Every Saturday morning before they could watch cartoons, the 7 Llewellyns had to do an hour of weeding in the garden. They grew enough tomatoes to make enough homemade pasta sauce to see them through the winter, corn was shucked and whatever wasn’t eaten fresh straight off the cob was turned into luscious creamed corn, enough asparagus to make their wee smell for months, beans, peas (Gregory used his time wisely by shoving them up his nose), grapes were plucked from the vine and either preserved or turned into grape juice and pumpkins were quickly turned into pumpkin pie for sale at the school Thanksgiving Fete.

It was quite an operation. And it didn’t end there.

Under the house they had a root cellar in their basement, – yes, I realise that to every Australian that sounds very, very rude – but to Americans it just means a place to grow potatoes and other root vegetables. (Gregory quickly stopped using that term shortly after moving here).

Of course My mother-in-law Frannie, remembers Gregory’s loud and passionate protestations about the weekend gardening requirements, so finds it rather ironic that one of the first things Gregory did when he moved here was start a garden of his own.

Originally, the plan was to grow as much of our own produce for the restaurant as possible, but that quickly became an impossibility and for much of last year, the garden languished in a state of neglect, weekly harvesting still possible, but it was really more like a scene from Day of the Triffods.

And then, sometime in the madness of last year one of my brothers came home, at loose ends after returning from his latest overseas adventure, so we quickly threw him behind the bar a few nights a week and then tossed a shovel and a bag of manure at him and told him to get busy.

This week, he’s off again on his next great adventure, and his farewell party was a working bee in the Hartsyard garden. I know, we really know how to show our staff a good time.

My brother, the head gardener. Delegating all day long…

What’s even more remarkable than our amazing staff giving up one of their two days off to pick and ho and shovel and dig, was that (unless they’re telling porky pies) they all said they had a really good time.

Events such as these should be chronicled, so it’s lucky our PA Amy came along for the day, making it very clear by dressing entirely inappropriately for a day in a veggie garden, that she was here for photographic purposes only.

‘I do not,’ she said quite firmly, ‘like worms.’

The newest Hartsyard recruit, joining us in perfect timing for my brother’s departure is the delightful Gabby. As is the Hartsyard way, there was a little bit of nepotism involved in her hiring, as Gregory, Cass and I all already knew her, but when someone is as fab as Gab, hiring her is just clever business.

Fresh from her overseas adventures (we really should get a Hartsyard business discount at Flight Centre I reckon), she was shadowed by a thoroughly besotted little Q all day long…

Mark, our jack of all trades, who is shortly jetting off on his holiday to the greatest city in the world (NYC of course) got involved early, throwing pumpkins at Amy, swingin’ a pick and wearing my brother’s old jackaroo hat like he didn’t grow up in suburban Brisbane!

The box-hut thing you can see to Mark’s right is in fact a smoker built by my brother and Gregory. We’ve had many a delicious treat from there, but the most recent discovery was a female funnel web which we explained to American Gregory was not to be trifled with. She lived in a jar for a day or two, fascinating Q with her frustration at her curtailed freedom until my brother dropped her into an anti-venom clinic for milking.

Doesn’t he fit the part? You’d never guess he works full time at an inner-west restaurant.

Maddy, our bartender, turned up fashionably late and fashionably gloved. But I would expect nothing less from our Mads.

She too, was somewhat inappropriately dressed for the occasion, but decided the manure might be a good pedicure for her feet…

Still smiling after a hard day’s yakka.

But it wasn’t just staff that got their hand’s dirty.

Here’s my husband with one of his roots…

Does anybody else support me in a beard trim? It is like making out with a woolly mammoth. An aging woolly mammoth. Look at that grey in his beard people!

My belly button and I got amongst the action…

I also managed to wear the biggest hat in the world. It was like walking around with a UFO on my head.

At some point, pants became an unnecessary item…at least for some.

And don’t worry, it wasn’t just all work, work, work, we gave ‘em a few minutes off for R&R.

In addition to a two-year old, we also had to garden with our other brother’s young pup, Ruben. Wildly enthusiastic, but not entirely helpful some might say.

We dug, we mended, we picked, plucked, potted and planted. Autumn delights are now in the ground, the back beds are ready for our winter selections and the herb beds are filled with different and interesting varietals ready for cocktails, Andy’s desserts and as seasonings in Gregory’s dishes.

