Vadim Steven Kerr, Restaurateur
Hyfler/Rosner
Cheap Plonk For Priceless Clientele
BYLINE: Kate Fitzpatrick. Kate Fitzpatrick Is An Actor And Writer.
Vadim Steven Kerr
Restaurateur
1927-2003
I knew Vadim at an innocent, happy time when everyone I loved was still
alive, everyone I knew was young and fearless, and life was a breeze.
All policemen seemed to be middle-aged, overweight, chain-smoking beer
drinkers, probably on the take. If the police commissioner was needed after
hours, the first place they looked was an illegal gambling club. Invariably
he'd be playing blackjack and drinking scotch with the premier.
Hookers were old boilers who could take care of themselves, not junk-addled
children. Strippers in micro-minis, platform wedges and towering silver or
pink beehives tottered back and forth across Darlinghurst Road from the Pink
Panther to the Pink Pussycat. They carried small bowling bags that looked as
if they still contained the balls, useful for clubbing senseless any man
stupid enough to mistake them for common whores.
When I heard Vadim was dead I realised that I hadn't seen him for 35 years
and knew almost nothing about him. He played such a vivid role in my early
life but I wouldn't have dared question him about his. For all his public
geniality and generosity, there were times when the lights went out and the
shutters slammed shut in a vain attempt to contain a spectacularly explosive
temper. Just out of drama school and full of Chekov, I believed all Russians
were mysterious and genetically programmed to project auras of deep-rooted
tragedy and suicidal angst. Moreover, when I met Vadim I was a 20-year-old
waitress, he was my boss and his restaurant so popular there wasn't time to
question the food order, let alone the meaning of his life.
If you lived in Sydney in the 1960s and were involved in any form of the
arts, either as a practitioner or an admirer, you went to Vadim's. It was
small, simple, cheap, neon-lit and full of life. Writers, journalists,
critics, book sellers, advertisers, painters, sculptors and out-of-work
thespians came early. Working directors, designers, actors, TV stars,
dancers, singers, musicians and cooks appeared later. At some time, famous
or not, if you had talent and were in Sydney you went there.
The small, white-painted interior was divided into a street level section
and a mezzanine. Upstairs on the left was where the late great drama critic
Harry Kippax sat. He came every night, usually after the theatre, invariably
by himself. He'd exchange a few words and the odd gruff laugh with Vadim,
nod at various acquaintances and quietly eat his dinner. No one disturbed
him.
In the two years I worked there on and off, Harry's was the only reserved
table. Vadim didn't take bookings. It was first in, best dressed. The tables
were covered with stiffly starched, dazzlingly white and beautifully darned,
floor-length cloths. They were so crisp they whip-cracked as you changed
them. The pepper and salt shakers slid around like ice skaters.
The large table at the top right of the stairs was invariably commandeered
by Vadim. It was handy for spotting debt-collecting gate-crashers. Vadim had
an uncanny way of predicting the visits of these bulky blokes in suits.
Moments before they'd enter, he'd dive behind the bar that divided the upper
level. As he crouched at my feet I'd smile at the strong men and mutter
apologies: "Sorry, not in yet. Not really expecting him. Dunno, Friday
maybe. I'll let him know." Chinese whispers said it was to do with gambling.
The bar featured an ancient cappuccino machine which, at some point in the
distant past, had poured four cups at once. By my time it was down to a
desultory dribble from a single spout, the coffee cool before the cup was
full.
The turnover was incredible. Vadim's jumped until at least 3am. There were
always 20 more customers than there was space and only two of us on the
floor. The food was delicious but the menu when I was there was restricted
to four choices. There were no extras or specials and it never changed:
pelmeni (small tortellini sprinkled with soy sauce); thick, magenta borsch,
hot pink where it was swirled with sour cream; genuine Russian stroganoff
mounds of thinly sliced champignons, onions and ribbons of beef in a sauce
made with wine and cream (no paprika); and pancakes with lemon and sugar.
All the food was cooked in a kitchen the size of a card table by a small
Russian lady, as wide as she was tall. Her hair was always covered by a
triangular scarf and her skirt by a flower-patterned apron. She bore an
uncanny resemblance to the outer shell of those painted wooden
dolls-within-dolls.
Wine well, plonk was cheap. No choices; red or white by the bottle or the
glass. Water was free, straight out of the tap and served in a carafe. Harry
Kippax was the only person to have his wine bottle opened at the table,
watching as the cork was removed. Everyone else was given a bottle "opened
earlier". Every night we'd fill dozens of bottles with an anonymous red and
white from a couple of drums stored near the outhouse.
This wine list didn't apply to visiting stars. At different times Margot
Fonteyn, Rudolf Nureyev and the great poet Yevgeny Yevtushenko all sat at
the top table and were served chilled French champagne and neat Russian
vodka. Yevtushenko gave Vadim a tin of caviar which they ate together,
laughing and shouting in Russian, washing it down with vodka. There were
occasional pauses for bursts of poetry from the master and tremendous
applause from the patrons. Eventually they staggered into the night
together.
The following day I went to see Yevtushenko perform his epic Babi-Yar at the
University of NSW. He looked surprisingly well and his performance was
electrifying. Vadim was there, in tears.
Because of the liquor laws all booze at Vadim's had to disappear about 11pm
in case the cops came. Wine went into coffee cups, bottles under tables and
stemmed glasses vanished. About 3am we'd throw the semi-resident drunks into
the street and feed the Kings Cross cats with all the leftover beef strips,
milk and cream.
I turned 21 on my shift one night. At midnight Vadim made an announcement,
stood 21 matches in a sugar bowl, turned off all the lights and lit them.
Everyone sang Happy Birthday in the tiny, flickering light. The matches
burned out before the song. When the neon came back on, an old black man
with crinkly white hair sat me on his knee and sang That Old Black Magic.
His name was Billy Daniels. The customers went crazy. I kissed him and went
back to work. Things have never been the same.
Robert Feigel (aka Bob)
wrote:
><Sydney Morning Herald>
>
>Cheap Plonk For Priceless Clientele
>
>BYLINE: Kate Fitzpatrick. Kate Fitzpatrick Is An Actor And Writer.
>
>Vadim Steven Kerr
>
>Restaurateur
>
>1927-2003
Yet another fascinating obit. Thank you. b
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Hyfler/Rosner
"Robert Feigel (aka Bob)" <rrfe...@earthsea.co.enzed> wrote in message > >
> >
> >Vadim Steven Kerr
> >
> >Restaurateur
> >
> >1927-2003
>
> Yet another fascinating obit. Thank you. b
>
I figured you'd like it. She painted quite a picture of that restaurant. I
especially loved the description of the cook: