Baron’s, Kings Cross. Once a restaurant, remembered as a bar.
5 Roslyn Street. No dress code. No poker machines. No nonsense.
My most memorable fuzzy memory of Baron’s was at 3am, taking refuge after a big night out — everyone was quietly munted. Stayin’ Alive by the Bee Gees started playing, reviving a heavily intoxicated man who seemingly reanimated from his semi-catatonic state. He stumbled to his feet and began clumsily performing a sort of zombie-like striptease, peeling off his jumper and swinging it above his head. He let go, and the jumper floated across the room behind him, landing perfectly on the head of another equally hammered patron.
For a few moments, the man — whose vision had now been extinguished by knitwear — sat perfectly still, as though he assumed the lights had been switched off. Then he slowly stood up from his barstool, staggered back a few steps, and tripped over a table, taking it down to the carpet along with the drinks and whatever else he managed to grab in a feeble attempt to break his fall.
I don’t really remember what happened after that.
When Baron’s shut its doors, it wasn’t just a bar closing. It felt like the canary in the coalmine for old Sydney — the slow fade of a city that once stayed up late, sang too loud, and didn’t need a booking app to have a good time.
This tee’s for the people who remember (even if those memories are blurry).