In one short day, we accomplished what would ordinarily have taken us weeks. A few of us suffered aches and pains in the days to come (I tell ya, you know you’re 6 months pregnant after a day spent in the garden folks), but any immediate discomfort was treated that evening at Arcardia Liquors in Redfern, a favourite hang out for the staff.

Gregory and I know it and we tell them too, but it doesn’t go astray to make it public every now and again, that we’ve got a pretty excellent staff at Hartsyard.

Thanks gang, your worker bee efforts were truly, greatly appreciated.

• Firstly, happy easter! I hope you had a wonderful extended weekend. Isn’t it just the greatest of holidays? Popping up at a different time each year and hanging about for 4 whole days. It’s brilliant. Or it would be if you weren’t a restaurant open for the those entire 4 days. As we’re still in our first year, we considered it an exercise in data gathering and here’s what we discovered – 1. our guests were as lovely as always, a lot of them out-of-towners who otherwise wouldn’t have joined us. 2. 6 no-shows on Good Friday can really get you down. 3. Holiday wages are brutal. If we open at all next year, don’t be surprised if the entire operation is staffed by house elves. 4. Andy makes a damn good hot cross bun. 5. We did not sell an inordinate amount of fish dishes on Good Friday. Not sure if this means anything much at all to be frank, but it might look good on a spreadsheet somewhere.

• Since we opened again in the new year, (yes, I do realise that was months ago) we have changed the way we do our teas. They used to be picked fresh to order and steeped in hot water before serving, but we’ve since discovered that picking them fresh from the garden and dehydrating them intensifies the flavour and our guests seem to agree. Currently on selection are camomile, chocolate mint, lemongrass and apple mint.

• Cassie (our GM) is currently on her American odyssey. Drinking and shopping her way across the United States, finishing up in New York where she will catch up with Ash, our good friend who designed the space and Mike Bennie, our good friend who consults on our wine list. I am just a tad envious. As autumn hits here, it reminds me of my very favourite season in NYC – the fall. I have such fond memories of running in Central Park, the coloured leaves falling gently at my feet, a scarf and a jacket to keep you warm and the audition season about to kick in, as directors look for casts for their the christmas shows and tours.

• Our pastry chef went to NYC last year, Cassie’s on her way, Mark from Front of House heads there in May, Amy our PA just got back from a few months in Europe, Sungha our Sous Chef went home to Korea for 5 weeks at christmas, Maddy our Bar tender is heading to South America for 3 months at the end of the year, so Gregory and I decided we’d beat them all by heading to exotic far north Queensland for a weeks R and R with our not-quite-so restful and relaxing two year old. 

This is the sort of carnage she can create if left alone for even a quick sprint to the bathroom…

• Cocktails – new cocktails are coming on the menu these days. Most recently one designed by our very own bar tender Maddy. It’s called ‘them apples’ and i’d have a picture for you if we all didn’t keep forgetting to take one. Suffice to say it’s apple-ee and spicy, finished with some froth and a dash of cinnamon. Perfect for the fall.
• Brunch. I was going to put this in small print, or right at the bottom on the assumption that most people who skim blogs wouldn’t see it anyway, but I’ll be brave and tell you upfront that Gregory and I have shelved brunch ideas for the moment as if we were camels, it would be the straw upon our backs. This little husband/wife team just couldn’t handle Sunday mornings as well, so it’s been put in the too-hard basket, alongside selling the hot sauce and fighting with council for a parking permit. Gregory promises me he won’t go spouting off to any more bloggers about imminent brunch dates unless that date has been well and truly written in stone. Thanks for all the interest in it folks, and I am sorry, hopefully when we get to it, it will have been worth the wait.
• The most commonly asked question, (apart from ‘where did you get those lightbulbs’ – Empirical Style in Melbourne folks, and they’re absolutely delightful to work with) is; ‘when are you opening your second restaurant?’ At which point I break out in hives, drop to the floor and start convulsing. I don’t know if there are words to adequately express the sheer exhaustion experienced through opening this restaurant, except to say that desperate times call for desperate measures. ‘What can I do to get out of this much work?‘ I thought to myself one late night/early morn. ‘I know, I’ll get pregnant again. That ought to do it,’ and so I did and Team Llewellyn/Hart is thrilled to report we’ll have a new friend come the Spring this year. I’m already taking up valuable space in the dining room, so Cassie has cut me back to one shift a week and i’m looking forward to putting my feet up and getting weekly pedicures…

Look at it chilling out in there. Legs crossed, sending us a high five. Can’t wait to meet it.

