The Smoking Rocket is one of the signature drinks at Stitch, a basement cocktail bar in Sydney with cheeky Victorian accents, such as the stacks of Singer sewing machines that form the foundation of the bar. The cocktail is silver tequila, chili, lime juice and agave built on a sturdy foundation of Ardbeg, a smoky single-malt Scotch. It’s enthralling, and let me tell you: It was well earned. It had, after all, taken me an hour to get here.
It shouldn’t have. Stitch was less than a 20-minute walk from my hotel in Sydney’s Central Business District. But I strolled up and down the block — and adjacent blocks — no fewer than seven times before I realized I had been repeatedly passing the place. The dim, narrow entrance, next to an airy bakery, is indicated only by an inconspicuous window displaying vintage Singer sewing machines and clothing draped over hangers.
Oh, right — Stitch.
To make up for lost time, I hastily ordered the 1811, a Buffalo Trace bourbon-based twist on the Boulevardier, which is itself a twist on the classic Negroni (gin/Campari/sweet vermouth). And the plot thickened: The concoction had rested in in-house port casks for about six weeks, imparting a rich, almost silky mellowness to the drink. Before long, I struck up a conversation with two cheery waitresses on their day off. They eagerly offered their insider knowledge. And as an unfathomably jetlagged specimen lamenting the loss of 14 hours (“Where’d tomorrow go?” my indignant friend had asked), I couldn’t have been more indebted.
One woman grabbed a pen and a napkin and within a few minutes presented me with a scribbled list of 22 bars. It felt like I had been handed a treasure map. I folded it up neatly, said my farewells and made the trek to the hotel. It took 14 minutes.
Stitch opened in the bustling Central Business District in 2012, just one of several small bars to debut there around that time. These hangouts contribute to the fresh, postmodern energy that practically defines the city. I can’t help wonder whether that stems from the fact that it’s a relatively new metropolis. There are no centuries-old cathedrals, castles or cafes once inhabited by monks, royals, artists and cult intellectuals. There are no war-scarred civic buildings. The most iconic structures are its grand cantilevered opera house, completed in 1973, and the Sydney Harbor Bridge, an art deco colossus unveiled in 1932. Add to that the fact that the city is rimmed by beaches, each one packed with surfers, and it’s understandable how Sydney is as relaxed and modest as it is stylish and forward-looking.
The bars of the city embody the same balance, shunning pretension while mixing up intriguing cocktails, from classic to avant-garde. Yes, some bars are tucked away in that all-too-familiar speakeasy mode that makes me roll my eyes, but unlike the vibe in other cocktail-obsessed cities, there’s no preciousness and no exclusivity at these hideaways. The tucked-away locations started to seem like mere matters of real estate availability.
Such is the case at Bulletin Place, which opened in 2012 on the outskirts of the Central Business District. The compact space has small tables and artfully distressed walls. It’s situated above a cafe in a building old enough that it’s classified as “heritage.” Thus, there are strict signage regulations. It’d be tough to find if not for fashionable types tapping on their iPhones outside. The entrance is guarded by a baby-faced but no-nonsense young man in a black T-shirt who monitors the foot traffic. And, as with Stitch, once you’re seated and your drink arrives, it feels like a reward.
Co-owner Tim Philips, a veteran barman who’s a familiar face on the global cocktail competition circuit, has a laser focus on seasonal cocktails. Menus are scrawled on butcher paper and tacked to the walls because they change daily, a tribute to Australia’s lush vegetation. While the rum in my Corella Swizzle was well aged, the garnish, a generous bouquet of fresh mint, was newly born.
Chatting with Philips, I learned how drastically the city’s bar scene had changed in the past few years thanks to the introduction of what’s referred to as the “small-bar license.” Whereas once bars had to serve food and/or be in a hotel and/or have a gaming license, that requirement was eliminated in 2008 for establishments with a capacity of less than 60. This created new opportunities for entrepreneurs who weren’t keen on the big, boisterous, clubby venues that had long been the norm.
“We’re owner-operated, and small, so it’s easy to control. We never have issues,” Philips told me. “Police came three months after we opened to see if we had the right signage. Since then, police only come when they’re off-duty. These bars look after themselves.”
That same sentiment was echoed by the bartenders at Grandma’s Bar, who told me their location “keeps the riffraff out.” Another Central Business District spot, it’s located down a set of stairs, over which a stag head is perched like a sentinel. The bar is a study in retro kitsch: crocheted blankets, tacky ceramic statues and an attic’s worth of tchotchkes soften the cement-walled space. The menu is rum-centric, but even the drinks with other spirits lean tiki. My Rye Me to the Moon (rye whiskey, Punt e Mes, fresh lime, passion fruit), was so vibrant, it seemed likely to break into a cha-cha routine.
Opened in 2010, Grandma’s received the city’s second small-bar license. The intimacy makes it feel like a house party with Granny as host. I imagine her as a feisty broad who frequented the glammy Polynesian-inspired party spots in California in the 1950s.
Tokyo Bird is the subdued, contemplative yin to Grandma’s sassy, whimsical yang. If it weren’t for the swirling aromas of charred wood and teriyaki wafting from an alleyway, I probably wouldn’t have found this year-old pocket-size restaurant in the ultra-trendy Surry Hills neighborhood.
