a region where every square kilometre is a class declaration, it seemed apt I’d fall in here. My postcode climbing self, suspended between the street-cred of my childhood western Sydney working-class past and my inner-west political-beanie wearing recycling future.
My building is full of immigrants who mind their business and never snitch, which leaves it to me to write angry letters to council to regulate the sixth extension of hours demanded by the Las Vegas-style pokies in the neighbourhood.
Yes, I’ve been priced out of Marrickville, a 15-minute drive away. But as I survey the view of my spacious double bedroom, double bathroom with a panoramic sunset view of Sydney extending to the Blue Mountains – where I can see fireworks set off simultaneously in Penrith, Parramatta and Sydney Harbour on New Years Eve, I feel happy and satisfied.
The poky Marrickville flats I inspected with depressing strip kitchens overlooking rubbish tips felt like a recipe for depression. To be honest it was only the (positive) Marrickville Karens I was chasing. I mean these are the people who successfully lobbied to impose a curfew on an international airport and insisted on a public walkway on a corporate golf course. I could finally retire my lifetime of agitation for public works improvements in their able hands.
The joys of Belmore: immigrant restaurant names chosen for functionality rather than style, culinary excellence, night coffee. There’s the piping hot za’atar manooush for $3 from Belmore Pizza and Manooush on the central arterial Burwood Road. There’s fresh crunchy banh mi and croissants from Belmore Continental Bakery. There’s Juice Land with every imaginable combination of fresh juice topped with avocado, ashta cream and pistachios for $7. There’s Youies cafe where you’ll find free Wi-Fi and bodybuilders writing in their manifestation journals. Smeed adds glamour to the street with its boutique vintage Arab newspaper-tiled interior and green decor. The Nutella and raspberry white chocolate maamoul, a reinvention of the traditional Lebanese sweet, feels like a metaphor for the hybrid second generation – reframing old classics into a new cool.
But some things don’t change. Like looking good and getting married. Among small businesses and grocers, hair, beauty and injectable clinics and half a dozen gyms crowd a wedding banquet hall and Coptic church. The thrum of the multi-lane mega traffic of Canterbury Road feels like the engine of Sydney, with crashes and chaos part of the vibe. There’s the Muslim ladies in athleisure and bejewelled crocs who brunch at Rust Bucket, the cafe that is packed on weekends – where you can sip on a Salaam Cola sitting underneath evil eye amulets dangling from the ceiling.
Half a suburb away is Lakemba – my parents’ first immigration pitstop on the way to Penrith almost 40 years ago. My black Labrador Tally is still an anomaly here, carefully avoided, reminding me that I am strangely both the original immigrant crew of this area, and its gentrifying replacement.
The OGs though must be the 60-plus retired Greek uncles sprawled with coffee and tiropita pastries outside Belmore Cakes. Showing off their enviable gifts of friendship and time, they argue and chat in the sun. I can imagine them as young men, lining up at Supreme Souvlakia for chunks of ham, lamb and veal as their wives headed next door for baby christening outfits.
Occasionally, I spy a bespectacled white man in the wild, and I know that craft beer, doggacinos, bookshops and vegan restaurants are around the corner, as foretold by the construction cranes bending over the naked metal frames of future luxury apartments.
But for now, when the Canterbury Bulldogs win, it’s a sea of halal blue pouring out of (yes, you guessed it) – Belmore Sports Ground, taking over Burwood Road at night with drums, cheers and honking.
I’ve never felt unsafe at any hour here. Yes, my eyebrow lady might be an anti-vaxxer and one of my barista is a rager against gender fluidity, but at least I’ve never copped a hint of racism here. In Ramadan, the streets are alive as a small mosque up the road empties out and people hang out for coffee, snacks and smokes at the night cafes.
But there is a warmth here that supersedes politics. In Belmore, the smile reaches the eyes, and chats last longer and the coffee shop owner will gift me a dress for no reason. They might just as easily shrug and concede a reversal in political opinion after a positive interaction. It’s a reminder that people are not a stereotype of demographics or a set of beliefs but a capricious constellation of surprises and contradictions.
A 3pm coffee curfew? Hell, no. Coffee kicks on in a few places till the evening hours with Sydney’s dawn run, sun and swim club hours inversed. There’s Turkish Dela from Mastika Gelato and Cafe, who is intuitive and draws pictures on coffees based on what she thinks is your aura. It’s a shell for me today (I need to eat the shell of life apparently). At Elements Espresso Bar, tired international students seeking PR tell me about visa and money woes while frothing milk on night shifts.
For the walkers, Terry Lamb Reserve has the occasional man with a paper bag, but it is heaven at sunset. A walkway hugged by Monterey Cypress trees steers through the centre. White and gold-crested cockatoos surround the tops of the trees like bright lights at sunset. Down below elegant men slowly do tai chi on the grass. A reminder to slow down, relax and enjoy the manooush.
Sarah Malik is the host of The Conversation Room podcast. She also runs a writing and culture substack: Work in Progress. You can follow her on Instagram at sarah_b_malik
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