So there you have it folks, a brief rundown of recent happenings at Hartsyard. And a more than valid reason for not opening Hartsyard the second. At least, not with me involved!

• Because we’re muppets and didn’t think it through in time, we’ll be open for Anzac Day too. So if you fancy an American restaurant on a particularly Australian Public Holiday, we’d love to see you. Q and I might even whip up a batch of anzac biscuits for the occasion and I will be the Hartsyard house elf, so my rounding torso and I will seat you if you come on in.

Happy Friday folks, hope you all have a wonderful weekend.
 
 
 
 

• You’d better be ready to open those doors bang on 530 because there can’t be much worse for a guest than having to stand outside staring through the window looking in at the staff finish finishing their meeting and throwing back a pre-shift shot of tequila. Not that you’d ever see that at Hartsyard.
• Those dishes had better leave the pass before the ding of the bell stops resonating or you’ll find your ears resonating with the screams of an irate chef instead. Again, not something you’d ever experience at Hartsyard.
• Cocktails need to be off the service bar the second that bar tender has finished arranging the flowers or you’ll cop a mean look from one of them. But not from our bar tenders because they’re all as gentle and meek as newborn kittens.
• Tables need to be bussed and reset for the 730 turn by 734 no later, or the hostess will be up your nose with a rubber hose. You’d probably better ask the staff about that one…I may be guilty of expecting a superhuman speed on the reset.
• Phone must be answered by the fourth ring, which is far easier said than done when it rings at 734 on a Saturday night and everyone in the dining room is flat-chat trying to pull off the point above.

Yep, most things in hospitality need to be addressed immediately, which I suspect is why kitchens run with curious parallels to the running of the military. Although no one is going to die if that dish takes an extra thirty seconds to hit the table, but you try telling some chefs that during the middle of a hectic service.

I should issue a disclaimer here and say I’ve never, ever heard Gregory let loose on a staff member, but a piece of equipment that kicks the bucket in the middle of service…well…it’s not language you’d want your child to hear that’s for sure.

So it stands to reason that because the needs of the guests always come first, the needs of the staff always come last.

Like toilet breaks (never at 734. Why are you even asking?).

Or ciggie breaks, which I’m always threatening to ban as I like our staff and would quite like them to stick around for longer than those cancer sticks might allow…

Or hunger pains. Suck it up baby, you’re going to have to wait till midnight now.

Or christmas parties.

Yes, christmas parties. No one in hospitality can ever do them during the actual christmas period because we’re too busy hosting everybody else’s, and then (in our case) we closed for a bit, then opened again and did the onsite and Big Day Out, then our sous chef was still overseas, then our PA was away, then we did OzHarvest and Rootstock and then it was the end of February and we really had to fit it in before Easter.

And so we did. On Monday. A day predicted to storm and downpour, but Mother Nature knew just how much our staff deserved this and turned on some brilliant weather for our little sojourn by the sea.

To begin, Cassie had organised Bare Foot Bowls at Clovelly Bowling Club and I tell you folks, it was absolutely brilliant. Sharing the view with a few hundred dead people, (Clovelly Cemetery is right next door) we had a magnificent vista of the great australian coastline, the roaring ocean below, Bondi and Bronte beaches on either side.

Thats’ Cass our GM on the left and Mads our bar tender on the right. They go orright those gals.

Now Lawn Bowls provided a fairly level playing field amongst the staff as we’re all under the age of 120 and no one appeared to have much previous experience in the sport. Sport. I use the term loosely as I think more energy was expended raising the cider glass to the mouth than on the actual activity itself.

Dan and Mark, our front of house men. Rocking the skinny jeans better than any of us girls ever could.

Amy exhibited some superb form making it look like she knew what she was doing, but it was all a ruse and she was firmly (along with Maddy and I) one of the worst three players of the day.

One of the bar tenders spoiled things by telling me I couldn’t bowl like it was cricket and despite my best efforts to channel my grandmother (I even wore her white hat) I contributed absolutely nothing to the score board.

Look at that pose. I really think I’d suit being a lady of leisure. Think I might go and talk to my husband about that…

Sungha lost form somewhere between the 6th and 7th cider, and we all risked listeria by eating soft cheeses that well and truly melted in the sun.

Cassie had told us all to dress conservatively and you can see from this just how that statement was interpreted.

It appears to mean everyone must be wearing pants.

From there, we were joined by our good friends Nick and Scotty from The Rocks Brewing Company and headed down to Bronte for a barbie and a surf.

We began our feast with prawns somehow involving old bay mayo and they were delish. That chef of mine knows a thing or two I tell ya.

