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In April 1986, Mario Maccarone, now 64, and Mario De Pasquale, 72, opened a cafe in Melbourne that became a Fitzroy landmark. Now retired, the elder Mario is still a frequent visitor.
Mario Maccarone: The first thing he ever said to me was, “Two cappuccinos”. There was no “Hello, how are you?” It was 1983. We were working in a bistro where I was the barista and he was a waiter. I was 20 and Mario was eight years older, which is a big gap at that age – 28 seemed like 58 – but it’s in my nature to connect. The older waiters were a wealth of knowledge.
When Mario’s wife, Maureen, became pregnant, the plan was for him to stay home, look after the baby, start a little catering business. He asked me to work with him. The first job was three psychiatrists and their wives, a table of six in a house. Mario was in the kitchen and I was in black and white attire, slicked black hair, opening wines, serving food. Next there was finger food for 80 people. Mario did it all and I walked around serving, looking fabulous. Soon we were up to three jobs a day; we needed a workplace. We found an old deli in Fitzroy, spent $125 decorating it and opened Marios. We worked together for 35 years.
I brought a certain sensibility – skilled but not too formal; Mario brought food muscle. He cooked for the first two years and I was at the front, then we were both on the floor. The place was heaving all the time. We ended up working four days a week each, crossing over on Wednesdays. We didn’t always agree, but we were good at knowing when to compromise.
In the ’90s, we also had the Continental, a venue in Prahran, but things went pear-shaped with the landlords there. Mario wanted to take them to court; I didn’t, but I said to him, “If you’re hellbent, I’ll back you.” We won the case, but lost the place. Supporting him was more important than the result. It’s not unlike a marriage: you compromise for the betterment of the whole.
We’re different characters and that’s part of our success. Mario is forthright, fiery and grumpy; I’ve got more diplomacy and am happy to let things go through to the keeper. I used to say, “Let’s remind ourselves of the 99 per cent that’s good.” He was better at putting his foot down. We once had a chef who did great food but there was no costing. I would have gone gently, but Mario fired him. In retrospect, he was right because the next chef was as skilled but more diligent.
We planned for him to retire in June, 2020, but then, suddenly, we were in the middle of COVID. He said, “I don’t know if I want to leave now.” I said, “No one’s forcing you out. Stay.” It was like the early days again, when we had to roll with the punches: “Let’s have the waiters deliver food. Let’s have a grocery.” A lot of that was driven by Mario.
After he retired in 2021, I had some fear about an increased workload, but I hadn’t anticipated how much easier it would be. We used to discuss everything, menu, staffing, are we putting on a pinot from the Yarra Valley or the Peninsula? Now I don’t have to collaborate, negotiate or compromise. But he’s here a lot. Last week, he made 30 jars of fig and ginger jam for the cafe. He’s always going to be part of it.
Mario De Pasquale: Our backgrounds were similar as children of immigrants from Italy. We’d talk about passata making days, compare nuances of pasta making: his family ate it al dente; we cooked ours longer. We connected on our coffee: we’d both have an espresso after lunch. We were always like-minded.
We opened Marios when he was 24 years old, still a baby but incredibly mature. He made a manual, which listed everything we expected from a waiter from the moment a customer walked in the door. It was unusual in hospitality at the time. Mario is great at implementing an idea, whereas I fumble along. After we’d been open a year, we renovated the place and more than doubled the seating. One night, we were both standing outside the front door, looking in. The place was full of people drinking, talking, eating pasta. There was a vibe. I said, “We’ve done something really fabulous here.” It was a moment.
Strangely enough, we didn’t socialise a lot over the years. We had different lifestyles: he was single when I had two kids. My kids had moved out by the time he had his daughter. We saw each other at work. We had disagreements, but nothing major. Pricing was one. Mario said coffee should be really cheap; I disagreed. If people will pay $5.50 for a Coca Cola, why wouldn’t they pay $5.50 for a cafe latte? I was right, but he was also right: we did want to be affordable. I have incredible respect for him and how we’ve managed the business and supported people. I don’t think there’d be a single staff member – out of thousands of people – who would say we ripped them off. I trust him with my life and I’m sure he’d say the same thing about me.
We cut a deal for me to finish in June 2020, then COVID hit and I thought, “I can’t go now.” I made a commitment to work for another year. It was the greatest way to finish my work life because we had to go back to the drawing board and relate to each other in the same way we’d done 34 years earlier. It was like starting a new business, a fantastic reinvigoration of our relationship.
I’ve been retired five years now. I drive by and it’s great to see the neon sign. I used to be reluctant to come in, but I do go in now. I talk to customers, they all want to know what I’m up to, and the respect the staff show me is extraordinary. Mario and I still have conversations about the cafe [which has just turned 40]. I make all the jams, I don’t have to pay for my coffees and the bolognese recipe they use now is the same one that I documented all those years ago. I’m still attached.
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