The Milk Bar

by Katie Howard (United States of America)

Making a local connection Australia

Visiting the Watson’s Bay Milk Bar in Sydney, Australia, is like walking into a slice-of-life play. The stage is set: space is tight, but the shop is stacked to the ceiling with pantry goods. Cans of tuna and packets of spaghetti are lined up neatly with jars of olives and boxes of laundry detergent. Fresh pastries are on display across from a rack of newspapers, and you can almost see the smell of coffee floating in the air in cartoonish curls. Con Georgiou, the owner of the milk bar who looks to be in his 50s, enters stage right carrying crates of, well, milk. He’s wearing a navy Watson’s Bay t-shirt and white cut-off shorts, which he describes as his daily uniform. He offers me a coffee. Downstage, a group of locals are huddled together on the patio, debating politics and technology. A gaggle of schoolgirls pass through to buy handfuls of sweets. As I chat with Con, he asks after everyone that passes by and knows most of them by first name. “How are ya, Nick?” “How are you, Costa?” Nick replies. “I’m losing it, mate,” Con says. “Everybody is.” He turns back to me and smiles. “I really do know everybody.” Think of the milk bar as the corner shop, or the local bodega. The café that knows your order before you do. Through the 50s, 60s, and 70s, milk bar business was booming. Part diner and part general store, in both major cities and rural towns, the Australian milk bar was a place where the local community met for lollies after school, milkshakes after a movie, or a bag of groceries after work. But then, fast-food corporations began replacing small businesses. Inter-urban highways bypassed smaller towns, detouring travelers that may have passed through for a bite to eat. Supermarkets and convenience stores flourished, with their packaged ice-creams, chocolates, and drinks available at all hours. “Gone is this family-run business that offers what they used to offer,” Con says. I’ve always been interested in community institutions like the milk bar; how they serve as a central nervous system for a neighborhood. It’s a place where people come together to eat, drink, gossip, worship, and share. But when gathering places cease to exist, the fabrics of communities can change. The Watson’s Bay Milk Bar has been in operation since 1961, but when Con bought the business in 2013, the shop was shockingly run-down. He doesn’t think it would have lasted another six months. “But I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge,” he says. Easy Marts, 7-Elevens, McDonald’s, Hungry Jack’s, Woolworth’s, Coles – Con thinks there’s no personality in those stores, but there’s also no way he can compete with them. The groceries that he carries, they’re strictly for convenience. His milk bar isn’t a shopping destination, he says. If someone local in the community runs out of something, whether they want frozen peas or a tin of tomatoes, they know that he’ll get it for them. But they’ll pay a premium. He can’t afford to sell it cheap. Every morning, Con’s milk bar is packed with people picking up their coffees before heading to work, and on the weekend, they stick around for breakfast. When he first arrived in Watson’s Bay, there weren’t many cafés. Even though coffee isn’t a classic element of the Australian milk bar, he’s used popular Australian café culture to adapt his business model. For Con, keeping his milk bar open means operating seven days a week, extending his hours, and carrying the crates himself. It’s getting hard. But despite it all, he’s proud of what he’s preserved here. It’s the kind of place that has a familial, small-town charm, but just so happens to be a ferry ride away from Sydney Harbour. My coffee’s gone cold, and Con’s a busy man with phone calls to take and more crates to carry. Before I leave, I take my cup inside, but Con won’t let me pay. “On the house!” he insists. I order a piece of homemade baklava to try and return the favor.