Someone got out the frisbee and the sleeper in this event was undoubtedly Mark our Bar tender/waiter/host who put up an impressive performance with not 1 but 2 beers in one hand while catching and throwing the frisbee with the other.

Phill led the way on the barbie (or grill, as Gregory still calls it) and Sungha made friends with the Koreans next door, so we shared our meaty fair with them.

A few of us braved the ocean (a tad messy and sea-weedy that day) and then we all played the obligatory game of cricket using the garbage bins as wickets. Of course.

At one point I heard Cass explaining the rules to Dan, our server who has been with us since day one. Fair enough you might think, Dan is foreign after all, but he’s foreign as in from the UK and I’m pretty sure they invented the game. Still, to give him the benefit of the doubt, their weather is so bad over there, they were probably forced to play dominoes indoors rather than backyard cricket at their Saturday afternoon barbies.

Another foreigner lined up to bowl and my husband began referencing great former pitchers for the New York Yankees. Fine, except none of us knew who he was talking about and you’re not allowed to pitch a ball on the full in cricket anyway Gregory.

He still finds the rules of cricket bizarre. ‘You mean you don’t have to run if you hit the ball? What kind of game is this anyway?’

By now, many people were feeling the effects of too many ciders and not enough suncream, so we headed home and regrouped for a quiet evening at Arcadia Liquors. (I’ve not been there, but they’ve been in to us, and I tell you, they’re some of the finest people in the biz. Stop in sometime if you’re in the ‘hood).

A couple of people stayed home to watch the Oscars and I went home to our girl, and after she was abed, slothed about on the couch watching Q&A and seriously pondering the state of the universe.

Undoubtedly that’s another topic best left for another blog on another day.

So there you have it folks. Most people celebrate christmas on December 25th, the yuppies in the Blue Mountains do it in July and Hartsyard does it in February.

Does this mean next Monday is a public holiday for New Year’s Eve?

Now wouldn’t that be nice…

Like me, throughout those halcyon high school days, A and M spent a fair bit of time involved in sport and music, all of us dabbling in academic pursuits when we deemed it prudent to keep the teachers at bay. Cheering each other on at a freezing early morning cross-country event sets you up for a life time of friendship, so when I returned to Oz and announced our intention to open a restaurant, A put me in contact with their elder brother, whom I had met once. When I was 14 and thought high-waisted jeans were the way forward.

Enter Mike Bennie. Tracksuit pant lover, dog owner, profanity connoisseur and wine maverick, who – along with Ned Brooks – introduced us to their many and varied contacts so that we might have the interesting and varied wine list we desired.

Now, I’m not trying to publicly blow smoke up Mike’s arse, but what he did was pretty excellent.

Gregory and I opened this restaurant with a certain amount of naivety – Gregory was American and I’d spent 8 years living there. We knew no one and no one knew us. In hindsight, this created a certain artistic freedom for us, for while we consulted many people along the way, our creative vision wasn’t hampered by fears of what industry folk would think. We didn’t know any industry folk, so we couldn’t begin to do the thinking for them.

But Mike knew them and he probably had a fair idea of what they might think too, yet he didn’t let on and jumped on to help us despite not knowing whether Gregory could even scramble an egg.

In the fickle world of Sydney hospitality that takes guts. But if you wear tracksuit pants out to fancy restaurants clearly you’re not lacking in guts.

And so began a beautiful friendship that now sees us thrilled to be a part of Mike and his mates’ wine festival this Sunday, a festival called – Rootstock. It’s a pretty fantastic concept – artisan wineries from all corners of the world, farmers, chefs, writers, thinkers (I’m in the last group no doubt). There’ll be music, masterclasses and like-minded folk to have a yarn with over a delicious glass of wine and some Hartsyard fried chicken. (We figured if we sold out at Big Day Out during the hottest day on record, Fried Chicken must be a decent festival option).

I love me a market, a festival, a school fete. Remember those? Back in the 80′s they were pretty stereotyped – my dad worked the BBQ while mum ran the lucky dip prize, though I suspect Rootstock will be slightly more progressive than the Newling school fete circa 1986.

Tickets can be bought online through the Rootstock website, or you can get them on the day at the festival doors. Spots are limited though, so I’d buy in advance if I were you. (She says like she’s organised and always on top of things).

I reckon it’s going to be a cracking way to spend a Sunday, and if you’re at all interested in sustainability and a forward thinking food movement, I’d say this will be the place to be.

It’s funny where friendships can lead you, who those friends can introduce you to and the journeys you can go on with them.

Why don’t you come on down (there’s no dress code, tracksuit pants are fine) you never know who you might meet…

I realise that in social media, (where a second after an event happens, it’s no longer called news) talking about BDO is like talking about Woodstock, but – as usual – it’s been a tad hectic about these parts and I’m only just getting to writing a blog now.

We served plenty of poutine (hot cheese in 46 degree heat? Go figure) and plenty more Fried Chicken, mostly to 16 year old girls wearing what barely passed as denim underwear, midriff exposed in their fluorescent lycra, wearing no hats but oversize sunnies.

Speaking of…somebody pinched mine! What kind of karma do you get for stealing sunnies from someone serving you HOT FRIED CHICKEN during the hottest day on record? I took them off for but a moment, while the sun dipped briefly behind a merciful cloud and when I looked back they were gone. Pilfered by some punk who (if they’re a Buddhist) will be coming back in the next life as a slug.

We did our best to keep cool, taking it in turns to walk to the misting areas, but they were largely ineffectual, as the mist seemed to boil during its fall. So we resorted to the cool room. Five minutes per person, the outside air so steamy that the cool room just seemed normal.

In a more personal example of just how toasty it was, I drank nearly 4 litres of water and felt no need to visit the restroom until late, late that night.

Still, we had a blast. Genuinely had a great time. There was a fantastic camaraderie amongst the Chow Town Restaurants (Darren from Three Blue Ducks popped over with several glasses of their delicious ginger and mint tea), everyone sold out of their food and ended the night by rocking to The Killers and the Chili Peppers.

Everyone except me that is, because I am a hundred and fifty and was rather tired by this point, and also because the early start had meant a sleep-over for Miss Q at my parents’ place and I was pretty keen to catch a cuddle before she retired for the evening.

(Just quietly I’m pretty sure the staff were rather annoyed I didn’t reap the rewards of my efforts and at least see one band, but I’ve assured them that if we’re asked back again next year, they can all fight over my spot).

Back on the home front, Hartsyard has had a couple of makeovers since we opened again for 2013. The biggest being that after putting up with a cool room not even sufficient for a school tuck-shop, the boys now have a brand spanking new one and can often be found standing in there, admiring their new digs.

The garage (originally intended to be the on-site herb garden) has been partially converted to provide more dry storage and compensate for the space lost with the new cool room. The beer kegs now sit out the back and are encased in a lovely chicken wire and reclaimed wood hutch, and there are plans afoot to install some more prep stations.

The garden is now being regularly tended to (it morphed into something out of Day of the Triffids last year as it became impossible for Gregory to work 16 hours in the kitchen and also plant vegetables. Slacker) and turns out odd things like carrot pollen, flowers for the Peachy Keen cocktail, sorrel, purple basil and chocolate mint. We’ve also changed the way we present our teas. Rather than herbs fresh from the garden, they’re now herbs that were fresh and are then dehydrated and dried so they present in the more traditional form of herbal teas. It’s a family affair here at Hartsyard, so the garden responsibilities have fallen to the youngest of my brothers who also moonlights as a bar tender.

Next up for Gregory, is the great OzHarvest CEO Cook-off on Monday 11th of February. Gregory runs his kitchen with more precision than Lance Armstrong’s doping program, so we don’t actually give any food to OzHarvest, but they’re a brilliant organisation and we’re thrilled to be able to contribute this way. For further information, or to make a donation, please venture here.

We’ve also finally made a decision about Easter and will be open the entire long weekend. Good Friday has the same restrictions as our Sunday licence (liquor sales only till 10) and I promise to hide easter eggs amongst your seats.

We are also – and I’m having palpitations even putting this in print – heading towards an opening date for brunch.  I won’t print it yet, as Gregory’s mind is more troubling to negotiate than a minefield, but I can tell you that it will definitely be on by Easter, that we won’t be taking reservations and there will most definitely be some delicious boozy cocktails on the menu.

New dishes are constantly appearing on the menu, Andy’s Pie Of The Night happens every Friday, Saturday and Sunday and Cassie’s wine list is rather lovely this year if I do say so myself.

Looking forward to seeing you all sometime soon,

Naomi.

I do hope y’all managed a break, a bit of a swim and several glasses of champagne.

The Hartsyard team managed to fill their time off with a variety of activities including spear fishing, regular fishing (slightly less energetic and somewhat safer one imagines), movie watching (us girls escaped Tuesday’s heat with an evening viewing of Les Mis. Now answer me honestly people, is there anyone out there who wouldn’t leave their fella if Hugh Jackman came a knocking???) beach visits, some lazy exercising, yachting (that was Cassie, our GM, she’s the sophisticate in the group) book reading and crashing their grandmother’s mobility scooter into their mother’s car. Alcohol does the darndest things to people doesn’t it?

We regrouped again this Monday, kicking off the week with Gregory’s 35th. You’d think this would be the one occasion of the year that a chef wouldn’t have to cook, but it was also the only date we could find to do a photo shoot with Sydney Magazine, so cook he did. A fabulous souther American bbq that you’ll be able to read about in the March issue I believe.

Tuesday was another photo shoot, this time for industry mag Food Service, but I can’t tell you anything about that because our apartment, directly above a restaurant smoking and roasting kilos of meats, was not the ideal location for a two-year old during one of the hottest days on record, so Q and I got out of dodge and went to my parents who are fancy and have air-conditioning.

Wednesday night was a party for some dear friends, friends I grew up with who also played significant roles in getting the doors to Hartsyard open. They reckon we did them a favour in hosting, but without them, there wouldn’t have been anywhere to host in.

Today my dad took us through an on-site which you can read more about here, but in essence he guided us all through the business so we could look at our strengths and weaknesses and strategise for 2013. Gregory, Cassie and I were slightly nervous to start – felt a bit like we were standing in front of the staff with our pants down – but  it was the best thing we could have done. We’ve got some excellent people working with us I tell you, and with excellent ideas. 2013 already looks less daunting!

So come 530 tomorrow, we’ll be ready to throw open our doors and welcome in our first guests of the new year. There will be a stack of new dishes to try – 3 seed, 3 feed and 3 desserts (don’t worry, the fried chicken and the sundae haven’t gone anywhere), a new wine list (haven’t sampled all of Cassie’s selection yet, but I promise to work hard to complete that very important duty) and new uniforms. Actually that last bit is a lie. But they’re coming sometime before Easter I promise.

As usual reservations can be made online, or we’d love to have you in the bar area which remains unreserved seating.

Looking forward to serving you sometime in 2013,

Naomi and the Hartsyard team

6 months after we opened, we’re taking a break and the little Hartsyard machine is going to have a rest for a couple of weeks.

Which is a good thing because everything around here is on the fritz.

Including me.

Especially me.

The computer system keeps blowing up, forcing us to print dockets from the kitchen, hand write bar orders and stamp every bill before the guest sees it.

The glasswasher in the bar is moodier than our two-year-old daughter, so the bartenders spend the evening coaxing, cajoling and finally over-riding the stupid thing before it floods the bar and then the restaurant.

There are times I wish I could override our daughter…

Tonight, as I was wrangling our small human while trying to print off more gift certificates, the ink in both printers ran out, so I had to reformat, print off and hand stamp them, all while a poor customer was waiting patiently for me to get my act together so she could get her gift and get on her way.

The cool room is on its last legs, which is fine as we’re getting it replaced in the new year, but if it doesn’t last the next couple of days, 2012 will finish with a real fizz. And a lot of lukewarm milk.

The upside to that scenario being that the coffee machine got fixed so at least we could make you coffee.

Cassie is running down the wine and beer (I don’t doubt that what’s left, the staff will obligingly drink whilst cleaning after service on Saturday night), Gregory is running his inventory list to the wire and I am very much looking forward to a two week sabbatical from washing the napkins and the aprons.

Ohhhh, just seeing that in print makes my heart sing.

Back in his homeland, Gregory opened 14 restaurants for various people in Connecticut and New York, so he had a fair idea of what we were in for. But honestly, these first six months have been wilder, crazier, sleepier, exciting-er, tenser, weirder and funner than even he could ever have imagined.

To our staff – Andrew, Sung, Phill, Hendra, Buti, Martin, Goh, Cassie, Mads, Mick, Dan, Sunaina, Amy, Mark and Rhys, thank you. For your belief in us, for your commitment, for your skill and your enthusiasm.

To our family and friends who help us in so many ways, thank you. For the emergency bar shifts, the q-sitting, the business advice, the home-cooked meals, the support texts, the admin assistance, the laundry folding and the love, you can’t know how much easier you’ve made things for us.

And to you, our guests. Thanks for wandering in out of curiosity, and to many of you, thank you for coming back time and time again! Thanks for embracing Gregory’s menu, and relaxing in our little urban homestead. Not blowing smoke up your bottoms folks, but we all comment frequently on just how lovely our guests are. It is our true pleasure to serve you.

So, to our staff, please enjoy your time off. Relax, rejuvenate and rejoice in having no knives to polish or radishes to prep.

To our guests, I hope you’re all catching a break too.

And to you all, we wish you a wonderful christmas holiday. May it be filled with cold seafood, long walks on the beach, friends, family and much fun and laughter.

May 2013 bring you peace, health and happiness and we look forward to serving you again in the new year.

Happy holidays, Gregory, Naomi and the Hartsyard Team!

OUR LAST SERVICE FOR 2012 WILL BE SATURDAY 22ND OF DECEMBER.

WE WILL REOPEN FOR DINNER ON FRIDAY 11TH OF JANUARY 2013.

The Big Day Out in 2013 is embracing the art of creating great festival food as part of the expanding BDO experience. The concept is called ‘Chow Town’ and is named after the tasty town from its sister festival, Lollapalooza in Chicago.

The Australian version of Chow Town will provide music lovers with another dimension to their Big Day Out escapade, a taste experience.

Guess what people? Hartsyard will be right there with you! Our pop-up style eatery will be located in Chow Town and we’re planning on serving up our favourite comfort foods.

Tell us what favourite Hartsyard dish you would like to chow into?

Regulars to Hartsyard may have noticed that we never had a door handle on the back door.

Well now we do. Fancy I know.

Once our male celebrity had completed that task, we set him to work sawing a table in half and attaching the separate pieces to walls in the back area so the boys could have more storage.

Then, just to perpetuate gender stereotypes, we lumped the female celebrity with the laundry. Restaurant napkins…kitchen aprons…our daughter’s play clothes, constantly covered in playdough dye, Gregory’s nest of disgustingness…seriously, I don’t know what he does, but he generates more laundry than any person I’ve ever met. In New York that was fine, he’d just drop it off at the laundromat, but things ain’t as cheap here as they are there and his new slave is me.

Fenced in on both sides. There is no escape from the laundry monster.

Next up? Adding a touch of privacy to our slightly ghetto upstairs apartment.

Q and I are up at a sparrow’s fart, when most normal humans are still abed…unless you are a construction worker. And it just so happens that there is a construction site in our back lane, so those poor fellows get quite a morning welcome from Q (who’s generally having a bit of a pants-off-dance-off after a long night in a nappy) and me in my not-quite-fit-for-public-consumption pyjamas.

For the first little while I made an effort with a bathrobe and whatnot, but my enthusiasm for pre-dawn grooming decreased as the new buildings rose, so our American celebrities installed some lattice and purchased a delicious jasmine plant that has thus far survived my overzealous fertilising.

Gregory grew up one of 7, so to supplement the incredible amount of food required to keep their family alive, Gregory’s parents had a monstrous vegetable garden. A vegetable garden that the kids had to help weed each Saturday morning before they were allowed to watch cartoons. Gregory’s mum thinks it rather ironic that her son loves to garden now, as the memory of his weeding complaints have apparently not dulled over the years. Nothing like getting your hands dirty to keep you humble, so our celebrity visitors were treated to a spot of hole digging and radish planting.

Next up all five of us – two adults to wrangle Q, two adults to focus on the task at hand – stopped by an auction house looking for some lockers so the guys out back can store their stuff out of sight of the guest. It is beyond me how men who spend 12 hours in the same place every day can possibly need to bring as much junk with them to work every day, but if you can’t beat em’ join ‘em. So now their miscellaneous life possessions are stored in these lockers that our lovely GM Cassie craftily spray painted for us one afternoon.

I know, I know. You’re not looking at her art skills, you’re checking out her legs. The gal owns a great set of pins. If you’re lucky enough to come in on my nights off, you’ll see her out and about on the floor and might even catch a glimpse of their magnificence in the flesh.

This is the thing about being a GM in a small restaurant. Your job description runs the gamut from staff training and wine ordering, to general art and craft.

You can see my valuable contribution in the bottom right of this shot. A flute of our delicious sparkling Cremant and some almonds.

Walls were painted, gutters cleaned, napkins mended, hooks were hung, wood was sawn, clothes were sorted, buttons attached, holes were mended. It was a working bee (or working buzz as my american husband once called it) on our life.

By the end of their two and a half week visit, our celebrities were no doubt completely and utterly exhausted and looking forward to their flight back to NYC, just so they could sit still for 14hours without having to lift a finger.

So, just who were these American celebrities? And how did they come to be sleeping on the fold-out bed in our living room?

Why they’re Gregory’s parents of course, and we were absolutely thrilled (all exploitation aside) to have them visit. Q got her fill of her American grandparents up close, instead of just on skype, (which she tends to have focus issues with) Gregory and I got unending support and love for the entire time they were here, and – finally – Gregory’s parents were able to see, taste and experience the result of their son’s 18 years in the business.

I imagine it must be a heart-exploding thing, to see your children live the life they were meant to lead. To look at them and know they’re happy, fulfilled, challenged and confident in the choices they’ve made. It’s probably then – and only then – that you can pat yourself on the back and say, ‘job well done.’

So, job well done Mema and Poppy. Thanks so much for coming to visit us. I know you were bummed you missed the buildout and opening, but if you ask any of our friends and family they’ll tell you all you missed was some serious slave labour and a lot of unscrubbed flanges.

We love you, and can’t wait to have you back again next year.

I promise we’ll have sorted out the napkin issues by then…

I am a twhinger.

It’s so satisfying.

And people seem to like it.

Truly, I’ve twhinged about this particular topic a couple of times (I should admit, that apart from the occasional food shot, it’s really the only time I manage a tweet) and every time I have, my cyber friends – and strangers – have reached out with a supportive reply, an affirming retweet, or best of all the comment retweet, where you get validated and retweeted.

Now that can really turn your day around. You start off twhinging, and end up swapping metaphoric back-slaps with your empathisers and sympathisers, the people you chose to follow based on their 160 character description. Your besties. The ones who’ve got your back, or your handle at the very least.

And it’s instant. Or just about. Twitter-ers are fast. I’m not. It takes me ages just to compose the bloody thing – I worry about grammar. Does anyone worry about grammar anymore? Or is that the mathematical comparison of using an abacus to do your sums?

Speaking of things old fashioned brings me back to my original topic – the twhinge. You see, I was twhinging about that restaurant concept from yesteryear, the humble reservation. You know the thing, where you ring up, ask for a time and a table, your time and table are granted, and then you turn up to enjoy your experience on the given date and time.

Or you used to.

These days you book a table at any number of restaurants still dumb enough to take them, then decide on the night which one takes your fancy and fail to call the losers.

Or you change your plans entirely and go and see the new Bond movie. Fine, but you could have called the restaurant you no longer wish to attend while you were standing in the queue to purchase your popcorn.

Maybe you’re sick. Or in labour. Or your dog ate your phone. Except it can’t have, because often you answer when I call, and respond to my enquiry about your absence with a slightly sheepish, slightly stupid sounding ‘oh, I guess I should have called.’

No shit Sherlock.

The worst part?

My feelings get hurt. I think it’s mean. Can you believe it? Complete strangers can upset my equilibrium. I don’t even know 160 characters about them. Why does it hurt that they failed to keep their commitment?  We’re not dating. (Tell you right now, if we were, no-showing at a restaurant would be a deal-breaker for sure).

My friends on twitter have suggested we take credit card details, a deposit, that we block them from future bookings, that we name and shame them in a public forum. All good suggestions friends, but each one requiring more work on my part.

And just quietly, I’m trying to decrease my workload. If I don’t there may be no end to my twhinging.

Other restaurateurs just shake their heads and wonder why we ever took bookings in the first place.

Because we wanted to offer that service. Because we’re parents too and it can really change the feel of your precious night out if you leave the house at 7 but don’t eat till 10. Because we think it attracts a wider demographic than just the hipsters we’re accused of serving. (That topic is another blog entirely folks, which I might get to one of these days if I don’t have to devote so much energy to no-shows…told you I could twhinge).

So why am I telling you this?

Because I’d like to enlist your help.

If you know a no-shower, would you be so kind as to release a box of bed bugs under their sheets then tell them that they’re rude, self-absorbed and suffering from delusions of entitlement. If you’re part of a party that has a restaurant reservation, would you be so kind as to take it upon yourself to confirm the booking? And if you’re neither of those and you stumbled on this blog because you put in the search word ‘twhinge’…well, I don’t know what to say to you because twhinge is not a real word. I made it up.

Right, I’d best be off. Surely I’ve expended my quota of whinging in a public forum.

Thanks for listening folks. As satisfying as a twhinge is, venting my pain in 140 characters or less might give some immediate relief, but it isn’t actually changing anything. And really, isn’t that the reason I twhinged in the first place?